Whitney, My Love (37 page)

"Tell me how much you hate my touch," he ordered
furiously. Pulling his mouth from hers, he stared down at her with biting
gray eyes. "You despise my touch," he hissed. "Say it now, or don't ever,
ever say it to me again."

Whitney's chest tightened around an aching lump of
poignant contrition and shattering tenderness. She swallowed painfully,
tears filling her eyes. "I-I can't."

"You can't tell me you despise my touch?" he jeered in a
silky, ominous voice. "Why can't you?"

"Because," she whispered, attempting a trembly smile,
"you warned me not five minutes ago, never to lie to you again." Whitney
watched his features harden into a mask of cynical incredulity and, before
he could say anything else to hurt them both, she leaned up to silence his
retort with her lips.

Swearing savagely, he grabbed her arms and started to
pull them down from around his neck. "Clayton, don't!" she cried out
brokenly, locking her fingers tightly behind his nape. "Oh please, please
don't!" Tears slipped down her cheeks as she ignored his painful grip on her
arms and kissed this angry, unyielding man, this powerful, dynamic man, who
had endured her hostility and outbursts with patience and humor . . . until
now, when she had hurt him.

His hands went to her waist to shove her away, but
Whitney pressed closer. Timidly, she touched her tongue to his tips, hoping
he would like it if she kissed him that way. He went rigid. Every muscle in
his body drew taut, hardening against her. Her tongue slid between his
barely parted lips, encountered his, recoiled in wild alarm-and then crept
back for one more sweet, forbidden touch. And her world exploded with the
violence of his response. His arms went around her, crushing her to him as
his mouth opened over hers, slanting fiercely back and forth. His tongue
plunged boldly into her mouth, probing, as if to verify its welcome there.

Dazed with passion and longing, Whitney gloried in the
wild excitement of his mouth moving with hungry urgency against hers. She
kissed him back while his hands shifted possessively across her back and
down her spine, then lower to cup her buttocks, molding her closer against
his hard legs and thighs, forging their two bodies into one.

An eternity later, he lifted his mouth from hers and
cradled her face between his hands, his thumbs gentry stroking her flushed
cheeks. Tenderness and desire smoldered in his gray eyes as he gazed down
into her languorous green ones. "You beautiful, infuriating, wonderful
little fool," he whispered thickly, and then he slowly buried his lips in
hers again, deepening the kiss until flames were shooting through Whitney's
veins and she was straining to be closer to him. His hands cupped and
caressed her breasts, branding them with his touch, then stroking downward,
fitting her hips against his rigid thighs.

Without warning, it was over. He tore his mouth from
hers and kissed her eyes and forehead, then rested his jaw against her head.
Whitney stirred and his arms tightened around her. "Don't move, little one,"
he whispered. "Stay close to me a while longer." Leaves rustled in the
breeze and birds fluttered overhead, while loneliness and despair began
invading the bliss of the moment. Longing to feel his lips covering hers
again, to have him drive away this aching sadness creeping over her, Whitney
leaned her head back, her gaze lingering on his firmly molded lips.

Automatically, Clayton bent his head to accept her shy
invitation, but an instant before his mouth touched hers, he checked
himself. "No," he said with a throaty chuckle.

Bewildered by his refusal to kiss her when he obviously
wanted to, Whitney looked at him, her wide, questioning eyes shadowed with
hurt confusion.

"If you continue to look at me like that," he teased
huskily, "you're going to find yourself being thoroughly kissed once more.
And if that happens, there's ah excellent chance that I'll not be able to
keep my promise."

"Why?" Whitney whispered, still shamelessly yearning for
his kiss.

"Why?" he repeated, his mouth hovering so near hers that
their breaths were mingling. "I'll be happy to show you why . . ." he
offered in a lusty whisper.

Reason at last returned, cooling her ardor and restoring
her sense. She shook her head. "No, for it would only make our parting more
difficult." With a weak smile, she stepped back and away from him. "Goodbye,
your grace," she whispered, gravely offering him her hand. Her heart gave a
lurch when he took it and turned it palm up.

"So formal?" he grinned, rubbing his thumb over her
palm, then boldly raising it to his lips and touching his tongue to the
sensitive center.

Whitney snatched it away, tucking her tingling hand
safely behind her back. For a long moment, she simply gazed at him,
unconsciously memorizing his face, then she said, "I'm sorry, truly sorry
that I've put you to so much trouble."

Clayton's eyes glinted wickedly. "I hope you'll feel
free to trouble' me like that whenever you like."

"You know that's not what I mean." There were things she
wanted to say to him, nice things, and things she wanted to explain, but how
could she be serious when he was treating their parting so lightly? Perhaps
he wanted no explanations, no apologies; perhaps this was the best way to
say goodbye. Even so, her voice shook as she said, "I shall miss you, I
really will." Before she crumbled in front of him, which she was positive
she would do if he continued to look at her with gentle understanding, she
picked up her skirts and stepped away, intending to leave him there at the
pavilion. Two steps further away, she turned and said hesitantly over her
shoulder. "About my father-"

Why she should feel any guilt or responsibility for her
harsh sire was a mystery, yet she did. "I hope you won't deal harshly with
him. If you'll just be patient, I'm certain he'll eventually be able to
repay you."

Clayton's dark brows drew together into a mild frown.
"Considering that he has given me his daughter to wed, I count myself fully
repaid."

A feeling of impending disaster seemed to crackle in the
air. "But all of that has changed now that you've agreed to let me go."

Clayton closed the distance between them, grasping her
by the shoulders and turning her around to face him. "What in the holy hell
are you talking about?"

"You agreed to let me go and-"

"I agreed to let you go home," he stated emphatically.

"No!" Whitney cried, shaking her head. "You agreed to
let me go-to give up the idea of marrying me."

"You can't believe that," Clayton said shortly. "I meant
nothing of the kind."

A crushing weight settled in Whitney's chest. She should
have known he would never give in. She stared at him in desperation . . .
while something strangely like relief tingled through her. There was no
chance for her to examine this odd feeling, however, for his arms went
around her, pulling her close to him.

"Never, not even in my weakest moment, have I considered
letting you go, Whitney. And if I had," he added, bluntly reminding her of
her passionate response to him minutes ago, "do you think that after what
has just passed between us, I would ever consider it again?" Clayton tipped
her chin up, forcing her rebellious gaze to meet his implacable one. "You
asked me for time, and I gave it to you. Use it to face the inevitability of
our marriage, because I assure you that the marriage is going to take place.
If you want to convince yourself that I deceived you a while ago, then do
it, but I'll not honor a promise I didn't make."

His flat conviction that she had no choice except to
marry him, to yield her body and her life to him, was more than Whitney
could bear right now. "Then honor the promise you did make. Let me go home."
Jerking away from him, she walked blindly toward the driveway, her emotions
in turmoil.

Clayton caught up with her, snapped an order to the
footman, and helped her into the carriage. Whitney looked

down at him, her voice deadly calm. "Has it ever
occurred to you that you cannot make me marry you? You can drag me by the
hah- to the altar, yet all I have to do is refuse to say my vows. It's as
simple as that."

His brows rose. "If those are the thoughts you've been
entertaining during this time you asked me for, then there's nothing to be
gained by waiting any longer, is there?" He glanced over his shoulder as if
he were looking for someone, then turned to start toward the house.

"Where are you going?" Whitney demanded sharply, alarmed
by the sudden, purposeful vitality in his movements and the determined set
of his jaw.

"I am about to order my valet to pack my bags for a
lengthy trip. After which, I will have the travelling chaise brought round
and horses put to. We," he stated coolly, turning around to face her, "are
going to Scotland. We're eloping."

"Eloping!" Whitney cried, clutching the side of the
carriage. "You-you wouldn't dare! The tongues would never cease wagging, the
gossips would-"

Clayton shrugged indifferently. "As you should have
gathered by now, gossip doesn't matter to me. Since it does matter to you, I
suggest you consider your choices: Once we're in Scotland, you can either
marry me or you can refuse to say your vows. If you refuse to say them, we
will return unwed from an absence together of several days and nights which
will cause a scandal you will never live down. Your last choice is to have a
proper wedding in London as a duchess. Now, which is it going to be?"

What choice was there? Whitney thought bitterly. An
elopement was scandalous enough, but if she returned with him from Scotland
unwed, mothers would drag their daughters to the other side of the street
when she passed, to avoid the contamination of a soiled female, and Paul
would despise her. "A wedding!" Whitney hissed angrily, flopping back
against the velvet seat. There was one other choice open to her, she
reminded herself: She could elope with Paul. Her mind quailed at the thought
of an elopement, with all the attendant censure and disgrace. Once again,
she would be an outcast from the village society, the recipient of open
snubs and scathing criticism. But at least she would have the compensation
of being Paul's wife.

"Whitney," Clayton said, looking at her as if he would
like to shake her, "for once in your life, forget this obsession with
Sevarin, and try to face what is really in your heart. If you weren't so
damned stubborn, you'd have done it weeks ago!"

The coachman came dashing around the side of the house,
and Whitney bit back her angry retort, but Clayton's words nagged at her all
the way home. Staring dismally at the coachman's stiff back, she struggled
to sort out her jumbled emotions, not because Clayton had accused her of
refusing to face what was in her heart, but because she truly couldn't
understand herself anymore.

How could she respond so wantonly to Clayton's caresses
while planning, yearning to marry Paul? Why had she been so shattered a few
minutes ago when she realized she had hurt Clayton? Why had she felt so
desolate when she believed she was saying goodbye to him forever? Was it
because a grudging friendship had grown between them, nourished by the
banter and raillery they always indulged in?

Friendship? she thought bitterly. Clayton was no friend
of hers; he cared nothing about her. He cared only about himself and what he
wanted, and for some obscure reason known only to himself, be happened to
want her. He refused to believe she loved Paul because it didn't suit him to
believe it. Paul was meant to be her husband; that place in her heart, in
her life, had long ago been set aside for him and only him.

Paul. Her conscience took over, tormenting her for her
disloyalty to Paul, her scandalous, unprincipled behavior in his absence.
Mentally, she cringed, thinking of the way she had let Clayton caress her,
kiss her. Let him! she thought with self-loathing, she had kissed him. She
had wanted to be in his arms; she had trembled with desire when his mouth
had opened over hers.

It seemed to Whitney as she lay in bed that night,
staring at the canopy above her, that she had never been so miserable.
Tormented with guilt, she thought of the plans Paul had discussed with her
during the days following his proposal. He was going to restore the master
suite in the west wing of his house because it was nearer the nursery. She
had blushed petal pink when he mentioned children, but she had joyously made
plans right along with him.

And now she had betrayed him. She had taken his love and
defiled it in Clayton Westmoreland's arms. She was unworthy of Paul. Dear
God! she was unworthy of Clayton Westmoreland, too. Wasn't she, even now,
after returning his kisses, planning to marry another man?

Dawn had lightened the sky when she arrived at a final,
irrevocable decision. Since Clayton would never willingly give her up, she
would elope with Paul the day he returned. Paul loved her, and he trusted
her; he was counting on her. The shame of an elopement would be her penance
for her lustful, wicked behavior in Paul's absence. Someday, somehow, she
would again be worthy of his love and trust. She would earn it by being the
most devoted, obedient, faithful wife on earth.

Now that she had resolved on a course of action, she
should have felt much better, but when she awoke late the next morning, she
felt positively wretched.

Massaging her temples with both hands, Whitney swung her
feet onto the floor and cautiously edged to the small washstand, her head
pounding with every step she took. Squinting from the pain, she poured
herself a glass of cool water and rang for Clarissa to help her dress.

Pate and distant, she slid into her chair at the
breakfast table, managed a wan smile for Aunt Anne and flatly ignored her
father. Unfortunately, her father refused to be ignored any longer. "Well,
Miss," he demanded in a curt, authoritative tone, "have you and his grace
set the date yet?"