Whitney, My Love (35 page)

"If what I'm wearing doesn't please you," he drawled,
"we can go to my humble abode and you can decide which of my clothes you
approve."

Whitney's head jerked up. Her first impulse was to
retort that it didn't matter in the least to her what he wore. Instead she
surprised them both by shyly admitting the truth: "I was thinking that you
look splendid."

She caught his startled look of pleasure before he gave
the spirited grays the office to start, sending them trotting away.

Trees marched along both sides of the country lane,
their branches meeting overhead like Lines of partners in a country dance,
forming an arch for the carriage which rocked along beneath. Leaves swirled
and drifted down in slow motion, and Whitney reached up, lazily trying to
catch a bright yellow one.

When Clayton guided the pair south at the fork in the
road, however, she sat bolt upright, turning on him in bewilderment and
panic. "Where are we going?"

"To the village, for a start."

"I-I don't need anything from the village," Whitney
insisted urgently.

"But I do," he said flatly.

Falling back against her seat, Whitney closed her eyes
in bleak despair. They would be seen together and, in that sleepy little
village where nothing ever happened, much would be made of it. She knew that
everyone, with the exception of the man beside her, was expecting the
announcement that she and Paul were soon to be married. She felt ill just
thinking of Paul stopping in the village on his way home and hearing an
exaggerated version of today's outing.

Their carriage clattered across the stone bridge and
down the cobbled streets of the village, between the long rows of quaint,
shuttered buildings which housed a few inferior shops and a small inn. When
Clayton pulled the horses to a smart stop before the apothecary's shop,
Whitney could have screamed. The apothecary, of all people-the worst of the
village tattlers!

Clayton came around to help her alight. Trying to make
her voice sound normal, she said, "Please, I would rather wait here."

In the voice of one issuing a command, but politely
phrasing it as a request, Clayton said, "I would like it very much if you
accompanied me."

That particular tone of his never failed to raise
Whitney's hackles, and the friendly atmosphere of their outing abruptly
disintegrated. "That's very unfortunate, because I'm not going into that
shop." To her consternation and fury, Clayton reached into the carriage,
grasped her by the waist, and lifted her down. She was afraid to struggle or
push his hands away for fear of creating even more of a scene than they
undoubtedly had already. "Are you trying to make a public spectacle of us?"
she gasped, the instant her feet touched the cobbles.

"Yes," he said unanswerably, "I am."

Whitney saw the florid, jowly face of Mr. Oldenberry
peering curiously at them through the window of his shop, and all hope of
escaping notice was shattered. Inside the tiny, dimly lit shop an odd array
of medicinal scents mingled with the odors of herbs, over which there was
the pervading sting of ammonia salts. The apothecary was all effusive
greetings, but Whitney saw his eyes lock with fanatic curiosity upon
Clayton's hand, which still cupped her elbow.

"How is Mr. Paul?" he asked her slyly.

"I believe he's expected to return in another five
days," Whitney said, wondering what this little man would be saving six days
from now if she carried through with her tentative plan to elope with Paul.

Clayton asked for a bottle of hartshorn and the
apothecary handed it to Whitney. Grimacing with distaste, Whitney waved it
away. "It's for Mr. Westland, Mr. Oldenberry," she said solemnly. "I fear he
suffers quite terribly from the vapors and the headache."

Clayton accepted her slur upon his masculine vitality
with an infuriating grin. "Indeed I do," he chuckled, while his hand left
Whitney's elbow and swept possessively around her shoulders, drawing her
close for an affectionate squeeze. "And I intend to continue 'suffering.'"
He winced as Whitney ground her heel into his instep, then winked at the
apothecary. "My suffering gains me a great deal of sympathetic attention
from this enchanting neighbor of mine."

"Oh rubbish!" Whitney burst out.

Clayton turned a conspiratorial smile on the apothecary
and observed admiringly, "She certainly has a temper, doesn't she, Mr.
Oldenberry?" Mr. Oldenberry puffed up with importance and agreed that,
indeed, Miss Stone had always had a temper, and that he, like Mr. Westland,
preferred females with spunk.

Whitney watched Clayton pay for the hartshorn, and she
caught the subtle movement of his hand as he placed the bottle back on the
counter. Certain now that he had invented this errand for the sole purpose
of illustrating to every gossip within fifteen miles that he had some claim
upon her affection, Whitney spun on her heel. Clayton caught up with her as
she stepped from the shop into the sunlight. "You're going to regret this,"
Whitney promised in a furious undertone.

"I don't think so," he said, guiding her across the
street.

Elizabeth Ashton and Margaret Merryton were emerging
from one of the shops, the latter's arms laden with bundles wrapped in white
paper and tied with string. Politeness dictated that they all stop and
exchange civilities. For once, Margaret didn't greet Whitney with an
insulting, vindictive remark. In fact, she didn't greet her at all. Turning
her shoulder to Whitney, she smiled into Clayton's gray eyes while Clayton
obligingly took her bundles from her. As they crossed the street toward
Margaret's carriage, Margaret linked her arm through his and said just
loudly enough for Whitney to hear, "I've been meaning to ask you if I left
my parasol in your carriage the other evening."

The shock of his betrayal knocked the breath from
Whitney. True, she herself didn't feel obligated to honor their betrothal
agreement, but Clayton had willingly and legally committed himself to her in
a contract almost as binding and solemn as marriage. The man was worse than
a rake, he was . . . promiscuous! And of all the women for him to be seeing
in secret, he had chosen to consort with her bitterest enemy. Pain and rage
seeped through Whitney's system.

"Margaret hates you terribly," Elizabeth murmured to
Whitney as they both watched Clayton deposit Margaret's parcels in her
carriage, then walk over to his carriage, apparently to search for
Margaret's parasol. They lingered there, talking and laughing. "I think she
hates you more for Mr. Westland than she did for that gentleman from Paris-
Monsieur DuVille."

It was the first tune Elizabeth had ever addressed a
voluntary comment to Whitney, and if she hadn't been so miserably
preoccupied, Whitney would have made a more cordial response. Instead she
said stiffly, "I would be very obliged to Margaret if she were to snatch Mr.
Westland right from under my nose."

"That's just as well," Elizabeth said, her pretty face
troubled, "because she means to have him."

After assisting Elizabeth and Margaret into their
carriage, Clayton reclaimed Whitney's hand and tucked it in the crook of his
arm, as if nothing at all had happened. Whitney walked beside him, her face
frozen with anger. At the end of the street was a small inn which boasted
only one private dining parlor, the public rooms, and a small courtyard
concealed from the street by vine-colored trellises. The proprietor's
daughter greeted Clayton as if she knew him, then hastened to show them to a
table in the courtyard.

Whitney watched in mounting annoyance as Millie batted
her big brown eyes at him, then bent over the table, smoothing the linen and
rearranging the vase of flowers, while deliberately providing Clayton with
an unimpaired view of the ample bosom spilling over her bodice. Seething,
Whitney observed the girl's swaying hips as she went to get their meal. "If
that is the way Millie conducts herself around men, her poor parents must be
at their wits' end."

Clayton observed Whitney's indignant features with a
gleam of knowing amusement, and Whitney's tenuous hold on her temper
snapped. Raking him with a contemptuous look, she added, "Of course, you've
probably given Millie reason to believe you find her very desirable."

"What the devil do you mean by that remark?" he
demanded.

"I mean that you have a notorious reputation with women
-a reputation which you've undoubtedly earned!"

"Not for dallying with serving wenches, I haven't."

"Tell that to Millie," Whitney retorted frigidly. When
Millie brought their meals, Whitney attacked her meat as if it were still
alive. The instant they were finished eating, she pushed her chair back and
arose.

Neither of them broke the charged silence on the way
home until Clayton turned into his own drive, rather than continuing past it
to hers, and pulled the grays to a stop before his house. When he came
around to help her alight, Whitney pressed back into her seat. "If you think
for one minute that I am going to set foot in that house with you, you're
sadly mistaken."

A look of sorely strained patience crossed his face, and
for the second time that day, he caught her by the waist and lifted her down
from the carriage. "God help me if I ever injure my back," he quipped.

"God help you if you ever turn it," she snapped, "for
there'll surely be some heartbroken papa or cuckolded husband ready with a
knife-if I don't murder you first."

"I have no intention of arguing with you or ravishing
you," Clayton said with exasperation. "If you will only look around, you'll
see why I brought you here."

Whitney did, irritably at first and then with surprise.
The Hodges estate had always had a seedy look about it, but all that had
changed. The bushes were pruned, and the grass neatly trimmed. Missing
flagstones from the walk had been replaced, and rotted woodwork repaired.
But the biggest change was brought about by the twin expanses of great
mullioned windows on the first story, where before there had only been three
gloomy little glass-covered holes. "Why have you gone to such expense?"
Whitney asked when it was apparent that he was waiting for some reaction
from her.

"Because I bought it," Clayton said, indicating that she
should walk with him toward the newly erected pavilion at the far end of the
front lawn.

"You bought it?" Whitney gasped. Just the thought of the
cozy trio they would mate-she and Paul, with Clayton for a neighbor-made her
feel quite violently ill. Was there no end to the obstacles one single man
could put in the way of her happiness?

"It seemed a reasonably sound idea. This land adjoins
yours, and someday the two estates can be combined."

"Adjoins your land, not mine!" Whitney corrected him
bitingly. "You paid for it, just as you paid for me."

She started to step blindly into the wooden pavilion but
his hand shot out and captured her arm, jerking her around. He studied her
flushed, angry face for a moment, and then he said calmly, "Margaret
Merryton's carriage wheel was broken, and I offered to take her up with me,
rather than leaving her there in the road. I brought her home, where her
father thanked me profusely and invited me to dinner, which I declined.
There was nothing more to it than that."

"I don't care in the least what you and Margaret did!"
Whitney lied angrily.

"The hell you don't! You've been sniping at me ever
since she asked if she left her parasol in my carriage."

Whitney looked away, trying to decide if he was telling
the truth and wondering why it mattered so much to her.

"If you won't credit me with discretion," he added
quietly, "at least credit me with taste." He paused. "Am I forgiven, little
one?"

"I suppose so," Whitney said, feeling absurdly relieved
and thoroughly foolish. "But the next time you see Margaret. . ."

"I'll run her down!" he chuckled.

A faint smile touched Whitney's lips. "I was merely
going to ask that you not encourage her, for she'll only behave more
horridly to me than she already does, if she thinks you're interested in
her. Did she have a parasol that day?" Whitney asked, suddenly suspicious.

"No. Not that I recall."

Pretending to study the toes of her pink slippers,
Whitney asked carefully, "Do you think Margaret is... well. . . pretty?"

"Now that's more like it!" Clayton laughed, possessing
himself of her other arm and drawing her close to him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it pleases me to have you thinking like a
wife-even a jealous one."

There was enough truth in that observation to make
Whitney flush hotly. "I am not in the least bit jealous, nor have I any
reason to be, because you do not belong to me, any more than I belong to
you!"

"Except by virtue of a signed, legal contract betrothing
you to me."

"A meaningless contract, since I was not consulted."

"But one which you will nevertheless honor," Clayton
predicted.

Whitney looked at him with a mixture of resentment and
pleading. "I loathe this constant bickering. Why can't I make you understand
that I love Paul?"

"You don't care for Sevarin. You've told me so yourself,
and more than once."

"I've told you nothing of the sort! I-"

"You've told me," he persisted, "every time you've been
in my arms, that Sevarin has no claim on your heart."

Whitney, who was desperate enough to try anything, tried
to intimidate him by scoffing. "For a man of your vast experience with
women, you certainly place an absurd amount of importance on our few kisses.
I'd have thought that you, of all men, would have learned better."

"I am experienced," he agreed curtly. "I am experienced
enough to know that you respond to me when I kiss you, and that you're
terrified of what I make you feel. If Sevarin could make you feel the way I
do, you'd have nothing to fear from me. But he can't, and you damn well know
it."