Whitney, My Love (46 page)

"Really," Clayton said indifferently, his attention on
the wagon which was finally being pulled from the street.

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Oldenberry said. "You won't be able
to felicitate the brides-to-be, though; they're both in London." He lowered
his voice to a stage whisper. "Personally, I thought the Stone girl would
choose you, but she's wanted Mr. Sevarin forever and now she got him.
They're betrothed. No sooner did I hear that than Miss Ashton announced her
betrothal to Mr. Redfern. Amazing how nothing seems to happen and then-"

Clayton's head jerked toward the speaker, and Mr.
Olden-berry's voice froze at the murderous look in those gray eyes. In a
low, deadly voice, Clayton said, "What did you say?"

"I-I said Miss Stone and Miss Ashton both got themselves
betrothed while you were gone."

"You're lying or you're mistaken."

Mr. Oldenberry stepped back from the furious blast of
those gray eyes and hastily shook his head. "No-no, I'm not. Ask anyone in
the village, and they'll tell you it's true. Miss Stone and Miss Ashton both
left here yesterday morning within an hour of each other. On their way to
shop for wedding finery in London--Mrs. Ashton told me so herself," Mr.
Oldenberry reassured a little desperately. "Miss Stone is staying with Lady
Archibald and Miss Ashton with her grandparents," he added to prove how
fully informed he was.

Without a word, Clayton turned on his heel and headed
toward the coach.

Mr. Oldenberry turned to his fellow villagers who had
gathered to watch the sheep being captured and remained to eavesdrop on his
conversation with Mr. Westland. "Did you see the look he gave me when I told
him Miss Ashton was in London buying her wedding finery?" he asked them, his
eyes glazed with awe. "And all this time I thought he fancied the Stone
girl."

"The Stone estate," Clayton snapped at McRea and leapt
into the coach.

As they pulled up before Whitney's house, a footman ran
out. "Where is Miss Stone?" Clayton said, his icy voice checking the
servant's hand as he reached out to lower the steps.

"In London, sir," the footman replied, stepping back.

Before the horses came to a full stop in front of his
temporary residence, Clayton flung open the coach door, and vaulted out.
"Have fresh horses pat to," fee snapped at his astonished coachman. "And be
ready to leave for London in ten minutes." Rage boiled inside of Clayton
like fiery acid, destroying his tender feelings for her. To think that while
he was racing back to her like a besotted fool, she was in London buying her
trousseau, which-he reminded himself with a fresh surge of blazing wrath-he
was paying for!

"Damn her conniving little heart!" Hs ground the words
om savagery as he swiftly changed his clothing. As soon as he could get a
special license, he was going to drag her to the altar, by the hair if
necessary.

No, by God, he wouldn't get a special license! Why the
hell should he wait for that? He'd haul her to Scotland tonight and marry
her there. When they came back, she could endure the scandal of an elopement
as her punishment for deceiving him.

Bitterly, he cursed himself for having denied himself
the pleasure of her body because he was waiting and hoping she would admit
she wanted to marry him. The hell with what she wanted! From now on things
were going to be the way he wanted them. Henceforth, Whitney could either
bend to his will or he'd break her to it-and he didn't give a damn which way
she chose to have it.

Precisely ten minutes later, after changing his clothes,
he bounded out of the house and hurled himself back into the coach. Clayton
endured the long trip back to the city in alternate states of deadly calm
and barely leashed fury. It was after midnight when the horses drew to a
stop in front of the brightly lit Archibald house where a party was
obviously in progress.

"Wait here. I'll be right out," he snapped at the
coachman, and as Clayton stalked swiftly up the steps to the front door, the
rage boiling inside of him turned to cold, hard resolve. He had been
cuckolded by a spiteful, willful brat! Brat? She was worse, much worse than
that. She was a scheming, lying bitch! He thought murderously as he strode
past the astonished butler toward the music and laughter.

The chilly night air cooled Whitney's heated face as she
turned a dazzling, artificial smile on the gentlemen who had followed her
out onto Emily's terrace where she had fled to escape the overcrowded
ballroom. Despite her bright smile, her green eyes were somber as they
scanned the milling crowd indoors, searching hopelessly for Clayton, even
though she knew it was too late now for him to arrive. Perhaps he hadn't
gotten her invitation; perhaps he had gone directly to her home without
stopping in London. Whitney shivered, wishing she hadn't written to Aunt
Anne and suggested that she make her postponed visit to her relatives, since
Whitney had everything under control in London. She should have waited until
Clayton had acknowledged receiving her note.

No, she decided miserably, Clayton's secretary had been
very positive about his employer's travel plans. There was no point in
deceiving herself; Clayton had cavalierly ignored her invitation. Her
indignation gave way to deep hurt.

She had worn her hair loose about her shoulders because
Clayton had said he liked it best that way. She had even dressed especially
to please him in an alluring ivory satin gown heavily embellished with
pearls. She had done everything to please him, and he hadn't even bothered
to come or to decline her invitation.

Perilously close to tears, Whitney tried to convince
herself that this aching disappointment she felt was merely because she had
finally gathered the courage to tell Clayton that she would willingly marry
him whenever he wished, but her lonely dejection sprang from something much
deepen she had missed him. She had been longing to see his smile, to be able
to teU him she was surrendering in this battle of wills that had raged
between them, and then to have him take her in his arms and kiss her. She
had hoped tonight would be a beginning for them. Whitney blinked back her
tears and determined to enjoy what was left of her ravaged evening.

Clayton nodded curtly to those few guests with whom he
was acquainted, while he waited like a panther, watching for a glimpse of
his prey. He saw DuVille going toward the terrace doors, carrying two
glasses of champagne. Clayton's eyes tracked him across the room, his jaw
clenching into a tight line of rage when he saw Whitney standing outside on
the terrace, surrounded by at least half a dozen men.

With deceptive casualness, Clayton strolled toward them.
His eyes turned icy with contempt when he realized that the men were
pretending to play musical instruments while his "betrothed" was giving a
charming little imitation of leading them with her invisible baton. The
role, Clayton thought scathingly, was eminently suited to her-leading men
on. He was about to let himself out the doors beside the ones through which
DuVille had just gone, when a detaining hand was laid on his arm,

"What a pleasant surprise to find you here," Margaret
Merryton said.

All Clayton's attention was riveted on Whitney. He
started to pull his arm away, but Margaret's fingers tightened.
"Disgraceful, isn't she?" she remarked, following the direction of his gaze.

Thirty-four years of strict adherence to certain rules
of etiquette could not be completely disregarded, and Clayton turned, albeit
angrily, to acknowledge the woman who was addressing him-except he was so
furious that it took several moments for nun even to identify her. Too angry
to attempt to hide his insulting lack of recognition, Clayton stared blankly
into her worshipful hazel eyes while their expression changed from adoration
to insulted hatred. Laughter burst from the terrace and Clayton's head
jerked in the direction of the sound.

Margaret's hand tightened convulsively on his arm as she
looked toward Whitney Stone, and wounded pride hoarsened her voice. "If
you're so eager to have her, go and get her. You needn't worry about DuVille
or Paul Sevarin. Neither of them will ever actually marry her."

"Why is that?" Clayton demanded, pulling his arm away.

"Because Paul has just discovered what M. DuVille has
known for years-neither of them was her first!" She saw Clayton's face
blanche and the muscle leaping in his, clenched jaw. Turning on her heel,
she hissed brokenly over her shoulder, "In case you're interested, a
stableboy was the first! That's why she was seat to France."

Something shattered inside of Clayton, splintering his
emotions from all rational control. At another time, he would have shrugged
off Margaret's words, for he was well enough acquainted with female jealousy
to recognize it when he saw it. But this wasn't another time. This was the
day he had realized that Whitney had been playing me for a fool, that she
was a treacherous liar.

He paused, waiting while DuVille departed, then he
reached down, grasped the handle of the door and jerked it open. He stepped
onto the terrace directly behind Whitney just as one of her drunken admirers
dropped to one knee.

"Miss Stone," the young man joked, his words slightly
slurred. "It occurs to me that two talented 'musicians' such as you and I
ought. . . ought to form a permanent duet. May I have the honor of your arm
. . . no, your hand in..." Suddenly he stopped and swallowed audibly, his
alarmed gaze fixed on something behind Whitney.

Dissolving with laughter at the young man's comic
antics, Whitney glanced over her shoulder, then half turned toward Clayton.
Happiness soared through her and she smiled joyously at him, but Clayton's
attention was frozen on poor Carlisle, who was still kneeling on one leg.

"Get up!" Clayton snarled. With withering sarcasm he
added, "If you intend to request Miss Stone's hand in marriage, you will
have to wait until she grows another. At present, she has only two, and she
has already pledged them both." With that he caught Whitney's wrist in a
vice-like grip and turned on his heel, dragging her with him.

Whitney ran, trying to keep up with him as he strode
around the wide balcony and down the front steps to his coach waiting below
a street lamp.

"Stop this, you're hurting me!" she panted, stumbling on
the hem of her gown and falling halfway to her knees. Clayton jerked her up
with such cruel force that a pain shot from her wrist to her shoulder blade,
then he snapped a command at his driver, grabbed her by the waist and flung
her into the coach.

"How dare you!" Whitney hissed, angry and embarrassed at
being so ignominiously hauled from Emily's house, and then manhandled to
boot. "Who do you think you are?" The horses bolted from the curb and the
coach lurched violently, sending Whitney reeling against the back of her
seat

"Who do I think I am?" Clayton jeered. "Why, 1 am your
owner. By your own words, your father sold you, and ' bought you."

Whitney stared at him, her mind in a complete turmoil.
She couldn't imagine why Clayton was so angry over Carlisle's mock proposal
when he'd interrupted her cousin, Cuthbert, in the midst of a serious one,
and had been laughingly good-natured about it. She had believed that tonight
would be a time for sweet reconciliation between them, and it was harshly
disconcerting to now find herself the target of Clay-ton's fury instead of
his ardor.

Even so, she was absurdly happy that he hadn't ignored
her invitation, and she couldn't really blame him for losing his temper when
he discovered yet another gentleman offering marriage to her. Very gently,
she said, "Mr. Carlisle was quite foxed, you see, and his proposal was only
a joke. He-"

"Shut up!" Clayton snapped. His head twisted toward her,
and for the first time, in the flickering light of the coach lamp, Whitney
actually saw the savage, scorching fury that was emanating from the man
beside her. His handsome jaw was taut with rage, his mouth was drawn into a
ruthless, forbidding line, and his expression was filled with cold loathing.
His contemptuous eyes raked over her . . . and then he turned his head away,
as if he couldn't stomach the sight of her.

Never in her life had Whitney witnessed such controlled,
menacing fury, nor had anyone ever looked at her with such scathing
contempt, not even her father. She had hoped so much to see laughter, or
warmth, or affection in those penetrating, soul-searching gray eyes of his
tonight; she had never imagined he could look at her with this alarming,
malicious hatred. Her shock faded to hurt, and very slowly, the first
glimmerings of fear were born in her heart. Silently, she stared out the
window until the lights of the city began to glimmer less frequently and the
long stretches of lonely darkness lengthened. "Where are you taking me?" she
asked unsteadily. He was coldly silent. "Clayton?" she almost begged. "Where
are we going?"

Clayton turned and stared down at her beautiful,
frightened face. He wanted to put his hands around her slender white throat
and strangle her for defiling her body with other men, for betraying his own
love and trust, and for finally calling him "Clayton" now, when he knew her
for what she was-a "lying, deceiving liitle bitch who had freely shared her
lush, ripe body with any rutting pig who asked her to. He tore his mind from
thoughts of her coupling with other men and, without answering her question,
pointedly looked away.

Whitney tried to combat her mounting alarm by
concentrating on where they were and in which direction they were
travelling. North! she realized as they turned off the main road. They were
heading north. Now she was frantic. Drawing a quick breath, she swallowed
what was left of her pride and said, "I was going to tell you that I'm
willing to marry you. It isn't necessary to take me to Scotland to marry me.
I'll-"