Whitney, My Love (26 page)

"Paul?" Lady Eubank echoed blankly, and for the first
time since Whitney had known her, the dowager seemed at a loss tot words.
"Paul Sevarin?" she repeated. Suddenly a look of unabashed glee danced in
her eyes as she again scanned the crowd. "Is Westland coming tonight?" she
demanded.

"Yes."

"Good, good," her ladyship said, and she began to
chuckle. "This should be a most diverting evening. Most diverting!" she
chuckled, and strolled away.

By half past nine, the stream of arrivals had dwindled
to a trickle. Standing near the entry where she was greeting latecomers,
Whitney heard one of them speak to Sewell out in the hall. A moment later,
Clayton Westland appeared in the doorway.

Whitney watched nun coming toward her. He looked almost
breathtakingly handsome in fastidiously tailored black evening attire that
hugged his wide shoulders and long legs, and contrasted beautifully with his
dazzling white ruffled shirt and neckcloth.

In the spirit of relaxed friendship that had sprung up
between them during their afternoon of chess two days ago, Whitney smiled
and extended both her hands to him in a cordial gesture of greeting. "I was
beginning to think you weren't coming," she said.

Clayton grinned with satisfaction as he took her hands
in his. "That sounds very much as if you've been watching and waiting for
me."

"If I had been, I'd never admit it, you know," Whitney
laughed. Looking at him now, she could scarcely credit her belief that he
was an unprincipled libertine bent on her seduction, and then she realized
that he still retained both her hands in his, and that he was standing so
close to her that the starched ruffles at his shirtfront lightly brushed
against the bodice of her gown. Self-consciously withdrawing her hands,
Whitney took a small step backward.

His eyes mocked her cautious retreat, but he made no
comment on it. "If losing two games of chess to you on Thursday has finally
put me in your good graces," he teased, "then I promise to let you defeat me
in all future contests."

"You did not let me defeat you at chess," Whitney
reminded him with an exasperated sidewise glance. Catching the eye of a
footman, she signalled him to approach. With the finesse of a natural
hostess, she asked him to fetch a whiskey for Mr. Westland. When she turned
back to Clayton, she glimpsed his surprised pleasure at the fact that she
remembered his preference in drink.

It showed in his eyes as he said, "We seem to be at a
stalemate. I won our race, but you've won a majority of our chess games. How
will we ever prove which of us is the better man?"

"You are impossible?" Whitney berated him, smiling.
"Merely because I think that a female should be as well-educated as a man,
does not mean I wish to be a man."

"It's just as well," he said, and his gaze drifted
meaningfully over her exquisite features and provocative figure. His warmly
intimate appraisal made Whitney's pulse leap in a bewildering combination of
excitement and alarm. "At any rats," he continued, "I doubt there's any
other contest of skill in which we could compete evenly. As a male, my
youthful pursuits were naturally more vigorous, while yours were sedate and
ladylike."

Whitney flashed him a jaunty smile. "How are you with a
slingshot?"

His hand stilled in the act of reaching for the drink
the footman was handing him. "You can use a slingshot?" he said with such
exaggerated disbelief that she burst out laughing. "I wouldn't tell just
everyone this," she said, leaning a trifle closer, white she resumed her
vigilant surveillance of her guests' well-being. "But I used to be able to
snap the petals off a daisy at seventy-five paces." Across the room, she saw
Paul start toward her father and for one moment, it looked as if he would be
able to catch him alone, but two of her relatives were already bearing down
on him from the other side. Inwardly, Whitney sighed.

Clayton knew she was preoccupied with her guests and
that he was monopolizing her time, but she looked so damned beautiful that
he was loath to leave her side. Besides, she was practically flirting with
him, and he was enjoying every moment of it. "I'm very impressed," he
murmured.

Whitney scarcely noticed the betraying huskiness in his
tone. She was watching one of her elderly uncles approach a gaily laughing
group. "Do any of you know about prehistoric rocks?" Hubert Pinkerton
demanded loudly. "Devilish interesting topic. Let me tell you about them.
We'll start with the Mesozoic era . . ." In growing dismay, Whitney watched
the gay atmosphere of the group deteriorate to polite attention, then
restrained antagonism. And she'd so wanted her father's party to be gay and
lively!

She turned to Clayton, intending to leave him and try to
divert her uncle. "Will you excuse me, I-" She turned her head as a
harried-looking footman approached and said that they were running low on
champagne. He was immediately followed by another servant requesting
instructions about supper. After handling both minor calamities, Whitney
turned apologetically to Clayton and saw him frowning as he looked about the
room. "Where is your aunt this evening? Why isn't she helping you attend to
these details?"

"She's feeling a trifle indisposed," Whitney explained
lamely, watching his piercing gaze rivet on Anne, who was clutching a wine
goblet and staring trancelike out a window.

"Please excuse me," Whitney said, tipping her head
toward Uncle Pinkerton. "I have to rescue those people from my Uncle Hubert.
He will bore everyone to distraction talking about prehistoric rock
formations, and they already look antagonized enough to do him an injury."

"Introduce me to your uncle," Clayton said. She looked
so astonished that he added, "I will divert him so that you can took after
the rest of your guests."

Whitney gratefully brought him over and performed the
introductions, then watched in fascinated admiration as Clay-ton bowed to
the elderly man and said smoothly, "I was just now telling Miss Stone how
much I would enjoy discussing our mutual interest in the rock formations of
the Mesozoic period." Positively emanating enthusiasm, Clayton turned to
Whitney and said, "Will you excuse us, Miss Stone? Your uncle and I have
much to discuss."

He carried off his flagrant deception with such skill
that Whitney could hardly tear her eyes from him as he guided Uncle Hubert
off to a deserted corner and appeared to become instantly absorbed in
whatever her uncle was saying to him.

The long day of undiluted tension and anxiety as Whitney
waited for her father to return had taken its toll. By half past ten, as she
gently urged the stragglers into the dining room, Whitney could think of
nothing as inviting as finding a quiet comer where she could relax. The
guests were making their way along the banquet table, filling their plates
from the sumptuous array of foods, when Elizabeth Ashton's father's sudden
exclamation halted the line and stopped conversations in mid-sentence. "You
say the Duke of Claymore is missing?" he demanded of a visiting relative
from London. "You mean Westmoreland?" He clarified as if unable to believe
he'd heard right.

"Yes, I thought everyone knew," the relative replied,
raising his voice for the benefit of the people who had turned to stare at
him. "It was in the papers yesterday, and London is buzzing with speculation
over where he is."

The level of conversation in the room soared to a fever
pitch. Whitney's neighbors picked up their plates and crowded together at
tables where better informed guests from out of town could impart their
news. After supper, it was impossible to thread one's way through the people
who were clustered between the tables, speculating over the Duke of
Claymore's disappearance. Whitney was standing with a large

group which included her aunt, Lady Eubank, and Clayton
Westland, while Paul was hopelessly trapped across the room, wedged between
Elizabeth Ashton and Peter Redfern, unable to make his way to her.

"Claymore's in France this time of year, if you want my
guess," someone said.

"Oh? Do you think so?" Lady Anne asked, her face flushed
with a vivacious interest that Whitney attributed to too much wine. At the
first mention of the Duke of Claymore, her aunt's distraction and lethargy
had vanished. But while her aunt was obviously enjoying the gossip and
speculation about the man, the subject made Whitney's father fidgety and
nervous, and he was periodically slaking an uncharacteristic thirst for
whiskey.

Personally, Whitney found the subject excessively boring
and she stifled a yawn.

"Tired, little one?" Clayton whispered beside her.

"Yes," Whitney admitted as Clayton drew her hand through
the crook of his arm, covering it with his own strong fingers as if he were
trying to infuse some of his stamina into her. He shouldn't call her "little
one," she thought, and he shouldn't be holding her hand in such a familiar
way, but she was too grateful for his assistance tonight to cavil over such
trifles.

"I heard that his mistress took her own life in Paris
last month," Margaret Merryton said, turning to address her stunned
audience. "Apparently Claymore cast her aside, and she went all to pieces.
She cancelled her European tour, went into seclusion, and-"

'-And," Amelia Eubank put in frigidly, "she is now
spending a fortune renovating a country estate she just purchased. Do you
expect us to believe she's a ghost, you henwitl"

Rushing furiously under the assault of Lady Eubank's
sharp tongue, Margaret wedged herself around and looked appealingly to
Clayton. "Mr. Westland has lately been in Paris and London. Surely you've
heard the news of her suicide?"

"No," Clayton replied curtly. "I've heard nothing of the
kind."

Margaret's papa's thoughts had taken another twist.
Stroking his goatee, he said thoughtfully, "So St. Allermain's bought a
country estate and is spending a fortune renovating it, is she?" Laughter
rumbled in his belly as he turned a slow, knowing leer on the gentlemen. "It
sounds to me as if Claymore has pensioned her off-with a bit extra for good
behavior!"

Beneath her fingertips, Whitney felt the muscles in
Clayton's forearm harden. Tipping her head to see his face, she found him
looking at Mr. Merryton and the others with an expression of such
excruciating distaste and cold boredom that she almost flinched.
Unexpectedly, his gaze slid to her and his expression softened into a faint
smile.

Inwardly, however, Clayton was not smiling. He was
furious at his secretary for failing to put a stop to the speculation over
his whereabouts by giving out the story that he was somewhere! He was
mentally dictating a sharp note of reprimand to the man when he realized, to
his infinite disgust, that the guests were now wagering on the identity of
his next mistress.

"I'll wager �5 on the Countess Dorothea," Mr. Ashton put
in. "Do I have a taker?"

"Indeed you do, sir," Mr. Merryton declared with a sty
laugh. "The countess is old news! She's been dangling after Claymore these
past five years, even followed him to France with the poor old earl still on
his deathbed. And what happened? I'll tell you what: Claymore cut her dead
in front of half of Paris. Lady Vanessa Standfield will be his next choice,
but the duke will marry her. She's been waiting patiently for him since her
come-out. My �5 says his grace's attention will next turn to Lady Standfield
and that he'll marry the young woman. Can I interest anyone in that sporting
wager?"

The entire conversation was excessively improper in the
presence of ladies and, with great relief, Whitney saw that her aunt was
going to intervene at last. "Mr. Merryton," Aunt

Anne said, waiting until she had his full attention.
"Would you care to make it �10?"

A shocked silence followed her aunt's unladylike
proposition, and Whitney was grateful when Clayton's choked laugh made it
seem as if it was all in good fun. Aunt Anne then turned to Clayton. "And
you, Mr. Westland?" she asked brightly. "Would you care to wager on Lady
Standfield being the future Duchess of Claymore?"

Clayton's lips twitched with amusement. "Certainly not.
I have it from an unimpeachable source that Clayton Westmoreland has decided
to wed an enchanting brunette he met in Paris."

Whitney caught the sly, piercing look that Lady Eubank
passed over Clayton, then forgot about it when someone else said, "There's a
remarkable similarity in your names, Mr. Westland. Are you by chance related
to the duke in some way?"

"We're closer than brothers," Clayton answered promptly,
with an arch grin to make it seem an outrageous jest. From there, the
conversation drifted to inaccurate descriptions of the duke's lavish
estates, to the horses in his famous stables, and inevitably returned to
more tales of his mistresses and conquests.

Clayton glanced at his future wife to see how
attentively she was listening (and therefore how much further he was sinking
in her estimation, by virtue of what she was hearing) and saw Whitney
concealing a yawn behind her slender fingertips. Under cover of the group's
boisterous banter, Clayton leaned toward her and teased in a low voice,
"Aren't you concerned about the future Duchess of Claymore, my lady?"

Caught in the act of yawning, Whitney's gaze flew
guiltily to his face. She smiled that stow, unconsciously provocative smile
of hers that sent a fresh surge of pure lust firing through Clayton's veins,
while smoothing the satin skirt of her gown, preparatory to leaving. "Of
course I'm concerned about her," she whispered gravely. "I have the deepest
sympathy for anyone who marries that disgusting, dissolute, amoral,
lecherous seducer of women!" With that, she turned and headed for the
ballroom to instruct the musicians to begin.

There hadn't been the slightest opportunity for Paul to
speak to Whitney's father, and with a sinking heart, Whitney watched the
hands on the clock lurch toward twelve midnight. During their only dance
together, Paul and she had carefully chosen the precise moment of his
departure, so that they might snatch a few stolen minutes to say goodbye.
Excusing herself, Whitney picked up her skirts and discreetly followed well
behind Paul as he strode from the room.