Whitney, My Love (58 page)

"But not dictatorial and tyrannical," Whitney shot back.
"And I did not betroth myself to Paul at all!"

Angry silence reigned until Stephen laughingly said, "My
God, don't keep us in suspense. Then what happened?"

Clayton answered for her in a contemptuous drawl. "Since
there were another thousand eligible men in London, Miss Stone set about
seeing how many of those she could betroth herself to as well."

Whitney couldn't endure it when he used that tone of
voice. She bit her lip and meekly shook her head. "No, I was only ever
betrothed to one man, but he's so angry with me, he won't give me a chance
to explain. He's already withdrawn his offer."

"The beast!" Stephen said cheerfully, helping himself to
a second portion of duck a 1'orange. "He sounds like an evil-tempered sort.
You're probably much better off without him." "I-I have a rather formidable
temper myself," Whitney admitted.

"In that case, he's better off without you," Clayton
snapped, then his gaze swung on Stephen with deadly menace. "Stephen, I find
this conversation not only excessively boring, but in excruciatingly bad
taste. Am I making myself clear?"

Stephen met his brother's look with sham bewilderment
and nodded, but even he didn't dare to reopen the subject.

Servants moved about the room, and all five people at
the dining table studiously concentrated on the sumptuous fare on their
plates, but only Stephen ate with any enjoyment. Whitney told herself she
would try once more, just once more, to make Clayton leave the room with
her. Although how she was going to cope with him if she succeeded, was
beyond her imagination.

"Stephen asked you a question, Clayton," Vanessa
whispered.

"What?" Clayton demanded, staring at Stephen with
blazing animosity.

"I asked how your horses did at the last race."

"They did well," was the curt answer.

"How well?" Stephen persisted. Although he addressed the
table at large, the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was aimed
at Whitney as he explained. "We had a bet that three of Clayton's and two of
mine would come in the money. I know mine placed, and only two of his did,
which means he lost the bet, and he owes me �300." Stephen's conspiratorial
grin widened meaningfully at Whitney. "He doesn't care about the money, but
he hates to admit he lost. He's never learned to accept defeat."

Clayton laid down his knife and fork, preparing to give
Stephen the brutal setdown he'd earned hours before, but Whitney, taking
Stephen's cue, immediately drew off Clay-ton's fire. "How strange you should
say that," she said to Stephen, looking genuinely amazed. "I have found that
your brother accepts defeat without even putting up the slightest struggle.
Why, faced with the tiniest discouragement, he simply gives up and-"

Clayton's open hand slammed down on the table with a
crash that made the dishes dance. He surged to his feet, a muscle leaping
furiously along the taut line of his jaw. "Miss Stone and I have something
to say to each other which is best said in private." He gritted out the
words, flinging his napkin down on the table. Swiftly, he strode around the
table and jerked Whitney's chair back. "Get up!" he snapped in a tow,
terrible voice when Whitney remained frozen in her seat. His hand clamped
down painfully on her forearm and Whitney rose unsteadily.

The duchess looked at her in helpless dismay, but
Stephen lifted his glass to Whitney in a silent toast and grinned.

Forcibly pulling her beside him, Clayton strode
purposefully from the room and down the carpeted marble hallway. As they
passed the front door, he snapped at the butler, "Have Miss Stone's carriage
waiting in front in three minutes!" He turned down a side hall and nodded
curtly to a servant who opened the doors of a luxurious study for them.

Clayton hauled her halfway across the room, which was
lined with books recessed behind richly carved arches of polished oak, then
flung her arm away and stalked to the fireplace. Turning, he regarded her
with a look of undiluted loathing, white he visibly strove to bring his
rampaging temper under control. Suddenly his voice slashed through the
silence. "You have exactly two minutes to explain the purpose of this
unexpected and unwelcome visit of yours. At the end of that time, I will
escort you to your carriage and make your excuses for your absence to my
mother and brother."

Whitney drew a tortured breath, knowing that if he saw
her fear now he would use it against her. "The purpose of my visit?" she
said in a small, distracted voice, her mind frantically counting off the
passing seconds. "I-! would have thought by now it was obvious."

"It is not obvious!"

"I've come to-to explain why I said what I did to you at
the banquet. You see," she said, stammering in her haste to finish in the
minutes he'd allotted her, "earlier at the church, I thought we-you and
I-still had an agreement, and-"

Clayton's eyes raked contemptuously over her. "We have
no agreement," he said scathingly. "It's over. Done with. It should never
have begun! The betrothal was an insane idea, and I curse the day I thought
of it."

Sick with failure and defeat, Whitney dug her nails into
the flesh of her palms and shook her head in denial. "It never had a chance
to begin because I wouldn't let it.''

"Your two minutes are almost up."

"Clayton, please listen to me!" she cried desperately
"You-you told me a long time ago that you wanted me to come to you
willingly, that you didn't want a cold, unwilling wife."

"And?" he demanded furiously.

Whitney's voice shook. "And, I am here. Willingly."

Clayton stiffened, his whole body tensing into a rigid
line as her meaning pierced the armor of his wrath. He stared at her for a
moment, his jaw tight and hard, then he leaned back against the mantel and
closed his eyes.

He was fighting her, Whitney knew. Trying to shut her
out. In a paralysis of fear, she waited, watching him. It seemed an eternity
before he reluctantly straightened. His eyes nicked open, meeting hers, and
Whitney's heart gave a wild leap. She had won! She could see it in the
slight softening of his rugged features. Oh God, she had won!

He looked first at the long stretch of carpet separating
them, and then at her. When he spoke, the harsh edge of his voice was
tempered, but his words were low and meaningful. "I'll not make this any
easier for you," he told her evenly.

The distance between them stretched like a mile, and
Whitney knew that he meant she would have to make the trip across the room
to him if she wanted him, that he would not so much as meet her halfway . .
. because, even now, he didn't entirely trust her.

His eyes never left hers as Whitney started walking
toward him on legs that felt like water. A mere step away from him, she had
to pause to still the slamming of her heart and quaking of her knees. She
took the final step on legs that feit as if they were about to buckle
beneath her, and stopped so close to him that her breasts were only inches
from his gray jacket.

With her head bowed, she waited, but the seconds ticked
by, and Clayton made no move to touch her. Finally she lifted her head and
raised green eyes shining with surrender to his.

"Would you please," she whispered achingly, "hold me
now?"

Clayton started to reach for her and stopped . . . and
then he caught her arms and jerked her to Mm, crushing her against his chest
as his mouth came down hungrily on hers. With a smothered moan of joy,
Whitney returned his kiss, glorying in the feel of his lips locked fiercely
to hers.

Twining her arms around his neck, she pressed against
him, fitting her melting body to the hardening contours of his. A shudder
shook him as she leaned into him, and his hands tightened possessively on
her back and hips, molding her closer to him, sliding up her spine, then
lower, gathering her willing body into his. "God, how I've missed you!" he
whispered hoarsely against her lips, and he deepened the kiss. At the first
tentative touch of his tongue, Whitney's lips parted without further urging,
and Clayton groaned, clasping her tighter as his tongue plunged into her
sweet softness, searching with an almost desperate urgency, taking what she
was offering.

The exquisite feeling of her in his arms, the taste of
her lips dinging to his, the fullness of her breasts against his palms, was
unbearable joy to Clayton. He couldn't go on, and he was afraid to stop . .
. afraid that if he broke the contact, she would vanish, and the aching
desire racking him would become an aching emptiness instead.

When he finally tore his mouth from hers, he kept his
arms around her, resting his chin atop her shining head, waiting for his
breathing to even out. And Whitney stayed there-as if being in his arms were
the only place in the world she wished to be.

Drawing back slightly, Clayton looked down into the
limpid pools of her eyes and quietly asked, "Are you willing to marry me?"

Whitney nodded. She nodded, because she could not speak.

"Why?" he persisted evenly. "Why do you want to marry
me?" From the moment he had made her cross the room to him, rather than
meeting her halfway, Whitney had known Clay-ton was going to require an
unconditional surrender from her; she knew what he was demanding of her now.
Through joy and tears and relief constricting her breath, she found her
voice and softly said, "Because I love you."

His arms closed around her with stunning force. "God
help you if you don't mean it!" he warned fiercely, "because I'll never let
you go again."

Shamelessly yearning to be kissed, Whitney whispered, "I
shall be very happy to prove I do mean it." She saw his eyes darken with
passion as he bent his head to her, and she leaned up on her toes to prove
it. She kissed him with all the aching longing that being this close to him
evoked; she kissed him in all the ways he had ever kissed her, feeling faint
with joy when he began to kiss her back, his mouth moving with fierce
tenderness, then opening with fiery demand over hers, until their breaths
were mingled gasps, and they were straining to one another.

It was Clayton who broke the kiss and forced his hands
to stop their exploration, the pleasure-torture of caressing the cherished
curves and hollows of the slender, voluptuous body that had haunted his
dreams. But he kept her in his arms, tangling his hand in her heavy hair,
loving the familiar texture. of it. "Why did you make me wait so long?" he
breathed.

Leaning back, Whitney tipped her head in the direction
of the dining room where Vanessa was. "Why couldn't you have waited a little
longer?"

"Little one," he chuckled tenderly, "you are the only
female alive who would bring up Vanessa at a time like this."

Whitney's expression suddenly turned solemn, and Clayton
didn't see the smile that glowed in her eyes as she said, "I have a
confession-and it may make a difference in which of us you decide upon."

Clayton stiffened. "And that is?"

"I told your mother the truth about my talent at the
pianoforte."

With a laughing sigh of relief, Clayton drew her close.
"Can you sing any better?" he teased.

"No. I'm afraid not."

Although his tone was light, Whitney beard the huskiness
of desire that deepened his voice as he said, "In that case, I suppose you
will have to learn some other ways to please me." Beneath the thin fabric of
his shirt, his chest was warm and hard against her cheek. Whitney smiled as
she slid her hand upward and spread her fingers over his pounding heart.
"The last time we discussed my shortcomings in that area, you said yon
didn't have the time to instruct a tiresomely naive schoolgirl. But I
think-if you have the time-you will find that I'm an excellent student."

He was silent a long moment, then he said, "Perhaps I
should begin by teaching you * more suitable response than your last when I
tell you that I love you?"

Whitney nodded happily, but her voice suddenly filled
with tears. "If you'd care to try again, I'll show you that I've already
teamed that lesson."

Tipping her chin up, Clayton looked deeply into her eyes
and quietly said, "I love you, little one."

"I love you, too," Whitney whispered, shyly laying her
trembling hand against his smoothly shaven cheek and jaw. "I love you very
much."

He grinned. "Now that, my sweet, is a vast improvement."

She tried to smile back at him, but Clayton saw the
tears glistening in her eyes. Cradling her face between both his hands, be
gazed at her misty green eyes. "Why tears, darling?"

"Because," Whitney whispered brokenly, "until this
moment, I was certain you would never say that to me again."

With a groaning laugh, Clayton hugged her tightly to
him. "Oh, little one, I have loved you since the night we played chess at my
house and, after announcing that you would never call any man your 'lord,'
you called me a conniving, black-hearted scoundrel when I took the game from
you." He had loved her from the moment she had laughingly told him a story
about a girl who used to pepper her music teacher's snuffbox.

Stephen tapped lightly on the door, then stepped into
the study and closed the door behind him. He grinned wickedly at his
brother, who tightened his arms possessively around Whitney. "Excuse me,
brother dear, but your absence is making things increasingly uncomfortable
in the other room."

Clayton heard this with a frown of distaste. "Is dinner
over?"

"Long since," Stephen confirmed. "And Vanessa is
displaying a marked antagonism toward my charming efforts to enlighten her
on the proper care and feeding of racehorses."

"Stephen, your brother is in something of a dilemma."
Whitney smiled, turning sideways in Clayton's arms. "Let me think-how did he
phrase it? Oh yes. He has only two hands and he has offered them both."