Whitney, My Love (34 page)

Clayton watched her. "In this instance, my lady, it
would seem to require two." Leaning down he deftly made four obvious plays
which Whitney had overlooked because Cuthbert had been hanging over her
shoulder.

"Thank you," Whitney said. "But I would rather play this
alone."

Turning, he went to the door, and Whitney thought he was
finally leaving. Instead he spoke to a servant in a tow tone, and a moment
later he came back to the table and placed an intricately carved rosewood
box, belonging to her father, before her. Flipping up the lid, he exposed
stacks of wooden chips. Whitney recognized them as the same sort of chips
which Uncle Edward and his friends used when they gambled at cards.

A quiver of excitement shot through her as she realized
that Clayton apparently intended to teach her how to use them. What a
shocking, scandalous thing for him even to contemplate. .. but it was such
an intriguing idea that Whitney made no protest. She watched as Clayton
shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carelessly over her father's desk.
Sitting down across from her, he unbuttoned his gray waistcoat, leaned back
in his chair, and inclined his head toward the deck of cards. "Deal," he
said.

Whitney was so nervous about the severe breach of
propriety she was committing, that she knew she'd never be able to shuffle
the cards properly. She gathered them together and pushed the deck toward
Clayton. Fascinated, she watched the cards spring to life in his hands,
flying into place with a whoosh and a snap as he shuffled them. Her voice
was tinged with reluctant admiration. "I'll bet you're acquainted with every
gaming hall in London."

"Intimately," he agreed. Palming the deck face down on
the table, he raised a dark, challenging brow at her. "Cut the cards," he
said.

Whitney hesitated, trying unsuccessfully to maintain a
cool, disdainful attitude toward him, but how could she when he looked so
outrageously handsome and elegantly dissolute? Lounging nonchalantly in that
chair, with his waistcoat open at the front, he was the personification of
the well-bred gentleman at the gaming table-and he was going to teach her
how to play. Besides, she knew in her heart that he was trying to cheer her
and distract her from her troubles. "I hope you know," she said, leaning
forward, her hand hovering uncertainly over the deck, "that if anyone sees
me doing this, my reputation will be destroyed."

Clayton gave her a long, meaningful look. "A duchess can
do as she pleases."

"I am not a duchess," Whitney returned.

"But you're going to be," be said with absolute
finality.

Whitney opened her mouth to argue, but he nodded toward
the deck. "Cut the cards."

Gambling, Whitney thought two hours later as she stacked
the chips away, made one feel deliriously wicked and decadent. Despite her
unfamiliarity with the games, she had played very well and lost only a
little money. She sensed that Clayton was proud of how quickly she learned,
yet any other gentleman of her acquaintance, even Nicki, would have been
horrified that she seemed to possess such a penchant for gaming. Why, she
wondered absently, watching Clayton button his waistcoat and pull on his
jacket, did he admire in her the very things that would shock or intimidate
her other suitors? When she was with Paul, she had to be very careful to
stay well within the bounds of feminine propriety, yet Clayton seemed to
tike her best when she was being her most outrageously impertinent self. If
Paul knew she had gambled at cards, he would be shocked and displeased, yet
Clayton had taught her to play and grinned at her in open admiration when
she did it well.

Her thoughts scattered as Clayton leaned over her chair
and pressed a light kiss on her upturned forehead. "We'll go for a drive
tomorrow at 11 o'clock if the weather permits," he said. And he left.

Dr. Hugh Whitticomb was seated before the fire enjoying
a glass of his host's excellent brandy when Clayton returned. "How did you
find my young patient?" he asked with pretended casualness as Clayton poured
himself a nightcap.

Sitting down, Clayton propped his feet on the low table
between them, and gazed dispassionately at the physician. "I found her much
the same as you probably did this afternoon -standing on her own two feet."

"You don't sound very pleased about it," Dr. Whitticomb
remarked evasively.

"I found her," Clayton clarified with a grim smile,
"receiving a proposal of marriage from one of her cousins."

Dr. Whitticomb made an impressive show of choking upon
his brandy while he struggled to keep his face straight. "I can understand
how that might have surprised you."

"I have long passed the point where anything Whitney
does surprises me," he said, but his irritated tone completely denied his
philosophical words.

After a moment's hesitation, Dr. Whitticomb said, "I am
a detached observer and not inexperienced in dealing with the female mind.
If you will pardon the presumption of an old family friend, perhaps I might
be able to offer some advice?" Taking the duke's silence for consent, Dr.
Whitticomb continued, "I have already gathered that Miss Stone wants
something you aren't wilting to give her. What is it that she wants?"

"What she wants," Clayton replied sardonically, "is to
be released from the betrothal contract."

Dr. Whitticomb gave a bark of horrified laughter. "My
God! No wonder she glowered at me when I offered subtle suggestions on how
she ought to comport herself in order to keep you." Conflicting thoughts
chased across his mind- amazement that the young lady could find fault with
an offer from England's most eligible, most sought after bachelor;
admiration for Clayton's patience in dealing with her rebellion; and
bewilderment over why the most eagerly awaited betrothal announcement in a
decade was being kept hushed. "What objection does the lovely widgeon have
to your offer?" he said finally.

Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Clayton
closed his eyes and sighed. "That I neglected to consult her first."

"I can't see why she should fault you for that. But
then, knowing her independent temperament as you must have done, why didn't
you consult with her first?"

Clayton opened his eyes. "Since she didn't even know my
name at the time, I felt that it might be awkward to discuss marriage with
her."

"She didn't know your . . . You can't mean to tell me
that with half the females in Europe throwing themselves at you, you offered
for a young woman you didn't even know!"

"I knew her. She did not know me."

"And you automatically assumed that once she learned of
your wealth and title, she would naturally consent," Dr. Whitticomb
speculated, his eyes dancing with amusement. The duke's quelling frown
temporarily silenced him. "Who," he asked as a sudden, unsettling
recollection struck him, "is Paul Sevarin?"

Clayton scowled. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I stopped in the village this afternoon after
seeing Miss Stone, and spoke with the apothecary. He's a chatty fellow-the
sort who tells you everything you didn't ask before he answers a simple
question, and follows that with half a dozen questions of his own.
Eventually he discovered the name of my patient, and he said some things
which at the time I dismissed as nonsense."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that this Sevarin has been dangling
after Miss Stone in earnest, and the village seems to be hanging on
tenterhooks in expectation of a betrothal announcement. They seem to think
the betrothal has already been arranged, and is entirety pleasing to Sevarin
and your future wife."

"Frankly," Clayton drawled, "I don't give a blessed
damn."

"About the gossip?" Hugh Whitticomb persisted carefully.
"Or about Sevarin? Or about the girl?" When Clayton didn't answer, Hugh
leaned forward and asked bluntly. "Are you, or are you not, in love with
that young woman?"

"I am going to marry her," Clayton said stonily. "What
else is there to say?" With that, he bid his guest good night and in four
long strides, quit the room, leaving Hugh Whitticomb gazing at the fire in
amazed alarm. After a moment, however, the physician's expression cleared.
He began to chuckle and then he laughed aloud. "God help him." He chortled.
"He doesn't realize he loves her. And even if he did, he wouldn't admit it."

In his small bedroom, Clayton jerked off his jacket,
flinging it onto a chair. His waistcoat followed. Loosening the top buttons
of his shirt, he stalked over to the window and jammed his hands into his
pockets.

He was furious that the villagers believed a betrothal
had already been arranged. True, he had wanted Whitney to have the
satisfaction of showing them that she could make Sevarin pursue her, but he
had never dreamed things would go this far. Whitney had never been betrothed
to any man but him, and he would not allow anyone to think otherwise. She
didn't love Sevarin, regardless of what she thought. She simply had some
idiotic notion, some girlish dream, of winning him away from the Ashton
girl.

She didn't love him either, but Clayton wasn't concerned
about that. "Love" and all the obsessive behavior associated with it, was an
absurd emotion. He was amazed that Hugh

Whitticomb had mentioned the word to him tonight. No one
in his set ever professed to feeling anything stronger than a "tendre" or a
lasting attachment even for their spouses. Love was a silly, romantic notion
that had no place in his life.

Much of his anger evaporated as he considered the last
few hours with Whitney. He could sense that she was slowly yielding to him.
She had sought the comfort of his embrace of her own accord, and she had
even admitted to a fondness for him. All that really stood between them now
was her fading absorption with Paul Sevarin, and her understandable
resentment over the way her stupid father had told her of her betrothal to
Clayton. Just thinking of that night infuriated Clayton. Because of Stone's
callous insensitivity, Clayton had been deprived of the pleasure of courting
and winning Whitney. Despite its turbulent ups and downs, he had been
enjoying his bizarre courtship, including Whitney's haughty rejections. She
made him work to gain an inch, but each gain was a heady victory, more
meaningful because it was so hard-won.

Yet there were times lately when his patience almost
lost out in the battle against his desire. When she sniped at him and
sparred with him, it took his last ounce of restraint not to snatch her into
his arms and subdue her rebellion with his hands and mouth. He was
neglecting his estates and his business interests, yet just when he decided
that she would have to accustom herself to their betrothal after they were
married, she'd look at him with those unbelievably green eyes of hers, and
he could not quite bring himself to exert the power he held over her by
forcing her to marry him.

Sighing, Clayton turned away from the window. Not for a
moment did he ever doubt that Whitney would marry him. She would marry him
either willingly, or unwillingly. In the latter case, the balance of their
courtship and combat would have to take place in his bed.

Chapter Twenty

FRESH, COOL BREEZES SCENTED WITH THE INVIGORATING AROMA
of burning leaves floated into Whitney's room, and she sniffed
appreciatively as she stepped from her bath. Wrapped in a dressing robe, she
went over to the open window and perched her hip upon the sill. Autumn, that
most glorious of all the seasons, greeted her with a golden morning. She
gazed out across the topaz and ruby landscape splashed with yellow and
amber, and she tingled with the exuberant optimism she always felt at this
time of year.

Reluctantly, she left the window and deliberated over
the matter of clothing, finally choosing a high-waisted gown of dusky pink
wool with a square neckline, long narrow sleeves, and a wide flounce at the
hem. Clarissa pulled her hair straight back and up, then wound it into curls
entwined with velvet ribbons of the same muted pink as her dress.

Thoughts of Paul and her unwanted betrothal to Clayton
hovered uneasily at the back of her mind, but Whitney refused to dwell on
them. Tonight she could agonize over her confused status, but for now, she
was eager to be out in the sunshine. Nothing was going to spoil the
perfection of such a gorgeous day.

At five minutes past eleven, a servant tapped at the
door and announced that Mr. Westland was waiting downstairs. Snatching up
the printed shawl which matched her dress,

Whitney hurried downstairs. "Good morning," she said
gaily. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Clayton took her hands in his and gazed down at her
glowing features. Quietly and without emphasis, he said, "You have a smile
that could light up a room."

It was the first time he had ever remarked on her
appearance, and although his compliment was much milder than the lavish ones
the Frenchmen had heaped on her, it made Whitney feel unaccountably shy.
"You are late," she admonished him with laughing severity, unable to think
of anything else to say, "and I have been pacing the length of my bedchamber
these past five minutes, waiting for you."

He said nothing, and for a moment Whitney fell under the
spell of those boldly seductive gray eyes. His hands tightened on hers,
drawing her closer. She held her breath, excited and alarmed at the
realization that he was going to kiss her.

"I'm early," he stated unequivocally.

Whitney swallowed back a gurgle of relieved laughter,
and he added, "However, now that I know how eager you are to see me, I shall
make it a point to be early all the time." The great hall clock began to
chime the hour of eleven as they left the house, and Clayton shot her an
I-told-you-so look.

She climbed into his carriage and leaned back against
the moss-green velvet squabs, gazing up at the puffy white clouds skittering
across an azure sky. She felt his weight settle into the seat beside her,
and her sidewise gaze wandered admiringly over his shiny brown boots, his
long, muscular legs clad in biscuit superfine, his rust-colored jacket, and
cream-silk shirt.