Whitney, My Love (69 page)

Clayton put his hands on her arms, not gently but not
roughly either, and moved her away from him. She was sobbing, he thought
with an unwanted pang of guilt. He dropped his hands, and Whitney slowly
raised her head. She wasn't weeping-she was laughing! She was laughing
hysterically. She was still laughing when she hit him full across the side
of the face with a crashing blow that snapped his head around, and then she
ran inside.

Slowly, thoughtfully, Clayton followed her into the
house. He went into his study, closed the doors behind him, and poured
himself a liberal drink. He now knew two things for certain: Whitney had a
powerful right arm. And the baby was his.

Whatever else she had lied about-the reason for her
coming to him here, the reason she had married him- whatever else, her look
of contemptuous scorn when he asked if the child was his-that look had been
real. She had not lain with her lover on her trips to London. No human being
alive who was guilty could have fabricated that look of stunned horror or
shocked outrage. She had not betrayed him since they were married. Whatever
else she had done, she had not done that. The child was his. Clayton knew it
as surely as he knew she had come to him here seven months ago because she
thought she needed a father for someone else's child. His wrath went from a
roiling boil to a steady sunnier.

Unfortunately, Whitney's did the opposite. Of all the
vile, vulgar, contemptible ... He was insane! Insane! And she would be too,
if she stayed with him. For, even when he had called her terrible things a
few minutes ago and hurt her arm with his punishing grip, she had felt joy
in being pressed tightly to his heart again. Even then, she had wanted his
arms to go around her. If she stayed, she would go mad.

Whitney tried to ignore the stab of anguish that came
with knowing she had to leave him, while she tried to think of a place she
could go. Her father wasn't strong-willed enough to shelter her from her
husband if Clayton chose to demand her return to Claymore. Aunt Anne and
Uncle Edward would help her. She would write to them and ask if she could
come to France for a visit. When she was there, she would explain. She
didn't know if Clayton's awesome power could touch her in France, or if he
would retaliate by using his influence in England to damage her uncle's
diplomatic career.

All she could do was explain to her Uncle Edward and let
him decide.

Whitney sank down into the chair at her writing desk,
pulled open the drawer and, as she reached for a sheet of blue stationery,
she saw the crumpled ball of blue paper on top of the neat stack. Without
much curiosity she turned it in her fingers, saw that it had writing on it,
and smoothed it out to see if it was something she had kept because she
might need it.

"To my very great mortification . . ." Blankly she
remembered having secreted the unsent note among her unused stationery when
she had been at Emily's because she didn't want a servant to find it. But
now it was crumpled up and on top of the stack. Someone had found it, but
only Mary and Clarissa served her at Claymore, and they would never search
through her desk.

It was humiliating to think of someone reading that
note, and she tried to imagine who could have been in her desk. Two days
ago, when she had joyously tucked the little infant gown in the drawer for
Clayton to find, the drawer had been neat and no one, other than Clayton,
had been . . . Oh, my God!

Whitney half rose from her chair-she had sent Clayton to
her desk and asked him to find her aunt's letter. "And you found this," she
breathed aloud, as if he were in the room. "Dear God, you found this." Her
hands were shaking and her mind was reeling as she tried to concentrate on
what Clayton might have made of what he had read. She forced herself to look
at the note as if she had found it, instead of written it. The date. They
had promised to celebrate, each year, the date she had come to Claymore, and
the note was dated just one day before that. Reading this, Clayton would
wonder if-no, believe-she had come to him that night because she thought she
was pregnant! That would hurt him deeply, because he had told her once that
nothing she could ever do would mean more to him than the way she had come
to him that night because she loved him and wanted him to know it.

Very well, then the next thing she would wonder about,
if she had found the note, was whom it was meant for. Getting up with the
note still in her hand, Whitney began to pace agitatedly back and forth.
Based on Clayton's reaction, he must have thought the note bad been meant
for someone else. All right-but he knew he had taken her virginity that
terrible night and she could have been carrying his child as a result of
that. How dare he be so angry merely because she might have turned to
someone else for help or advice! Well, why shouldn't she have done so-after
all, when that note was written they weren't even on civil terms with each
other. Why, she could have been writing to her father or her aunt or anyone!
But judging from the violence of Clayton's reaction, he obviously thought
not.

He was torturing her this way because he was hurt. And
because he was angry that she might have turned to another ... another man
... for help. He was hurt. And jealous.

"You fool!" Whitney hissed into the empty room. She was
so relieved and so happy that she could have flung her arms out and twirled
around. It wasn't because Clayton didn't want their baby! Yet weak with
relief though she was, she could also cheerfully have killed him!

He had done it again! Just what he had done the awful
night he had dragged her here. He had accused her of something in his mind,
tried and convicted and sentenced her, without ever telling her what crime
she was accused of committing. Without ever giving her an opportunity to
explain! And now-and now-he actually believed he could just set her aside,
move to another wing of the house and pretend that their marriage was as
dead as if it had never existed.

Whitney was shaking with relief and quaking with
determination. This was the last, the last time his temper was going to
explode against her before she was given some explanation for the reason
first!

And if Clayton thought for one moment that he could love
her as deeply as Whitney knew he did, yet turn his back on her and coldly
walk away, well, he was now going to learn differently. How could he be so
wise, so intelligent, and actually think he could set her aside in anger, no
matter what she did-or what he thought she did?

Somehow, some way, she was going to make him explain why
he was acting this way. Whitney didn't care how it came about or how he did
it. He could hurl the accusations in her face, for all she cared. In fact,
she thought with a sad smile, that was undoubtedly how it would happen,
because she was not going to plead with him to explain; she had tried that
already and it did no good. Which left her with no choice but to force his
hand, to make him angry enough or jealous enough to lose control completely
and confront her with what he thought she'd done.

And when he did, she would coldly explain about the
note. She would make him grovel at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. A
brilliant smile dawned across her features. Oh rubbish! She would never be
able to do that. She would explain as quickly as she could and then fling
herself against his hard chest and feel faint with joy and longing when his
strong arms went around her.

But for now, she had to make herself be anything but
meek or sad. She would be charming and gay until Clayton missed what they
had together so badly that he couldn't stand it. She would goad and needle
him gently at first, and only if that didn't work would she force his hand
by making him truly angry.

The Clifftons were having a huge affair tonight. Whitney
couldn't be sure whether Clayton still meant to go. But she did.

She dressed with great care in an emerald-green gown she
had ordered in Paris on their wedding trip. It was the most revealing gown
she had ever worn and she smiled to herself as she put on the emerald and
diamond necklace and matching bracelet and ear drops. "How do I look?"
Whitney asked Clarissa, twirling around.

"Bare as the day you were born," Clarissa decreed with a
censorious state at Whitney's bodice.

"It's a little less than I normally wear," Whitney
agreed with a faint twinkle in her eyes, "but I don't quite think my husband
will want me going anywhere without him in this gown, do you?"

In a rustle of emerald silk, Whitney swept into the
drawing room. Clayton was pouring himself a drink at the sideboard, his
tall, athletic frame resplendent in midnight-blue jacket and trousers. In
contrast to the deep blue superfine, his shirt and neckcloth were dazzling
white. He looked unbearably handsome. He also looked utterly furious as his
insolent gaze swung over the shimmering green gown and froze on the daring
display of tantalizing flesh swelling above her bodice.

"Where," he asked in a low, ominous voice, "do you think
you are going?"

"Think I am going?" Whitney repeated, managing to look
extremely innocent, despite the seductive allure of her gown. "We promised
to go to the Clifftons' tonight. I would love a glass of wine, if you
wouldn't mind," she added with a languorous smile.

Clayton jerked a bottle of wine from the rack built into
the cabinet. "That's too damned bad, because we aren't going to the
Clifftons'."

"Oh?" Whitney said as she crossed to bun to take her
glass. 'That's a shame, for you will miss a splendid party. I have always
thought the Clifftons' parties are the most delightful of any in..."

Clayton turned slowly and perched a hip on the cabinet
beside him, one leg swinging idly, his weight braced against the other foot.
"I am not going to the Clifftons'," he told her icily. "And you are not
going out tonight at all. Is that clear enough, Whitney?"

"The words are quite clear," Whitney told him. She
turned, carrying her glass, and swept regally off to the dining room,
trailing emerald silk in her wake. She was crushed. Clayton wasn't going to
take her to the Clifftons', and he wouldn't let her go alone.

In the candlelit dining room their meal progressed in
stiff silence. Whitney watched him surreptitiously throughout the meal. It
was nearly over when her gaze fell on his hand. It was devoid of the ruby
ring she'd given him on their wedding night Her heart constricted as she
stared at the light mark across his finger; from the moment she had placed
the ring on his hand on their wedding night, he had never taken it off.

She looked up and found bun observing her pained
reaction with a smile of cynical amusement. And as hurt as she was, Whitney
was even angrier. She was going to that party, she decided with a determined
lift of her chin. If she had to walk, she was going without him.

Before dessert was brought in, Whitney stood up and
said, "I am going to my room. Good night." She was going to her room because
she didn't want to alert him to the fact that she was also going to the
party, and risk having Clayton forbid their drivers to take her anywhere.

It was well past one o'clock in the morning, but in the
exclusive gentlemen's gaming club to which Clayton belonged, tune was never
of much importance. He was relaxing in his chair, not paying much attention
to the discussions going on around him, or, for that matter, to the cards he
held.

No matter how much he drank tonight, or how hard he
tried, he couldn't concentrate on the game or the hearty masculine
conversation of his friends and acquaintances. He had married a witch who
had gotten under his skin like a thorn. It hurt unbearably to have her there
and it hurt to pull her out. His mind kept riveting itself on the way
Whitney had looked tonight in that goddamned green gown with her charms
displayed in such gorgeous wantonness. His hands had actually ached for the
feel of that petal-soft skin against his palms, and his lust had been almost
past bearing. Lust, not love. He wouldn't call it love anymore. All he felt
for Whitney was an occasional pang of desire. More than an occasional pang.

How dare she even consider going out in that dress
alone! And what in hell did she mean by acting as if he'd forbidden her to
ride in order to torture her? He had given that order at the stable days ago
when he had suspected her pregnancy and thought she was unaware of it. Not
that he gave a damn what the 'conniving little liar thought. He didn't have
to offer explanations for his actions; she would have to do as she was
bidden. And that, he thought as he threw chips onto the pile in the center
of the table, was irrevocably that!

"Good to see you, Claymore," William Baskerville said
with amiable cordiality as he took a vacant chair at the table of six across
from Clayton. "Surprised to see you, in fact."

"Why is that?" Clayton said indifferently.

"Just saw your wife at the Clifftons' crush. Thought you
must be there, too," Baskerville explained, absorbed in stacking his chips
into piles, preparatory to joining the heavy play in progress. "She looked
lovely-told her so, too." This innocent discourse earned Baskerville a look
of such stunned disbelief from the duke that Baskerville hastened to heap on
polite reassurances. "Your wife always looks lovely. I always tell her
that." In dismayed bewilderment, Baskerville watched the duke slowly come
erect and rigid in his chair, his expression glacial. Searching his mind
frantically for how he could possibly have given offense, Baskerville
unfortunately arrived at the incorrect conclusion that his compliments must
sound watery to the lady's husband who was, according to gossip,
inordinately fond of his young bride. With a helpless glance at the other
men seated around the table, Baskerville said desperately, "Everyone thought
the duchess looked ravishing-she was wearing a green gown that matched her
eyes. I told her it did, too. Had to wait in line just to tell her, in fact.
Surrounded by all the young bucks and old fossils like me, she was. Quite a
gathering of admirers."