Whitney, My Love (28 page)

"Yes, dammit! I had lost everything. I had sold
everything I could."

A boulder settled where Whitney's heart had been; cold
fury dwelled where there had been love. "And when there was nothing else you
could bear to part with, you sold me! You sold me to a perfect stranger for
a lifetime!" Whitney stopped, drawing a long, anguished breath. "Father, are
you certain you got the best price for me? I hope you didn't take his first
offer. Surely you haggled a little-"

"How dare you!" he thundered, slapping her across the
face with a force that nearly sent her to her knees. His hand lifted to
strike her again, but the biting fury in Clayton Westmoreland's voice
checked him in mid-motion. "If you touch her again, Martin, I'll make this
the sorriest day of your life."

Her father's face froze, then sagged with defeat as he
sank back into his chair. Whitney swung around on her "rescuer," her voice
shaking with fury. "You low, vile snake! What sort of man are you that you
have to purchase a wife? What sort of animal are you that you had to buy her
without ever having seen her? How much did I cost you?" she demanded.

Despite her haughty stance, Clayton saw that her
beautiful eyes, which were hurling scornful daggers at him, were also
glittering with unshed tears. "I am not going to answer that," he said
gently.

Whitney's thoughts circled, looking for some crack in
his armor of implacable calm, some spot where she could thrust the blade of
her anger. "You couldn't have paid much," she taunted. "The house you live
in is no more than modest. Did you squander your entire pitiful fortune on
acquiring me? Did my father drive a hard bargain or-"

"That's enough," Clayton interrupted quietly, coming to
his feet.

"He can give you everything . . . everything," her
father rasped behind her. "He's a duke, Whitney. You'll have everything
you-"

"A duke!" Whitney scoffed contemptuously, glaring at
Clayton. "How did you manage to convince him of that, you lying, conniving .
. ." Her voice broke, and Clayton tipped her chin up, forcing her rebellious
gaze to meet his.

"I am a duke, little one. I told you that months ago, in
France."

"Why you . . . You Human Pestilence! I wouldn't marry
you if you were the King of England." Jerking her head away, she hissed
furiously. "And I never had the misfortune to lay eyes on you in France."

"I told you I was a duke at a masquerade in Paris," he
persisted quietly. "The Armands' masquerade."

"You liar! I didn't meet you there. I had never met you
until I came home!"

"Darling," Aunt Anne said with gentle caution. "Think
back to the night of the masquerade. Just as we were leaving, you asked me
if I could identify one of the guests-a very tall man with gray eyes,
wearing a long black cloak and . . ."

"Aunt Anne, please!" Whitney expelled her breath in an
uncomprehending rush of frustrated impatience. "I didn't meet this man that
night or any ..." A strangled gasp emitted from Whitney as a kaleidoscope of
images chased themselves across her mind. A pair of now familiar gray eyes
glinted down at her in the Armands' garden. A deep voice tinged with
laughter said, "Suppose I told you that I am a duke. .."

In the space of ten seconds, all these memories collided
head on with the reality of the present, bringing her whirling around on
Clayton in a tempestuous fury. "That was you! That was you, skulking behind
that mask!"

"Without a quizzing glass," Clayton confirmed with a
grim smile.

"Of all the treacherous, despicable, underhanded. . ."
Whitney ran out of words to express her turbulent animosity at approximately
the same time another blinding realization dawned, bringing with it a fresh
rush of scalding tears. "My Lord Westmoreland"-she spat his correct surname
with all the contempt she could summon-"I should like to inform you that I
found the endless conversation about you this evening-about your estates,
your horses, your wealth, your women-not just boring, but utterly
nauseating!"

"So did I," Clayton agreed sardonically.

The amusement Whitney thought she heard in his voice was
like acid on a burn. Clutching a fold of her dressing robe, she twisted it
until her knuckles turned white, while she tried to drag enough air through
the thick knots of emotion in her chest to speak. All she could manage was a
painful constricted whisper. "I'll hate you for this until the day I the!"

Ignoring her threat, Clayton said gently, "I want you to
go to bed now and try to get some sleep." He slid his hand under her elbow,
tightening his hold when she tried to pull free. "I'll come back in the
afternoon. There are a great many explanations to be made, and I'll make
them, when you're in a better frame of mind to listen."

Not for one second was Whitney deceived by his pretense
of tender concern. The moment Clayton finished speaking, she snatched her
arm away and stalked to the door.

As she reached for the brass handle, he added in a fiat,
authoritative voice, "Whitney, I expect you to be here when I arrive."
Whitney's hand froze on the handle; her heart shrieked her resentment of his
commands, his directives, his existence! Without so much as a backward
glance to indicate she'd heard, she wrenched the door open, barely
restraining the wild urge to jerk the oak panel shut behind her with a
crash.

So long as they could hear her footsteps in the hall,
Whitney walked slowly, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her
flee like a terrified hare. At the end of the hall she turned, her pace
quickening with every step until she was rushing headlong, tripping on a
stair, then running down the hall toward the safety, the sanity, of her
room. Once inside it, she leaned against the door in a cold, trembling
paralysis . . . staring at the cheerful, cozy room she'd left so excitedly
but a half hour ago, her mind unable to cope with the disaster that had just
occurred.

Downstairs in the study, the awful, ominous silence
lengthened until even the air seemed to crackle with tension. Clayton stood
with his hands braced against the fireplace mantel, staring into the fire
with murderous rage emanating from every inch of his taut, powerful frame.

Martin dropped his hands from his face so abruptly that
his fists thudded against the desktop, making Anne jump. "It was the liquor,
I swear it," Martin whispered, his face ashen. "I've never raised a hand to
her before. What can I do to . . ."

Clayton's head jerked around. "What can you do?" he
snapped savagely. "You've done enough! She'll marry me, but she'll make you
pay for what happened tonight and, in doing so, she'll make me pay as well."
His tone changed, his words coming slowly, like uncoiling whips. "From this
night forward, no matter what she says, you are going to keep your mouth
shut! Is that clear to you, Martin?"

Martin swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes. Clear."

"If she tells you she's just put poison in your tea, you
are going to drink it, and you'll . . . keep . . . your . . . goddamned . .
. mouth . . shut!"

"Yes. Shut."

Clayton started to say more, then stopped, as if he
could no longer trust himself to speak. With a curt bow to Anne, he strode
swiftly to the door and jerked it open. He paused, his icy gaze swinging
back to Martin. "When next you're counting your blessings, give thanks to
Almighty God that you have twenty years on me, for I swear that if you
didn't-" With a superhuman effort, Clayton bit off the rest of his threat
and stalked from the room, his rapid footsteps echoing sharply down the
hall.

In front of the house, the coach lamps on the duke's
carriage flickered and wavered in the breeze, conjuring eerie shapes that
crept forward, then pirouetted away beneath the rustling, swaying branches
of the elms that lined the drive.

James McRae, Clayton's coachman, shifted patiently on
his perch. All the guests had left, with only the duke remaining behind, but
McRae didn't mind waiting. In fact, he could not have been more pleased that
his master was prone to linger in Miss Stone's company, for he had wagered a
rather large sum of money with Armstrong, the duke's valet, that Miss Stone
was destined to be the next Duchess of Claymore.

The front door of the house opened and the Duke of
Claymore bounded down the front steps. From the corner of his eye, McRae
observed the duke's long, ground-devouring strides, which were eloquent of
either rage or exhilaration. McRae wasn't certain which, nor did he think it
much mattered; so long as Miss Stone continued to provoke such unprecedented
emotional reactions in the duke, the odds continued to grow in McRae's favor.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" the duke growled,
flinging himself into the open carriage and slamming the door behind him.

Something's amiss with the lass, McRae concluded with a
chuckle, sending the magnificent grays bowling down the drive. So delighted
was he, that not even the persistent throbbing of his abscessed wisdom tooth
could dull his spirits. Mentally visualizing a variety of pleasant ways to
spend the proceeds from his wager, McRae began to hum a lilting Irish
melody. After a few bars, the duke leaned forward and demanded furiously,
"Are you in pain, McRae?!"

"No, your grace," McRae hurriedly replied over his
shoulder.

"In mourning?" the duke snapped.

"No, your grace."

"Then cease that goddamn moaning!"

"Aye, your grace," McRae said, carefully concealing his
happy expression from his infuriated master.

Chapter Seventeen

WHTTNEY SLOWLY OPENED HER EYES, BLINKING IN CONFUSION AT
the late morning sunlight filtering through the draperies. Her head ached
dully, and she felt strangely, unaccountably melancholy. Her benumbed mind
refused to function, preferring instead the anesthesia of watching the
shadows creeping across the gold carpet as the sun was slowly obliterated by
a heap of dark clouds rolling past. She frowned, trying to understand the
bitter desolation that seemed to be weighting her down, and in that instant,
the scene in the study last night penetrated her sleep-fogged consciousness.

In a panic, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed, trying to
shut out the reality of the Cheltenham Tragedy that had been enacted, with
all its macabre plots and twisted subplots, but it was too painfully
sinister to be ignored.

Dragging herself up into a sitting position, she twisted
around and arranged the pillows behind her, then fell back against them. She
knew she had to think, to plan, and with grim determination she set about
systematically reviewing what facts she had. First, the man who occupied the
Hodges' place was Clayton Westmoreland, the "missing" Duke of Claymore.
Which, she thought listlessly, finally explained his expensive clothes and
those monstrously aloof servants of his.

He was also the man she'd met at the Armands'
masquerade, the same arrogant, lecherous . . . With an effort, Whitney set
aside her boiling animosity and made herself return to the facts at hand.
After they met at the masquerade, Clayton Westmoreland must have come
directly to her father to purchase her for his wife. Her father said last
night that everything was "arranged," which undoubtedly meant that a
preliminary marriage contract was already signed.

Once Clayton had accomplished that, the unspeakable cad
had evidently installed himself and his servants in his lair, not two miles
from her front door.

"Unbelievable!" Whitney whispered aloud. It was more
than that, it was ridiculous, absurd! But, whether it was or not, it was
also true. She was technically . . . obscenely . . unwillingly betrothed to
the Duke of Claymore. Betrothed to a notorious libertine, a profligate rake!

Why, he was as hateful as her father! Her father . . .
The agonizing recollection of her father's heartless treachery was more than
Whitney could bear. She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapping her
arms tightly around her legs in a sort of protective cocoon, and rested her
forehead on her knees. "Oh, Papa," she whispered brokenly, "how could you
have done that to me?" The lump in her throat grew and grew until it was
suffocating her; unshed tears burned her eyes and made her throat ache
unbearably. But she didn't let go, would not break down.

She had to be strong. Her opponents outnumbered her two
to one-three to one, if Aunt Anne were a party to this monstrous scheme. The
thought that her beloved aunt might have betrayed her too, very nearly broke
the dam of her control. Swallowing convulsively, Whitney stared out the
window across the room. She might be outnumbered now but when Paul returned,
he would stand against them too.

In the meantime, she reminded herself sternly, she would
have to rely on her own courage and determination, but she had plenty of
both, and a stubborn nature that Clayton Westmoreland heretofore had only
glimpsed! Yes, she could manage perfectly well on her own until Paul
returned.

Almost gleefully, Whitney began planning ways to thwart
and foil and exasperate the duke. By the time she was finished with him, his
grace would know that if he wished to have either peace or joy in his
remaining years, she was not the wife for him! Perhaps if she was clever
enough, she might even maneuver him into crying off and, by the time Paul
returned, this vile betrothal could be nothing more than an unpleasant
memory.

There was a light tap on the door, and Aunt Anne walked
in, her features composed into a sympathetic, encouraging smile. Friend or
foe? Whitney wondered, watching her warily. Forcing herself to sound calmly
unemotional, Whitney said, "When were you informed of this, Aunt Anne?"

Her aunt settled herself on the bed. "On the same day
yon saw me send letters to your uncle in four different countries and cancel
my trip to London."

"Oh," Whitney whispered hoarsely. Aunt Anne had been
trying to locate Uncle Edward to come to their aid; she hadn't betrayed her.
A piercing sweetness flooded through Whitney, washing away her defenses
until her chin quivered. Her shoulders began to shake with relief and misery
and, as Aunt Anne's arms went around her, Whitney surrendered to the harsh,
racking sobs that had been screaming for release since the moment she'd
awakened.