Whitney, My Love (55 page)

"Which made you so happy that you burst into tears?"

Whitney smiled but there was a catch in her voice. "I
seem to have a difficult time coping with marriage proposals. You would
think, with as must practice as I had in France, that I-"

"What happened to the last one?" Emily interrupted
flatly.

Whitney looked at her in silence for a long moment, then
she shrugged and looked away. "Clayton didn't want to marry me, after all."

"Oh rubbish! How can you expect me to believe such
flummery? I've seen the way that man looks at you."

Whitney dragged herself off the bed and went over to the
little French desk from which she extracted the packet Clayton had sent her.
Without a word, she handed it to Emily.

Emily sank into a chair as she began to read. Her face
registered no particular reaction when she read the legal documents, but she
frowned at the bank draft, and rolled her eyes in absolute disgust when she
read Clayton's note. "Really!" she exclaimed in wry exasperation. "Sending
you this note was too foolish for words. If he wasn't drunk as a wheelbarrow
when he wrote it I can't think what was wrong with his brain. But what has
all this-" she gestured to the pile of papers-"to do with the way you
behaved at Elizabeth's banquet? I saw the way you avoided and ignored him."

"I should have avoided him at the church!" Whitney said
feelingly. "And I would have, except that I thought we were still betrothed.
I-I didn't know about these papers until we came back here after the
wedding. They were with the things my father sent from home."

"Surely you aren't upset because the duke withdrew his
offer? It would seem to me he acted correctly, knowing that he had wronged
you-and believing that you could never forgive him. I'm certain he was only
trying to excuse you from an obligation he believed would be repugnant to
you."

Whitney gaped at her. "How can you be so gullible?
Emily, he dragged me to his bed and stole my honor, then he gave me a bank
draft to pay me off, broke our betrothal, and sent me a note suggesting I
marry Paul!"

"I suppose," Emily sighed, "that were I as emotionally
involved as you are, I might feel the same way. But please, just for the
sake of argument, forget about the bank draft. That was too foolish for
words-and very generous of him, too." Whitney opened her mouth to object
angrily, but Emily shook her head and firmly interrupted her. "Whitney, I
saw him at the church, after he sent you these papers. He loved you-a fool
could have seen that. He stood in that church worshiping you!"

Whitney leapt to her feet. "He stood in that church
because Elizabeth invited him to her wedding. And if I'd known it at the
time, I wouldn't have made such a horrid fool of myself and-"

"Elizabeth didn't invite him," Emily said guiltily. "I
did. I sent him a note on the bottom of one of Elizabeth's invitations
telling him that you were going to be there. And he came because he wanted
to see you. He scarcely knew Elizabeth and Peter, and I doubt he attends
weddings of distant acquaintances he doesn't care in the least about."

Whitney looked as if she were either going to faint or
scream. "You told him?! But why-why would you do that to me? He surely
thought I had put you up to it."

Emily shook her head. "He couldn't have thought anything
of the sort. I simply told him that you were going to be there. And he came
because you were. Whitney, listen to me. He came after he signed those
documents; after he wrote that note, which, by the way, seems to me to have
been only foolish and not vile; and after he sent you the bank draft."

A torrent of conflicting emotions battered Whitney as
Emily went determinedly on. "He probably knew that Paul's circumstances are
very strained. Everyone in the village knew it but you."

"He knew," Whitney admitted. "He was in my father's
study the night I found out about Paul's problems."

"And he also knew you wanted to marry Paul?"

Whitney nodded.

"Whitney, for the love of heaven, can't you see what he
was trying to do? He thought you hated him and he knew you wanted to marry
Paul, so he sent you this . . . this fortune to help make your life easier.
He gave you money to help make your life better with the man you preferred
to him. Dear God! He must have loved you even more than I thought, to do a
thing like this."

Whitney snorted derisively and looked away, but Emily
marched to the bed where she sat, and plunked her fists on her slim hips.
"Whitney, I think you are a fool! You love that man-you told me so yourself,
so don't deny it. And he loved you. He offered for you, he assisted your
father when he didn't have to, then he stood by while you flirted with Paul
and did a hundred other things that had to provoke him beyond words. What
did you say to him at the banquet?" she demanded.

Whitney's eyes flew to Emily's face, then slid away, in
a small voice she answered, "I mocked him when he said he loved me."

"You mocked him?" Emily gasped. "Why in heaven's name
would you do such a thing after standing in his arms on the church steps?"

"Please!" Whitney cried in agitation, leaping to her
feet. "I told you why. Because I had just gotten the documents and his note
and his wretched bank draft. Because I thought he had merely been attending
Elizabeth's wedding and I had practically thrown myself at his feet!"

"And now I suppose you think he'll come crawling to
you?"

Whitney shook her head and stared at the floor. "No.
When he sees me he acts as if I don't exist."

"What else would you expect him to do? He loved you
enough to want to marry you and he gave your father a fortune. He loved you
so much he committed a terrible act out of jealousy, so much that he gave
you up, hoping to make you happy, so much that he came to Elizabeth's
wedding to be near you. But believe me, he will not come near you

A kaleidoscope of disbelief, misery, loneliness, and
despair hurtled through Whitney's mind-but the fragile hope Emily had given
her burst like white sunshine in the midst of it all. She bent her head and
her hair tumbled forward over her shoulders, concealing her face. In a
pained, choked voice, she said, "However will I get him back without
crawling to him?"

A smile of joyous relief flashed across Emily's
features. "Actually, I'm afraid that's the only way. You trampled his pride
every time you had the opportunity. Your pride is going to have to suffer
now."

"I'll-I'll think about it," Whitney whispered.

"You do that," Emily applauded, cautiously laying down
her trump card. "And while you're thinking about it, consider how you're
going to feel when he marries Vanessa Stand-field. The gossips say he
already has-but they are never entirely accurate. Probably, he is about to
marry her."

Whitney leapt to her feet. "What can I do? I can't think
where to begin."

Emily hid her smile as she walked to the door. "You will
have to go to him and explain why you behaved in such a freakish way at the
banquet."

"No," Whitney said, frantically shaking her head. "I'll
send him a note and ask him to come here."

"You can. But he won't do it. Which will only make it
doubly embarrassing when you have to go to him anyway. Provided, of course,
that in the meantime he doesn't marry Miss Standfield."

Whitney Sew to the desk and snatched up her notepaper,
but after Emily left she paused to think. There had to be some way to make
Clayton come to her, some ruse she could use. It was too humiliating to
crawl to him, particularly when he was on the verge of marrying Vanessa
Standfield. After several thoughtful minutes, her eyes widened with
inspiration and her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. There was a way-it
was a horrid deception, but she was in no position to quibble over niceties
now. Clayton had taken her to his bed and if-if he believed he had gotten
her with child, then he couldn't possibly refuse to come to see her. And
what's more, he certainly couldn't marry Miss Vanessa Standfield! Not only
that, he would also have to marry Whitney immediately! But if he loved her
as much as Emily thought he did, then surely after they were married, he
would forgive her far deceiving him.

Whitney wrote the date on the note, then paused. What
sort of salutation was appropriate to use when addressing a man who never
wanted to hear from her again, but who was to be informed he was the father
of her forthcoming baby? "Dear Sir?" Hardly! "Your grace?" Ridiculous.
"Clayton?" Not under these circumstances. Whitney decided to omit the
salutation completely. She thought for another minute and then wrote: "To my
very great mortification, I find I am with child. Therefore, I ask that you
call upon me here at once." She signed it "Whitney," then reread it.

Her faced burned with shame. It was degrading and,
because it wasn't true, it was contemptible as well. It was also nearly
impossible for Clayton to have fathered a child in the incomplete act, but
Whitney was blissfully unaware of that.

She called Emily and, blushing to the roots of her hair,
she showed the note to her. "I-I'm not certain I could send it, even if it
were true," Whitney said with a shudder, shoving the hateful thing in a box
of unused stationery to prevent its discovery by a servant.

"Whitney," Emily said firmly, "send a note saying that
you wish to speak to him and would prefer to do it in the privacy of his
home, rather than in the busy confines of this one. Tell him that you will
come there tomorrow. It's as simple as that"

"It isn't 'as simple as that,'" Whitney argued, staring
apprehensively at the blank piece of notepaper. "Even if Clayton agrees to
see me, there's every chance he'll let me apologize and then send me away.
You can't imagine how awesome he is when he's angry."

"Then don't even try to see him. He'll marry Vanessa
Standfield, and if Michael and I are invited to the wedding, I'll tell you
all about it."

With that motivation, Whitney's quill fairly flew across
the paper, and the note was dispatched to Number 10 Upper Brook Street with
a footman who was instructed to learn from one Mr. Hudgins, the Duke of
Claymore's secretary, where the duke was and then to deliver the note to
that place.

The footman returned within the hour. The duke, he said,
had been away from home visiting Lord and Lady Standfield, however his grace
was returning to his estate at Claymore late this evening. Mr. Hudgins, who
was leaving to join him there, had taken the note and promised to give it to
the duke as soon as he saw him tonight.

In the note Whitney had told Clayton that if she didn't
hear from him by noon the next day, she would assume that he was willing to
see her at five o'clock in the afternoon. Now there was nothing for her to
do but wait out the torturous hours until noon tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-nine

AT PRECISELY ELEVEN O'CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, FOUR
elegant travelling chaises swept through the gates of Claymore. The first
was occupied by the Dowager Duchess of Claymore and her son Stephen. The
second by Stephen's valet and the duchess's personal maids. The remaining
two were filled to capacity with trunks of clothing and accessories which
the dowager duchess deemed absolutely essential for any extended
visit-particularly when one expected to meet one's new daughter-in-law,
i.e., the future mother of one's grandchildren.

"It's always been so lovely here," her grace sighed,
letting her gaze roam appreciatively over the vast estate's manicured lawns
and formal parks which paraded majestically on both sides of the curving,
paved road. Pulling her gaze from the familiar scenery, she gave her son a
penetrating look. "You're quite certain that your brother is bringing me a
daughter-in-law to meet tonight?"

Stephen grinned at her. "I can only tell you what I
know, darling. Clay's note said simply that Vanessa and he had remained an
extra night with her parents but that they would both join us here at
four-thirty this afternoon."

"He only referred to her as 'Vanessa'?" her ladyship
said. "Are you certain he meant Vanessa Standfield?"

Stephen sent her a wry look. "If the rumor mill is to be
believed, her name is now Westmoreland."

"I saw her years ago. She was a beautiful child."

"She's a beautiful woman," Stephen said with a roguish
grin. "Very blond, very blue eyes, very everything."

"Good. Then I will have beautiful grandchildren," the
duchess predicted happily, her thoughts ever reverting to that Glancing
sideways, she discovered her son frowning out the coach window. "Stephen, is
there something about her you don't like?"

Stephen shrugged. "Only that her eyes aren't green and
her name doesn't happen to be Whitney."

"Who? Oh, Stephen, that's ridiculous. What can you be
thinking of? Why the girl, whoever she was, made him positively miserable.
He's obviously forgotten all about her, and that's for the best."

"She's not that easy to forget," Stephen said with a
grim smile.

"What do you mean?" she demanded suspiciously. "Stephen,
have you met that girl?"

"No, but I saw her at a ball at the Kingsleys' a few
weeks ago. She was surrounded by London's 'most eligibles,' excluding Clay,
of course. When I heard her name was Whitney and saw those eyes of hers, I
knew who she was."

The duchess started to demand a description of the young
woman who had brought such torment to her eldest son, then dismissed the
idea with a shrug. "That's all over now. Clayton is bringing home his wife."

"I can't think he'd so easily forget someone who meant
so much to him. And I can't believe Clay is bringing home a wife. More
likely a fianc6e."

"I almost hope you're right. There'll be the very devil
to pay if Clayton married Miss Standfield so abruptly. The gossip will be
terrible."