Whitney, My Love (51 page)

Aunt Anne and Whitney's father were coming up to London
for Elizabeth's wedding-Elizabeth had surprised everyone by deciding she
wished to be married in all the splendor London could provide. As much as
she longed to see her beloved aunt, Whitney dreaded the confrontation. In
four days Aunt Anne would arrive, expecting to find Clayton and Whitney
acting like an unofficially engaged couple. Instead, Whitney was going to
tell her that she was never going to marry the Duke of Claymore. And Aunt
Anne would insist on knowing why.

Why? Whitney thought wildly, rehearsing the scene with
her aunt. "Because he dragged me away from Emily's party, he took me to his
house and he tore my clothes off, and he made me get into his bed."

Aunt Anne would be stunned and outraged, but she would
want to know what had happened before that. She would want to know why.
Whitney sank down onto a park bench, her shoulders drooping with confused
despair. Why had Clayton believed she had given herself to Paul? And why
hadn't he at least come to find out how she was faring? Or to tell her what
he was going to do?

Not once in the last four weeks had Whitney allowed
herself to think about that night, but now that she 'had started, she
couldn't stop. She tried to remember Clayton as the man who had coldly and
viciously ripped her clothes off. Instead she remembered him in that awful,
pain-blurred moment when he had discovered her virginity. She saw his tensed
shoulders above her, his head thrown back, his face a tortured mask of
anguish and regret.

She wanted to remember the names he had called her and
the insulting, degrading things he had said to her. Instead she remembered
that he had held her in his arms while she cried, stroking her hair and
whispering to her in a voice raw with emotion. "Don't cry, darling. Please
don't cry anymore."

An awful, stabbing ache grew and grew in Whitney's
throat, but now the pain she felt was for Clayton, not herself. When she
realized it, she jumped furiously to her feet. She must be mad, utterly mad!
She was actually feeling sorry for the man who had violated her! She never
wanted to lay eyes on him again. Ever!

She walked quickly back down the path, the gusty wind
blowing her cape around her like a tourniquet. As suddenly as it had come
up, the wind died and a squirrel scampered toward her, then stopped,
watching her half in fear, half in expectation. Whitney stopped too, waiting
for him to move, but he sat up and chattered reproachfully at her.

She saw the acorn lying beside her foot and bent down to
pick it up, offering it to him. The furry little animal blinked nervously,
but came no closer, so Whitney tossed it to him. "Better take it," she told
him softly, "it's going to be winter soon." The squirrel flicked its eyes to
the precious acorn now lying only inches from him. For a moment he
hesitated, then he turned, fleeing from it as quickly as his legs would
carry him.
     
!

Not once in the weeks since that fateful night had
Whitney broken her brave promise not to cry. She had succeeded, but she had
also stored up a terrible burden of emotion. A little squirrel who preferred
to starve rather than take something she had touched, was the last straw. "I
hope you starve!" she choked as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down
her cheeks. She pivoted on her heel and stalked down the path, past the park
gates.

Tears streamed down her face and the wind burned her
eyes, but she cried anyway. She cried until there were no more tears of
bitterness or hurt left to shed-and strangely her spirits began to lift. In
fact, by the time she reached the Archibald house, Whitney felt better than
she had since "it" had happened.

Lord Archibald was away that evening so Whitney and
Emily shared a cozy dinner in Whitney's room, and Whitney discovered she
could actually enjoy herself again.

"You look remarkably restored tonight," Emily teased
her, as she poured tea.

"I feel remarkably restored," Whitney said, smiling.

"Good," Emily replied. "Because there's something I want
to ask you."

"Ask away," Whitney said, sipping her tea.

"My mother wrote me that you're betrothed to Paul
Sevarin. Are you?"

"No-to Clayton Westmoreland," Whitney replied in quick
defense.

A priceless antique tea cup slid through Emily's fingers
and crashed to the floor. Her eyes widened, then grew wider still while a
slow smile dawned across her pretty features. "You aren't. . . jesting?" she
whispered.

Whitney shook her head.

"You're certain?"

"Very certain."

"I don't think I believe you," Emily said.

She looked so skeptical that Whitney's lips trembled
with laughter. "Would you care to bet your new sable cape that I'm not
betrothed to him?"

"Do you want it badly enough to Be?"

"Definitely. But I'm not lying."

"But how-when-did it happen?"

Whitney opened her mouth to explain, then changed her
mind. She desperately needed to talk to someone about it, but she was afraid
to begin. Today, for the first time in weeks, she had begun to feel alive
again; she didn't want to risk her fragile, newfound tranquillity. "No,
Emily," she said. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about it." She got
up nervously and Emily rose too, advancing on her with a determined, joyous
smile.

"Well, you're going to!" Emily laughed softly. "You are
going to tell me every single, tiny detail of this unbelievable romance if I
have to wring it out of you with my own two hands. Now begin at the
beginning."

Whitney started to refuse, but Emily looked so happy and
so determined, that it was useless. Besides, she suddenly wanted to talk
about it. She sat back down and Emily settled beside her. "I suppose it
actually began several years ago, before my come-out," Whitney started.
"Clayton said he saw me in a millinery shop with my aunt. The proprietress
was trying to convince me to purchase a hideous bonnet covered with
artificial fruit. . ."

At the end of the story Emily stared at her with a
combination of mirth and wonder. "Oh lord," she whispered. "It's too
delicious for words-and so romantic. Imagine, after spending all that money,
he came to England only to discover that you were infatuated with Paul." She
gulped down a giggle. "Michael was so worried that his grace would break
your heart, but I wasn't. I saw the way he looked at you when he came to
take you to the Rutherfords' ball, and I knew."

"You knew what?" Whitney asked.

"Why, that he is in love with you, silly!" Emily broke
off in bewilderment. "But he hasn't been here in weeks, and I know he's in
London because he's been seen at the opera and the theatre." She watched the
familiar haunted expression return to Whitney's face. "Whitney?" she
breathed. "What's wrong? You've looked like this ever since the night you
didn't come home. What happened that night to make you so unhappy?"

"I don't want to discuss it," Whitney said hoarsely.

Emily took Whitney's cold hands in hers. "You have to
talk about it, it's been tearing you apart. I'm not trying to pry; I already
know you didn't tell the truth. You see, I was standing at the window the
morning you returned, and I saw the gold crest on the coach that brought you
back. It was the duke's coach, wasn't it?"

"You know it was," Whitney said, her head bent with
shame.

"And I also know you left here with him-you said you
did, and Carlisle said you did too. Although," she added with a bemused
smile in her voice, "Carlisle was shockingly in his cups that night, and he
kept insisting that the Duke of Claymore had descended from nowhere and
forcibly dragged you off into the night. Of course, I didn't believe for a
minute-oh dear lord!" she burst out. "Is that what happened? Is it?" she
pleaded.

Whitney nodded.

"Where did he take you?" Emily demanded, her voice tight
with apprehension. "Did he take you to another party?"

"No."

"I will never forgive myself for laughing at Carlisle,"
she said, her hand tightening convulsively on Whitney's. "Whitney," she
whispered painfully, "where did he take you? What did he do to you?"

A pair of vulnerable green eyes lifted to Emily's, and
in them Emily saw the answer. "That monster!" she hissed, leaping to her
feet. "That blackguard, that devil! He ought to be hung! He-" Emily stopped,
obviously deciding that Whitney needed encouragement, not more fuel for her
hurt and anger. "We have to look on the bright side of this."

"What 'bright side'?" Whitney said tiredly.

"It may not seem like it, but there is one. Just
listen." Dropping to her knees, Emily took both Whitney's hands in her
reassuring grasp. "I don't know much about the law, but I do know that your
father can't force you to marry that. . . that monster! And after what he's
done, Claymore must know you will never willingly marry him. Therefore, he
has no choice but to release you from the betrothal agreement and forget
about the money he gave your father."

Whitney's head jerked up. For long moments, she stared
blankly at the wall across from her. Of course Clayton meant to release her.
That must be why he hadn't come to see her. He was going to withdraw his
offer. A strange, sick feeling swept over her at the thought. "No," she said
firmly. "He won't withdraw his offer. I know he won't. Oh Emily," she cried,
"do you truly think he'll just walk away and let me go?"

"Of course!" Emily promptly reassured. "What else can he
possibly-" Emily's eyes widened on Whitney's unhappy face. "Whitney?" she
gasped, slowly coming to her feet and staring down at her unhappy friend.
"You cannot possibly mean- My God! You don't want him to let you go," she
cried.

Whitney's gaze flew upward. "It's only that I never
considered that he might release me."

"You don't want him to!" Emily persisted in rising
tones. "It's written all over your face."

Whitney stood up too, nervously rubbing her palms
against the folds of her dress. She willed herself to say she hoped above
everything that Clayton Westmoreland would release her, but the words lodged
in her throat. "I don't know what I want," she admitted miserably.

Emily dismissed that with a wave of her hand, her
anxious eyes riveted on Whitney. "Has he sent word to you, or approached you
in any way since that night?"

"No! And he had better not!"

"And you have no intention of trying to see him?"

"Certainly not," Whitney declared heatedly.

"He can't possibly approach you. First he would need
some sign from you that you would at least listen to an apology. And you
won't-can't-give him that sign, can you?"

"I would the first!" Whitney announced proudly, and she
meant it.

"But if he cares for you at all, he will be filled with
remorse for what he did. He'll think that you must loathe him."

Whitney walked over to the bed and leaned her forehead
against the poster which supported the canopy. "He won't let me go, Emily,"
she said with more hope than regret in her voice. "I think he cares . ._.
cared . . . for me very much."

"Well!" Emily exploded. "He certainly has a peculiar way
of showing his regard."

"So do I," Whitney whispered. "I constantly defied him.
I would have shamed him in front of his friends by eloping with Paul. I
never stopped lying to him." She closed her eyes and turned her head away.
"If you don't mind," she said in a suffocated voice, "I'd like to go to bed
now."

Emily went to bed too, but after lying awake for hours,
she finally gave up trying to sleep. Propping up the pillows, she sat back,
watching Michael as he slept peacefully beside her. "Could I still love you
if you'd done that to me?" she whispered to his sleeping form. "Yes," she
answered, tenderly smoothing the hair at his temple. "I could forgive you
almost anything." But if Michael had done that, he would have an opportunity
to make amends. They were married, and no matter how battered or angry she
felt in spirit, they would still be forced to be in each other's company, in
order to keep up appearances. Before long, matters would inevitably come to
a head, and then the breach could be healed. But Whitney wasn't married to
Claymore. They were both avoiding each other, and they would continue to do
so. Whitney's pride and hurt would prevent her from making the first move,
and the duke would continue to believe that she hated him and wanted nothing
to do with him. Unless something brought them face to face-and soon-this
breach could never be healed.

Torn between interfering in a highly explosive
situation, or politely staying out of it, Emily pulled up her knees and
perched her chin on them. After several minutes' contemplation, she slowly
shoved the bedcovers aside. Trembling with guilt and uncertainty, she crept
out of bed. Downstairs she groped in the darkness for a tinder and lit a
candle, then she tiptoed into the yellow salon and put the candle on the
desk while she searched through the drawers for one of the unused wedding
invitations she'd helped Elizabeth address.

She slid into the chair and nibbled on the end of a
quill, trying to think of what she could say. It was imperative that the
duke not mistakenly believe she was acting on Whitney's instructions, for
there was every likelihood that when Whitney first saw him she would turn on
him in hurt outrage. The important thing was bringing them face to face and
leaving the rest to fate.

Hastily, before she lost her courage and changed her
mind, Emily wrote on the bottom of the invitation, "Someone we both care
very much for will be in attendance on the bride this day." She signed it
simply, "Emily Archibald."

A footman wearing vaguely familiar livery was shown into
Clayton's library on Upper Brook Street. "I have an invitation which my
mistress instructed be given directly to you, your grace," he explained.