Whitney, My Love (30 page)

The gold coverlet had been neatly turned down, and the
bed beckoned to her, A nap might restore her spirits and enable her to think
more clearly, she decided. She slid between the cool covers, and, with a
heavy sigh, she closed her eyes.

When next she awoke, the moon was riding high in a black
velvet sky. She rolled over onto her stomach, seeking the peace of slumber
before she lost it to wakefulness and the torturous thoughts that would
surely come.

Chapter Eighteen

CLAYTON WAS LEANING AGAINST THE FENCE, LAUGHING WITH
Thomas when Whitney arrived at the stables the next morning. Whitney managed
a smile for Thomas, but it died on her lips when she looked at the lazily
relaxed man beside him.

When she didn't reply to his "Good morning," Clayton
sighed resignedly and straightened. Tipping his head toward Khan, who was
being led out of the stable, he said, "Your horse is ready."

They raced side by side across the rolling countryside.
Soon the hell-for-leather speed and the fresh autumn breeze revived
Whitney's flagging spirits, making her feel more alive than she had in two
days.

At the edge of the woods where the meadow sloped down to
the stream, Clayton drew up and dismounted, then walked over to lift Whitney
down from Khan. "The ride has done you good," he said, noting the blooming
color in her cheeks.

Whitney knew he was trying to break the ice and carry on
a reasonably normal conversation with her. Sullenness was foreign to her
nature, and she felt horribly churlish for remaining silent, yet it was
impossibly awkward trying to talk to him. Finally she said, "I do feel
better. I love riding."

"I like watching you," he said as they strolled over to
the bank of the stream. "You are without question the finest horsewoman I
have ever seen."

"Thank you," Whitney said, but her alarmed gaze was
riveted on the old sycamore perched atop the knoll beside the stream, its
ancient gnarled branches sheltering the very spot where she had lain in his
arms the day of the picnic. It was the last place on earth she wished to be
with him now. Clayton shrugged out of his jacket and started to put it on
the grass, precisely where they had lain the last time. Hastily, she said.
"I'd rather stand, if you don't mind." To illustrate her point, she
retreated a step and leaned her shoulders against the sycamore's trunk, as
if it were the most comfortable place in the world to be.

With a noncommittal nod, Clayton straightened and walked
two paces away, propping his booted foot upon a large rock beside the
stream. Leaning his forearm on his bent knee, he studied her impassively,
without speaking.

For the first time, it really penetrated Whitney's
bemused mind that this man was her affianced husband! But only for the time
being, she told herself-just until Paul returned and they could carry
through with the plan she had in mind. For now, all she could do was tread
carefully and bide her time.

The bark of the tree dug into her shoulder blades, and
Clayton's unwavering gaze began to unnerve her. For lack of anything better
to say, and anxious to break the tense silence, Whitney nodded toward the
place where he had tied his chestnut stallion. "Why didn't you ride that
horse against me in the race? He's much faster than the sorrel you rode."

Her chosen topic of conversation seemed to amuse him as
he glanced at the horses. "Your black stallion tired too easily when I rode
him the day of the picnic. I rode the sorrel because he's about equal in
stamina and speed to your stallion, and I was trying to give you a fair
chance to win. If I'd ridden this brute against you, you wouldn't have had a
prayer. On the other hand, if I'd ridden a vastly inferior horse against
your stallion, you wouldn't have enjoyed winning."

Despite her dire predicament, Whitney's lips twitched
with laughter. "Oh yes, I would. I would have enjoyed beating you in that
race, even if you were riding a goat!"

Chuckling, he shook his head. "In the three years I've
known you, you've never failed to amuse me."

Whitney's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Three years? How
could that be? Three years ago, I'd only just made my come-out."

"You were in a millinery shop with your aunt, the first
time I saw you. The proprietress was attempting to foist off on you a
hideous hat covered with little grapes and berries, by convincing you that
if you wore it for a stroll in the park, the gentlemen would fall at your
feet."

"I don't recall the time," Whitney said uncertainly.
"Did I buy the hat?"

"No. You informed her that if the gentlemen fell at your
feet, they would only be trying to avoid the swarm of frenzied bees who were
attracted by a fruit platter wearing a female."

"That rather sounds like the things I say," Whitney
admitted, self-consciously toying with her gloves. She could almost believe
there was tenderness in the way Clayton spoke of the incident, and it
flustered her. "Is that when you decided you ... ah ... wanted to know me
better?"

"Certainly not," he teased. "I was relieved that the
proprietress, and not I, had to withstand those flashing green eyes of
yours."

"What were you doing in a millinery shop?" Before the
question was out, Whitney could have bitten her foolish tongue! What would
he be doing there, except waiting for his current mistress?

"I can see from your expression that you've arrived at
the answer to that," he remarked blandly.

Repressing her irrational annoyance over his being in
the shop with another woman, Whitney asked, "Did we meet again after that-I
mean, before the masquerade?"

"I saw you occasionally that spring, usually driving in
the park. And then I saw you again a year later, quite grown up, at the
DuPres' ball."

"Were you alone?" The question just seemed to pop out,
and Whitney clenched her fists in self-disgust.

"I was not," he admitted frankly. "But then, neither
were you. In fact, you were surrounded by admirers-a snivelling lot, as I
recall." He chuckled at Whitney's indignant glare. "There's no reason to
glower at me, my lady. You thought they were too. Later that evening, I
overheard you telling one of them who was nearly killing himself with
rapture over the scent of your gloves, that if the smell of soap affected
him so, he was either deranged or very dirty."

"I would never have been so rude," Whitney protested,
uneasily aware that he had called her "my lady" as if she were already his
duchess. "He sounds only silly and not at all deserving of such a setdown,
and . . ." Forgetting what she was about to say, she stared past Clayton,
trying to bring a hazy recollection into focus. "Did he walk with absurd
little mincing steps?"

"Since I was far more interested in your face than his
feet, I wouldn't know," Clayton responded drily. "Why?"

"Because I do remember saying that now," she breathed.
"I remember watching him mince away, thinking how thoroughly I disliked him.
Then I turned around and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing in the
doorway, smiling as if the entire scene had amused him. It was you!" she
gasped. "You were spying in that doorway!"

"Not spying," Clayton corrected. "I was merely preparing
to tend a hand to the poor besotted devil in case you drew blood with that
razor tongue of yours."

"You shouldn't have bothered, for he more than deserved
anything I said. I can't recall his name, but I do remember that the evening
before, he'd tried to kiss me, and that his hands had a nauseating tendency
to wander."

"A pity," Clayton drawled icily, "that you can't recall
his name."

Beneath demurely lowered lashes, Whitney stole a peek at
his ominous expression and realized with satisfaction that now he, and not
she, was the jealous one. It dawned on her then that if she could appear
fickle, perhaps even a little fast, he might have second thoughts about
wanting to marry her. "I think I ought to tell you that he wasn't the only
gentleman in Paris who tried to win my affections and became. . . overeager.
I had dozens of serious suitors in Paris. I can't even remember all their
names."

"Then allow me to assist you," Clayton offered calmly.
White Whitney stared at him in shock, he rapped off the names of every man
who had offered for her. "I left out DuVille," he finished, "because he is
still biding his time. But I suppose I ought to include Sevarin, since he is
trying to offer for you. It appears to me, Madam," he continued
conversationally, again addressing her as if she were already a married
woman, "that for a sensible young woman, you are extremely foolish about the
men you allow to court you."

To avoid discussing Paul, Whitney seized upon Clayton's
implied criticism of Nicki. "If you are referring to Nicolas DuVille, his
family happens to be one of the oldest and most respected in France!"

"I am referring to Sevarin, and you know it," he said in
a coolly authoritative tone that Whitney particularly resented. "Of all the
men I mentioned, Sevarin is the least suitable, yet if it had been left to
you, he would be your choice. He is no match for your intelligence or your
spirit or your temper. Nor," he added meaningfully, "is he man enough to
make a woman of you."

"And just what do you mean by that remark?" Whitney
demanded.

His glance slid meaningfully to the grassy spot near her
feet where he had used the crop on her tender backside, then held her in his
arms, soothing her. "I think you know precisely what I mean," he said,
watching the pink tint creeping up her cheeks.

Whitney wasn't completely certain, but she did know it
was not a subject she wished to pursue. She switched to an earlier, less
inflammatory one. "If you were so 'taken' with me in France, why didn't you
do the proper thing and approach my uncle to make your offer?"

"So that he could fob me off with that nonsense about
your being too young to marry, and your father not being ready to part with
you yet?" he said with sardonic amusement. "Hardly!"

"What you really mean," Whitney retorted, "is that it
was beneath your exalted position in life to bother being introduced to me,
and then to-"

"We were introduced," Clayton interrupted. "We were
introduced that same night, by Madame DuPre. You didn't pay enough attention
to hear my name, and you accorded me a brief nod and one shrug before you
returned to the more pressing business of accumulating as many fawning
admirers as you could squeeze around your skirts."

How that cool reception must have deflated him, Whitney
thought with secret pleasure. "Did you ask me for a dance?" she needled
sweetly.

"No," he replied drily. "My card was already full."

Under other circumstances, Whitney would have laughed at
the joke, but she knew that it was intended as a barbed reminder that he,
too, was popular with the opposite sex. As if she needed to be reminded! She
threw him a derisive look that matched her tone. "I imagine that if men did
have dance cards, yours would always be full! Now that I think about it,
what does a man do with his mistress when he desires to dance with someone
else?"

"I don't recall having found that an insurmountable
obstacle the night you and I danced at the Armands' masquerade."

The gloves Whitney had been holding dropped to the
grass. "How dare you be so crude as to-"

"-as to even bring up such a thing?" he countered
smoothly. "Isn't the saying 'an eye for an eye'?"

"I can hardly believe my ears!" Whitney scoffed
furiously. "If you aren't a living example of 'the devil quoting
scripture.'"

"Touche." He grinned.

His amusement only made Whitney angrier. "You may be
able to dismiss your scandalous conduct with a laugh, but I can't. In the
time I remember knowing you, you've made lewd suggestions to me at the
Armands', insulted me at Lady Eubank's, and assaulted me in this very spot."
Whitney bent down and snatched her gloves from the grass. "God alone knows
what you'll try to do next."

Her last sentence brought a warm gleam to his eyes, and
Whitney warily decided it was time to leave. She started to stalk past him
toward the horses, but he reached out and caught her wrist, pulling her
toward him. "With the exception of the Armands' masquerade, I have always
treated you precisely as you've deserved to be treated, and that's the way
it will always be between us. I have no intention of letting you walk all
over me. If I did, you'd soon have no more respect for me than you would
have had for Sevarin, had you been unfortunate enough to marry him."

Whitney was thunderstruck by his monumental gall in
presuming to know how she would feel, and she was stricken by the awful
finality with which he dismissed her plan to marry Paul as an unfortunate
whim, entirely beyond the realm of possibility. And to make everything
worse, his arms were encircling her at that very moment. "Don't you care
that I don't love you?" she asked despairingly.

"Of course you don't," Clayton teased, "You hate me.
You've told me so at least half a dozen times. Right here, in this very
spot, as a matter of fact. And just a few moments before you became a warm,
passionate woman who held me in her arms."

"Stop reminding me of what happened (hat day! I want to
forget it."

He gathered her closer against his muscular frame and
gazed down at her with tender amusement. "Little one, I would give you
anything within my power, but I will never let you forget what you were that
day. Never. Ask anything else of me, and it's yours."

"Ask anything else of you and it's mine?" she scoffed,
wedging a space between them by forcing her hands up against his chest.
"Very well. I don't want to marry you. Will you release me from my father's
bargain?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

Whitney could hardly contain her bitterness and
animosity. "Then don't insult my intelligence by pretending to care about my
wishes! I don't want to be betrothed to you, but you won't release me. I
don't want to marry you, but you fully intend to drag me to the altar
anyway. I-"