Whitney, My Love (49 page)

"Well, it's just too bad the servants in this house
don't know that," replied Clarissa, puffing up with ire. "As hoity-toity as
royalty they are here. And every one of them is whispering about you!"

Whitney's interview with Emily late that afternoon was
even more humiliating. Emily simply sat there, listening attentively to
Whitney's lame tale of how the duke had escorted her to another party across
town and when the hour had grown too late to return, her unnamed hostess had
insisted that Whitney spend the night. At the end of the explanation, Emily
nodded her complete, unqualified understanding, but her pretty, honest face
reflected a stunned shock that was worse than any accusation she could have
made.

Emily went directly to her husband's study and repeated
the story to him. "So you see," she said in a determinedly confident voice
while anxiously scanning Michael's face, "it was all perfectly innocent and
not in the least scandalous. You do believe her explanation, don't you,
Michael?" she pleaded.

Michael leaned back in his chair and regarded his young
wife levelly. "No," he said quietly, "I don't." He reached out and drew
Emily down onto his lap. For a long moment he studied her distraught
features, then he said gentry, "But I do believe in you. If you tell me
she's innocent, I will believe that."

"I love you, Michael," Emily said simply, her body
sagging with relief. Whitney would never do anything indecent, I know it!"

Whitney had dreaded the evening meal, but Emily and her
husband seemed perfectly relaxed and natural. In fact, Michael even urged
her to remain with them until after Elizabeth's wedding, which was slightly
more than a month away. He seemed so sincere, and Emily so eager for her to
stay, that Whitney gratefully and happily accepted their invitation. The
last thing in the world she wanted to do was to go home to her father and
face the rumors of her betrothal to Paul.

But that night, as she lay in bed, loneliness and
despair washed over her in a tidal wave. She wished her aunt were here to
tell her what to do, but she knew in her heart there was nothing Anne or
anyone else could do to help her. She was going to have to bear this alone.

From this day forward, she would always be alone. She
could never have a husband or children because no decent man would want her.
She was soiled, dirtied, used by another. She had always wanted to have
children, but now she couldn't. A painful lump of desolation swelled in her
throat.

She didn't want a husband though, she told herself
bitterly. She could never care for another man or bear to be touched by his
hands. In her whole life, there had been only two men she had wanted to
marry: Paul, who was shallow and weak, and Clayton who was-an animal. Paul
had only disappointed her, but Clayton had destroyed her, He had insinuated
his way into her heart, and then he had used her and thrown her away, sent
her home without even an apology!

Tears trickled down Whitney's cheeks and she furiously
brushed them away. Clayton Westmoreland had made her cry for the last time!
When next they met, she would be hardened and calm. She was through thinking
about him; she would never think about last night again.

Despite her resolve, the following days were the most
harrowing of Whitney's life. Every time the butler appeared to announce a
caller, Whitney's heart leapt with terror that the "caller" was the Duke of
Claymore. She longed to tell Emily that she would not be at home to him when
he called.

But how could she, when he was an acquaintance of
Michael's, and she was a guest in Michael's home? Besides, Emily would want
to know why, and that would reopen the topic of Clayton, a topic which Emily
had already tried to reopen several times. Which left Whitney with no choice
but to cringe and try to steady her nerves every time a visitor arrived at
the Archibald residence.

She rarely accompanied Emily out of the house because
she was obsessed with the morbid certainty that she could come face to face
with Clayton if she did. With each passing day her tension steadily mounted
until she felt as if she would go mad with the helpless waiting, the fear
and dread.

But she kept the promises she had made to herself almost
a week ago. She meticulously refused to think of that hideous, fateful
night. And she did not cry.

Chapter Twenty-five

TWO SLEEK, WELL-SPRUNG TRAVELLING CHAISES WAITED IN
front of Claymore, the vast three-story stone structure that was Clayton's
principal residence. The grandeur of the house and grounds was the result of
loving restoration and extensive additions which had been carried out by
Clayton, his father, his grandfather, and all of the Dukes of Claymore who
had preceded them.

To visitors and guests, Claymore was a place in which to
wander admiringly, from domed-glass rooms where one could see the sky, to
rooms of breathtaking splendor where vaulted ceilings rose three stories in
height, supported by graceful Gothic pillars. Looking up, one could behold
the master genius of Rubens, who had lavishly embellished the ceilings with
rich, exuberant scenes.

To Clayton, however, his house was a place of haunting
memories where he could not sleep, and when he did, could not escape the
recurring nightmare of what had happened there seven endless agonizing
nights ago. It was a place from which he had to escape.

Seated at his desk in the spacious oak-panelled library,
he listened impatiently to the solicitor who was repeating the instructions
Clayton had just given him.

"Do I understand you correctly, your grace? You wish to
withdraw your offer of marriage to Miss Stone? But make no attempt to
recover any of the monies you expended to secure the agreement?"

"That is precisely what I just said," Clayton replied
shortly. "I am leaving for Grand Oak today, and will return in a fortnight.
Have the papers here for my signature the day after my return." With that he
stood up, abruptly concluding the distasteful interview.

The dowager Duchess of Claymore glanced up eagerly as
the butler appeared in the doorway. "His grace's coach is just pulling up
the drive," the old family retainer announced, his dignified countenance lit
with unabashed pleasure.

Smiling, the duchess walked over to the windows of the
lovely manor which her husband had years ago set aside as her dower house.
In comparison to the vastness of Claymore, Grand Oak was small, but she
entertained frequently and lavishly in the spacious house which stood before
five guest pavilions and was surrounded by glorious gardens and arbors.

She watched the two sleek travelling chaises draw up
smartly before the front steps, then turned aside to check her appearance in
the mirror. At five and fifty, Alicia, Dowager Duchess of Claymore, was
still slim and gracefully erect. Her dark hair was threaded with silver
strands, but they only added dignity to her abiding beauty. A worried shadow
darkened her gray eyes as she patted her elegantly coiffed hair into place
and thought about Clayton's strangely uninformative note which had arrived
only three days ago, announcing his intention to pay her a two-week visit.
Clayton's visits were infrequent and usually disappointingly brief; it
seemed odd somehow that he had decided to come for such an extended time and
on such short notice.

A controlled commotion in the entrance hall heralded
Clayton's arrival, and with her face wreathed in a delighted smile, Lady
Westmoreland turned to greet her eldest son.

Clayton strode swiftly across the pale blue carpet and,
ignoring her outstretched hands, he caught her in a brief embrace and
pressed an affectionate kiss on her smooth forehead. "You are more beautiful
than ever," he said.

His mother leaned back, anxiously studying the deeply
etched lines of strain and fatigue at his eyes and mouth. "Have you been
ill, darling? You look terrible."

"Thank you, Mother," he said drily. "I am delighted to
see you, too."

"Well, of course, I'm delighted to see you," she
protested with a sighing laugh. "But I would like to see you looking better,
which is what I meant." Dismissing the subject with a cheerful wave of her
hand, she drew him down to sit beside her on the sofa, but her eyes still
worriedly scanned his drawn face. "Stephen is in transports over being able
to spend an entire fortnight here with you," she said. "He has planned
parties and is even now en route here with a large group of people. I doubt
you'll have a moment's peace and quiet, so if that's why you've come, I'm
afraid you're in for a rude surprise."

"It doesn't matter," Clayton replied grimly. Getting up,
he walked over to the side table and poured himself a liberal glass of
whiskey.

"Where is that scoundrel who forced me to be a penniless
younger son?" Stephen Westmoreland called from the hall way. He strode into
the salon, winked at his mother, and warmly clasped Clayton's hand. Jokingly
referring to the jumble of voices out in the hall he said, "I grew tired,
brother dear, of having to make excuses for your absence to the London
beauties, so I brought a few of them with me, as you will soon see."

"Fine." Clayton shrugged unenthusiastically.

Stephen's blue eyes narrowed into a slight frown, a
pensive expression which heightened the similarity of features between the
two brothers. Like Clayton, Stephen was dark-haired and tall. Although he
lacked the aura of power and authority that seemed to surround his brother,
Stephen was friendlier and easier to know, and as the ton often remarked, he
possessed the legendary Westmoreland charm in good measure. He was, despite
his earlier remark, very wealthy in his own right and perfectly content to
have the ducal title- and the hundreds of responsibilities that went with
it-rest on his brother's capable shoulders.

Subjecting Clayton to a brief scrutiny, he said, "You
look like hell, Clay." Then with an apologetic grin at his mother, he added,
"I beg your pardon, Mama."

"Well, he does," the duchess agreed. "I told him the
same thing."

"You told him he looks like hell?" Stephen teased her,
pressing a belated kiss of greeting on his mother's beringed fingers.

"It must be a family characteristic," Clayton observed
sardonically, "to ignore the common civilities and make unsolicited
observations instead. Hello, Stephen."

Shortly thereafter, Clayton pleaded fatigue from his
four-hour trip and excused himself. As soon as he left the room, Lady
Westmoreland turned determinedly to her youngest son. "Stephen, see if you
can discover what's troubling nun."

Stephen firmly shook his head in the negative. "Clay
won't tolerate anyone prying into his affairs, you know that as well as I,
sweetheart. Besides, he is probably only tired, nothing more."

Despite his words, Stephen watched Clayton closely in
the two weeks that followed. During the day, the members of the house party
rode and hunted and jaunted off to a nearby village to explore and shop. But
the only activity Clayton seemed to enjoy was riding-except that now he
ruthlessly forced his mount over impossible obstacles and rode with a
reckless, bruising violence that struck genuine alarm in Stephen's chest.

The evenings were filled with sumptuous feasts and
brilliant conversation; games of whist and billiards; as well as the
predictable flirtations one could always took forward to wherever seven
lovely, well-born young women and seven eligible gentlemen were thrown into
each other's constant company for nearly two weeks.

Clayton fulfilled his role as host to the group with his
usual careless elegance, and Stephen sat through meal after meal watching in
amusement as the women flirted shamelessly with him, doing everything within
the limits of propriety (and frequently beyond) to hold his attention.
Occasionally, a lazy grin would flash across Clayton's features as he
listened to whatever woman was speaking to him, but the shuttered look never
left his eyes.

Twelve of the fourteen days had passed and the guests
were due to leave the following morning. They were gathered that evening in
the drawing room and Stephen's watchful gaze slid with increasing, concerned
frequency to his brother.

"I think your brother is bored with us," Janet Cambridge
told Stephen, nodding playfully toward Clayton who was standing alone, his
shoulder propped against the window frame, staring out into the darkness.

Clayton heard her, as she intended that he should, but
he did not bother to gallantly reassure her that he wasn't bored, nor did he
turn to pay her the flattering attention that Janet was seeking with her
remark. Raising his glass, he took a long swallow of his drink, watching the
tow-hanging mist swirling and advancing in the night. He yearned to have it
close over him and blot out his thoughts, his memory, as it did everything
else in its path.

He saw Janet Cambridge's reflection in the window glass
and heard her low, throaty laugh behind him. Until a few months ago, he had
enjoyed her sensuous beauty and seductive voice. But now she lacked
something. Her eyes weren't the green of India jade; she didn't took at him
with that teasing, appraising, impudent sidewise glance; she didn't tremble
in his arms with shy, awakening emotions that she couldn't identify. She was
too available, too eager to please him, but then other women always were.
They didn't spar with him or stubbornly defy him. They weren't fresh and
alive and witty and wonderful. They weren't. . . Whitney.

He took another long swallow of his drink to dull the
ache that came with just her name. He wondered what she was doing. Was she
planning to marry Sevarin? Or was she with DuVille instead? DuVille was in
London; he would be able to comfort her and tease her, to help her forget.
DuVille would suit her better, Clayton decided with a wrenching pain.
Sevarin was dull and weak, but DuVille was sophisticated and urbane. Clayton
hoped with all his heart that she would choose the Frenchman. Well, with
half his heart; the other half twisted in agony at the image of Whitney as
another man's wife.