Whitney, My Love (60 page)

"Would you like to see the estate?" he asked her as soon
as they finished breakfast.

"Very much," Whitney said happily.

It was one of those bright blue winter days when the sun
warmed whatever it touched. Together they strolled through vast formal
gardens with sleeping flower beds arranged in lavish geometric patterns,
their borders precise and manicured.

The gardeners and groundskeepers who were gathering
fallen twigs and heaping them onto a small fire took no apparent notice of
the couple strolling through the gardens. But when the young lady said
something that made the duke roar with laughter and snatch her into his arms
in a quick bear hug, several of them glanced up to stare in astonishment,
and then exchanged knowing grins before quietly continuing with their tasks.

At Clayton's side, Whitney wandered through the dappled
sunlight of the arbor, her mind picturing the splendor of spring, when the
trees would burst into bloom, strewing flowers along the wide winding paths,
blanketing the white ornamental iron benches in blossoms of pink and rose
and white.

They turned and walked along the perfectly tended banks
of an immense lake with a graceful pillared pavilion overlooking it from a
wide knoll on the opposite bank. Clayton took her hand and they walked
around the lake toward the pavilion. It was, Whitney thought in a daze of
happiness, sheer bliss to have her hand firmly clasped in Clayton's strong,
warm one; to be with him in quiet, joyous peace, without the barriers she
had always kept between them. She gazed at the bright blue sky where fluffy
white clouds slowly drifted past, and decided it was a halcyon day-the
happiest day of her life.

The view of the lake and surrounding grounds from the
higher pavilion was glorious. Whitney leaned her shoulders against one of
the white pillars, breathing in the splendor of it. She knew perfectly well
that Clayton had guided her here because, inside, the pavilion would offer
some scant privacy, but she stood there anyway, delightfully prolonging the
moment when they would step inside and he would take her in his arms . . .

Unexpectedly he stepped in front of her, blocking her
view as he braced a hand on either side of her shoulders. Laughter lurked in
his gaze as his mouth slowly descended to hers. "Have it your own way," he
said huskily, his tone amused. "I'm not shy, so it matters not in the least
to me if I kiss you out here or in there."

When at last he lifted his mouth from hers, Whitney was
shaky with awakened desire. "Clayton," she whispered.

"I-"

He interrupted her in a deep, quiet voice. "I love to
hear you say my name. It makes me want to take you in my arms, to have your
sweet tongue in my mouth, to caress your breasts and feel your nipples rise
up proudly against my hand."

Whitney drew an unsteady breath and dropped her eyes,
but not before Clayton glimpsed the fires kindling in their jade depths and
the warm peach tint creeping up her soft cheeks. He smiled to himself. She
might be afraid of his making love to her now, but she was still a warm,
passionate creature, and she would soon dismiss her fears. He glanced over
her shoulder into the pavilion. He wanted to hold her and leisurely kiss
that stirringly provocative mouth, but not here, where he knew they could be
seen. Idly, he let his gaze wander over the landscape, a little irritated by
the lack of privacy available to him, then he saw the wooded ridge off in
the distance to the west. That ridge would offer both privacy and a view.

"The home woods?" Whitney asked, following his gaze.

Clayton grinned at her. "Part of them. The view is
supposed to be the best for miles. We'll ride up there in a bit." But not
entirely for the view, he added silently. Turning, he leaned against the
pavilion wall, pleasuring himself with the view of her vivid profile. With
her glossy tresses caught at the nape in a wide velvet bow, she reminded
Clayton of a little girl who ought to be wearing white stockings and a
ruffled dress, sitting on a swing, while the boys argued over the honor of
pushing her. But here the image ended, for there was nothing childish about
the lush, tantalizing curves displayed to such advantage by her amber riding
habit.

Reluctantly, Clayton turned his attention toward a less
pleasant direction. "There are some things between us that need to be
settled, and I would sooner do that now, so that the past can be buried and
forgotten."

Whitney turned her head away, and he added quietly, "I
think you already know what I want to ask-"

Whitney knew he wanted an explanation for her actions
the day of Elizabeth's wedding, and she nodded, drawing a long breath. "You
see, when I saw you at the church, I thought we were still betrothed, and I
had no idea that you'd received an invitation to the wedding. I thought
you'd come there to try to see me ..." She told him the whole story, simply,
without trying to hide the hurt and anger she'd felt toward him.

Clayton listened without interrupting. When she was
finished, he asked, "What made you decide to come here last night, after
hating me as you have for all these weeks?"

"Emily made me realize that I was misjudging you."

"What," Clayton said on a note of alarm, "does Emily
Archibald know about us?"

In a small voice, Whitney admitted, "Everything." She
saw him flinch and hesitantly said, "Now may I ask you something?"

"Anything," Clayton said gravely.

"Anything," Whitney teased, "within your power, and
within reason?"

"Anything!" he declared firmly, but with a grin.

"Why did you do that awful thing to me? What made you
think I had-had given myself to Paul?"

With self-disgust filling his voice, Clayton answered
her question.

"But how could you have believed Margaret, knowing how
much she hates me?" Whitney gave him a hurt, accusing look, realized that
she was only adding more pain to his memory of that night, and quickly
pressed a kiss on his mouth. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters," Clayton said harshly. "But some day, I'D
make it up to you." A smile softened his voice. "Let's see if you can handle
my favorite mare-we'll race up to that ridge."

The view from the top of the ridge was spectacular.
While

Clayton tied their horses, Whitney stood, gazing out
across the wooded valleys, trying to imagine how they would look in the lush
greens of summer or the vibrant red-gold of autumn.

"There is more to be enjoyed here than the view, my
lady," a husky, laughing voice announced from behind her. "Come here, and
I'll show you."

Whitney turned around and discovered Clayton sitting
with one knee drawn up, his shoulders propped against a tree trunk behind
him. She saw the warm sensuality in his gray eyes, and she felt a small
tremor of dread. She wanted very much to be in his arms, to be kissed and
held, but she suspected Clayton had more than that in mind. Because he had
already lam with her, he might feel that marriage was no longer a necessary
prerequisite for the two of them. Whitney not only felt that marriage was
still a prerequisite to the sexual act, she wished she could avoid the
sexual intimacy forever. She couldn't, of course, but she had eight weeks
before she would be obliged, as his wife, to endure that painful,
embarrassing act, and she wanted this eight-week reprieve. Reluctant to tell
Clayton that unless it was absolutely necessary, she turned back to the
valleys below and tried to divert him from thoughts of lovemaking. "The view
is breathtaking," she rhapsodized. "Could we ride down there?"

"We could," he said agreeably, then he added, "another
day."

"Why don't we do it now?" Whitney suggested with
pleading determination.

"Because I want to kiss you," he replied simply.

Whitney spun around in relieved disbelief. "You only
want to kiss me? I mean you won't try to-to-"

"Oh darling, come here," Clayton laughed softly, noting
her flaring color. "That's all I want to do." That's all I'm going to do, he
amended silently.

With a sigh of joyous relief, Whitney went to him. She
started to sit down beside him, but Clayton caught her arms and drew her
down onto his lap. "The view will be better if you're up higher," he teased.

Sliding his arms around her, he moved her tighter
against him. Without urging she turned her face up for his kiss. Clayton
brushed his lips against her temple; he kissed her smooth forehead and her
cheek. He closed her eyes with his lips, avoiding her mouth lest he frighten
her with his ardor, but he drew back in surprise at her muffled laugh.

"Unless your aim improves, my lord duke," she warned,
her eyes aglow with laughter, "I shall be forced to buy you a quizzing glass
after all."

"You will, will you?" Clayton growled huskily as his
mouth crushed down on hers. He felt her hands glide up his chest and go
around his neck, and his heart began to hammer. As her lips parted beneath
his, desire began to heat his blood, and when her tongue crept timidly into
his mouth, a jolt slammed through Clayton's entire nervous system, exploding
his control. He kissed her deeply, his mouth moving with half-fierce,
half-gentle urgency, and she moaned, kissing him back with desire and
passion exquisite on her lips. He tormented her with his tongue, retreating,
then thrusting deep until she instinctively responded in the way he wanted.

His hand moved of its own accord, opening her jacket to
cup her breasts, his thumb circling her hardened nipples. Under her silken
shirt, her thrusting breasts came to life in his hand, thrilling and warning
him at the same time. Her soft moan of pleasure raced through him, throbbing
in his ears. He forced his hand away, only to have it slide downward,
lightly grazing her flat stomach, then her shapely thigh, instinctively
seeking the place where, without the barrier of her skirts, he could part
her silken thighs and gently, tenderly, tease his beautiful trembling girl
until she was melting with desire for him, wanting him as badly as he wanted
her. His mouth began to plunder hers more urgently, more hungrily now, and
he started to reach for the hem of her skirt.

With the last vestige of control he possessed, Clayton
tore his mouth away from hers, and firmly pulled her arms down from around
his neck. His breathing was hard and fast, his blood was roaring in his
ears, and a fire was raging wildly through his veins. He moved Whitney up
against his chest, off his lap, to avoid shocking or frightening her with
the rigid evidence of his desire, and he looked down at her, still desperate
to join his body with hers. He wanted to pour his life into her, to be able
to look at her across a room and know that his seed was deep inside of her,
to see her slender body swell with his child . . .

Clayton drew a long breath and slowly expelled it.
Whitney was watching him, her beautiful upturned face mirroring puzzlement
and concern. He grinned at her, feeling slightly betrayed by his own body's
uncontrollable reaction to her. "Little one," he explained ruefully, "unless
it is your wish to see me driven to madness, I'm afraid we can't do very
much of this."

Whitney's eyes widened with bewilderment, then grew huge
with understanding. She lurched into an erect sitting position, starting to
pull away from him, but Clayton drew her back against his chest. "No," he
said quietly, "stay in my arms a while longer. I just want to hold you." And
she did.

"Is this ridge the boundary of your property?" Whitney
asked later, as they walked toward their tethered horses.

Clayton looked a little stung. "No, the boundaries are
farther away."

"How much land do you have?" Whitney asked, wondering at
his odd, faintly wounded expression.

"About one hundred twelve thousand acres."

She gasped.

Her obvious shock reminded Clayton of something else,
and he stopped abruptly, regarding her with laughter glinting in his eyes.
"While I think of it, I've been meaning to ask you if you find my house
'dingy'?"

Whitney gave him a plucky smile. "I said 'dismal.'
'Dingy' was your word. And it is splendid-just like you."

To a man who had waited for months just to hear her call
him by his given name, being told in the same morning that he was
"beautiful" and "splendid" was unequivocally reason for another long,
stirring kiss.

Standing at the wide bow windows overlooking the
side-lawns, the duchess and Stephen watched Whitney and Clay-ton walking
hand in hand toward the house. "They are splendid together, aren't they,"
her grace happily observed.

"Yes, sweetheart," Stephen chuckled knowingly. "And you
will have half a dozen splendid grandchildren. And in none too long a tune,
I'll wager," he added with a bald grin.

"Stephen, that is too bad of you!"

"Can't imagine why. I think it's rather wonderful."

His mother shot him an exasperated look that dwindled
into laughter when she met his contagious grin. "What I meant, you wretched
boy, is that she is a marvellous girl, and she makes your brother happier
than I have ever seen him."

"She does indeed." Stephen looked out the window and saw
Whitney, who had been walking beside Clayton, suddenly draw back laughing.
She spoke rapidly to him, then turned and fled. In two long strides, Clayton
caught her at the waist, flung her over his shoulder as if she were a sack
of flour, and continued striding toward the house. Whitney struggled and
pushed against him until he finally put her down, whereupon she walked
sedately beside him with her hands clasped demurely behind her back.

"I believe that settled that!" the duchess laughed.

"Don't count on it," Stephen chuckled. Even as he spoke,
Whitney began moving ahead of Clayton, a good four or five paces this time,
then she turned, taking little backward skipping steps. She shook her head,
laughing at whatever Clayton told her, then she pivoted on her heel and fled
out of their line of vision. Instead of chasing her this time, Clayton
leaned a shoulder against a tree, crossed his arms over his chest, and
called something after her. Whitney was back in a flash, flinging her arms
around him.