Whitney, My Love (71 page)

"Meaning what?" he said coldly.

"Meaning the colors we are wearing," she innocently
explained. In a deceptively casual gesture, Whitney pulled off the gold
stole and let it flutter from her fingers as she stepped forward beside him
toward the house.

"I cant imagine what damned difference-" Clayton came to
a complete hah, his eyes like shards of ice as they froze on the swelling
expanse of glowing skin exposed above the glittering bodice. In a low,
incensed voice he said, "Are you trying to see exactly how far I can be
provoked?"

"No, my lord," Whitney replied demurely, aware of the
carious looks from other arriving guests. "How could I possibly provoke you
more than I already have simply by offering you a child."

"If you will take some advice," he snapped, making a
visible effort to control his fury, "you will remember your condition and
behave accordingly tonight."

Whitney gave him a vivacious smile, aware that his
blazing eyes were riveted on her swelling breasts. "Of coarse," she said
lightly, "I meant to do exactly that, but my knitting wouldn't fit inside my
reticule." In humorous proof, she held op her little beaded bag, then gasped
aloud in surprised pain as Clayton's hand locked onto her forearm, his
fingers biting cruelty into her flesh.

"Do not fail to enjoy the party this evening to its
fullest, because it is the last you will be attending. You will remain at
Claymore until the child is born, and I am moving into the townhouse."

All the optimistic hope and determination went out of
her, leaving Whitney numb and desolate. She tried to pull her arm free, but
his painful grip was relentless. "Then please don't shame us both tonight by
leaving the marks of your contempt on my arm."

His grip loosened so abruptly that it seemed as if he
had been unaware of even touching her. "Pain," he snapped at her as they
passed by the butler, "like love, is a thing to be shared."

From the first minute she entered the drawing room,
Whitney was vaguely aware that something was amiss, but she could not quite
put her finger on what it was. It was just that everyone seemed so ...
normal. No, too painstakingly normal-as if they were making a concerted
effort to seem normal. Nearly an hour later, Whitney glanced up and saw Lord
Esterbrook; she smiled at him and he nodded and bowed, but when he would
have started toward her, Whitney made a great show of being deeply involved
in her conversation with the group surrounding her. She had never believed
that Lord Esterbrook had said "unkind" things about her to Vanessa at the
Rutherfords' party, but he had an extremely perverse sense of humor and
could deliver a cut with a razor's edge-, so she always made a practice of
keeping him at a distance.

Emily, who arrived shortly thereafter, immediately
provided the answer to the strange atmosphere pervading the evening. "Oh
good Lord in heaven," she said, hauling Whitney off to one side and
whispering while she cast furtive looks around her. "My father-in-law is the
veriest loose screw about some things. I could not believe my ears when he
told me five minutes ago what great pains he'd taken to lure her here as a
surprise for my mother-in-law."

"What are you talking about?" Whitney whispered back as
premonitions of disaster began to pound in her brain.

"Marie St. Allermain. She's here! Michael's father went
through friends of friends to entice her to come and sing here tonight.
She's a guest at the palace where she is to perform tomorrow night, and . .
."

Whitney didn't hear the rest. Her legs and arms had
begun to tremble from the moment Emily had mentioned the name of Clayton's
beautiful and most famous former mistress. Marie St. Allermain was in
London, in the very house with Clayton. And not more than an hour ago, he'd
announced his intention of moving into the London house. Whitney didn't
remember what she said to Emily or how she managed to return to the circle
of acquaintances she'd left. She waited in sick dread for the moment when
Marie St. Allermain would walk into the room.

The huge drawing room was packed beyond capacity. From
the corner of her eye, Whitney watched Clayton enter the room at the same
time the accompanist seated himself at the big grand piano, and the
musicians picked up their instruments. There was a crackling tension in the
room, although whether it was due to the appearance of a woman whose voice
and beauty were legendary, and who was in demand in all the capitals of
Europe, or whether it was because everyone was secretly waiting to see
Clayton and her come face to face, Whitney didn't know.

Clayton, who had paused to talk to someone, finally made
his way to Whitney's side. It was as if the crowd parted to clear a path so
that they could both stroll to the very front row of guests clustered around
the piano.

Whitney stood with her hand linked through Clayton's
arm. She knew he didn't want it there, but she was feeling ill and
desperately needed something to hold onto. "No voice in the world like St.
Allermain's, if you ask me," the elderly man beside Clayton said. Beneath
her fingertips, Whitney felt the muscles in Clayton's forearm tense into
rigidity and then slowly relax. He hadn't known! she realized. Ob God! Why
did he have to look so devastating^ handsome tonight, so completely
desirable? And why, she thought, with tears burning behind her eyes as the
blond singer entered the room, did Marie St. Allermain have to be so lushly,
provocatively, enchantingly beautiful? Whitney could not tear her unwilling
gaze from the woman. She had the body of a slender Venus and the magnetism
of a woman who is confident of her extraordinary beauty without being at all
obsessed with it.

And when she began to sing, Whitney felt the room swim
dizzily. She had the sort of lilting voice that could fail gently upon the
ears, or deepen until it was rich and sensual. There was a glint of laughter
in her eyes white she sang, as if she found the silent adoration being
lavished upon her by the hundreds of people who were listening and watching
her, secretly very silly.

In comparison to her, Whitney felt girlish and plain and
unsophisticated. And deathly ill. Far she now knew exactly what being
Clayton's mistress really meant. That woman with the laughing blue eyes had
known Clayton's drugging kisses, had lain naked in his arms and shared the
exquisite ecstasy of his body driving deeply into hers. Whitney knew she
must be as pale as death; her ears were ringing and her hands felt like ice.
She was going to faint if she stayed in here; if she left, she would create
a scene that would feed the malicious gossips for years. She tried to tell
herself that, after all, Clayton had broken off his affair with Marie to
pursue her. But that was before; now he detested and despised her. And very
soon, even if he came back to Claymore, her body would be ungainly and
swollen with child.

Whitney wished, very sincerely, that she were dead. She
was so anguished that she had no idea precisely when Clayton's hand had come
to rest upon her cold, clammy one which was linked through the crook of his
arm, or for how long he had been lightly, reassuringly squeezing her
fingers. But when she realized it, she shamelessly took what little support
he was offering her and curled her fingers tightly around his. At least now
she felt as if she could breathe. But only momentarily. For when Marie St.
Allermain was accepting the thunderous applause with a faintly amused
inclination of her head, her blue eyes met Clayton's, and a current leapt
between the two of them that Whitney felt with a painful jolt.

Soon after, the ballroom was opened for dancing. For the
next half hour, Clayton did not leave her side, but neither did he speak to
her or so much as glance at her. He was there though, and Whitney clung to
that fact as if it were the beginning of the reconciliation she had been
waiting for. Her hopes were dashed to pieces the moment Clayton led her onto
the dance floor and took her in his arms. "Where in the living hell is your
betrothal ring?" he snapped angrily as he whirled her effortlessly in
perfect time to the waltz.

"The token of your love?" Whitney asked him, her chin
proudly high, her pale face fragile and beautiful. "That betrothal ring?"

"You know damned well which ring."

"Since it was a token of the love I no longer have from
you, I felt it was hypocrisy to wear it." She waited breathlessly for
Clayton to say his love for her wasn't dead.

"Do as you damn well please," he said with cynical
indifference. "You always have."

When the dance ended they remained together, each of
them putting on a convincing performance of participating in the
light-hearted conversation directed at them by the dozen guests surrounding
them. A short time later, however, an imperceptible tension seemed to take
root and spread through the group, and their laughter suddenly became too
hardy and forced as they flicked nervous glances over Whitney's right
shoulder. In her heightened state of nervous awareness, Whitney noticed the
change in the atmosphere and turned to see what was causing it. One glance,
and she jerked her head around, but it was too late to do more than brace
herself. Lord Esterbrook, with Marie St. Allermain on his arm, was
approaching them from behind.

"Claymore!" Esterbrook's mocking voice cut through the
little group's forced joviality like a hot knife through butter. "I'm sure
that no introductions are necessary between the two of you."

Every pair of eyes swivelled to them as Clayton turned
automatically at the sound of his name and found himself confronted by a
grinning Esterbrook and his former mistress. Whitney, who had no choice but
to turn around also, heard the frantic buzzing and gasps, the muted
laughter, and felt the weight of avidly curious gazes focusing on them.
There was no doubt that everyone present in the huge ballroom was now fully
cognizant of the import of the meeting taking place . . . everyone, that is,
except Clayton and Marie St. Allermain, who seemed to find the situation
rather amusing.

With a lazy grin, Clayton lifted Marie's hand to his
lips for a brief kiss. "I see, Madam, that you still have only to walk into
a room to bring the entire male population to your feet."

An answering sparkle twinkled in Marie's smoky blue eyes
as she inclined her head in a gracious acceptance of his gallant compliment.
"Not quite the entire population," she said meaningfully. "But then I would
be astonished to find you in such an excessively silly position, your
grace."

Whitney listened to this light repartee in a state of
angry, humiliated pain, wondering if Clayton were going to introduce his
wife to his mistress, being absolutely certain that he could not, in the
interest of politeness do so, nor avoid doing so without being impolite. In
that moment, Whitney hated Clayton. She despised Esterbrook. She loathed
every prying eye in that room. They were all her enemies, brittle,
sophisticated, gossiping strangers who resented her intrusion into their
select society and who were relishing the mortifying position in which she
was now placed. They were Ester-brooks, one and all. Including her polished,
urbane husband. She wished she had married Paul and lived quietly in the
security of a place where she could belong. And that was before Whitney
realized that Esterbrook, with a look of sham innocence, was now introducing
Clayton's mistress to her.

Fortified by her anger, Whitney met Marie St.
Allermain's silently assessing gaze with quiet composure. Graciously, in
flawless French, Whitney said, "Thank you for sharing the gift of your
beautiful voice with me, Mademoiselle. It was a joy to be able to hear you."

With equal graciousness, Marie replied, "Most accounts
of feminine beauty and charm are gross exaggerations. However, I can see
that accounts of yours were not." A slow, sensual smile curved her lips.
Glancing provocatively at Clayton, she added with devastating candor, "And,
I must say it is excessively disappointing to find it so." With that, she
nodded regally at both of them, took Esterbrook's arm, and swept away to
content herself with the fawning admiration of the other three hundred male
occupants of the room.

For a while, Whitney basked in the warmth of Clayton's
unspoken approval; she knew he was proud of the way she had handled the
confrontation. She also knew when, an hour later, Clayton and Marie each
left the room via separate doors out onto the terrace. She had seen the
subtle look Marie passed to him across the ballroom and witnessed the
'imperceptible inclination of Clayton's dark head in reply.

Smiling in the summer moonlight, Marie extended both her
hands to be clasped in his strong, warm ones. "It is wonderful to see you,
Clayton. Esterbrook must bear you great malice to have deliberately
manipulated our brief encounter in there."

Clayton grinned down at her. "Esterbrook is a stupid son
of a bitch, as you have already surmised on your own, Marie." He watched the
way the moonlight turned her hair to shining silver, white he relished her
lush beauty and the keen intelligence in her violet-blue eyes. She took no
missish offense at his blunt summation of Esterbrook; she was as astute a
judge of character as was he, and they both knew it.

"Marriage does not agree with you, my lord?" She said it
as a question, but it was more a quiet observation.

Clayton stiffened slightly. He reminded himself that
nothing would rock the foundations of London society so violently as his
taking Marie St. Allermain as his mistress again. They were both so well
known that the gossip created by a renewed liaison between the two of them
would be endless, and the humiliation Whitney would suffer as a result of it
would be immeasurable. And Marie was a passionate bed partner who suited him
perfectly. And even while he told himself all this, he could almost feel
Whitney's cold, trembling hand on his arm, the way her fingers had clutched
his for support while Marie was singing.