Authors: Judith McNaught
Very quietly, very deliberately, Clayton turned his
cards over on the table and slid his chair back. He stood up, nodded curtly
to the other men seated at the table, and without a word to any of his
friends, turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the room.
All cardplay suspended as the five remaining men at the
table watched the duke making his way to the door leading out onto the
street. Of the five, four were married. Baskerville, a confirmed bachelor of
five and forty years, was not. Of the five faces at the table, four of them
were either grinning or valiantly trying to hide a grin. Only Baskerville's
expression was alarmed.
"Blast it!" he whispered, looking around at the others.
"Claymore gave me the devil of a look when I said I'd just seen his duchess
at the Clifftons'," He paused, seized by a terrible thought. "I say-have the
Westmorelands been married long enough to quarrel, would you think?"
Marcus Rutherford's lips twitched with laughter. "I
would say, Baskerville, that as of about three minutes ago, the
Westmorelands have now been married long enough to quarrel."
Distress furrowed Baskerville's kindly brow. "Good God!
I'd never have mentioned seeing her if I thought it would cause a quarrel.
She's a lovely young thing. Feel wretched about causing trouble for her. I'm
sure she'd never have gone to the deuced party if she realized Claymore
wouldn't approve."
"You think not?" Lord Rutherford said after sharing a
derisive grin with the other married men.
Baskerville was positive. "Well, of course not! If
Claymore told her not to go, she wouldn't have gone. She's his wife, after
all. Vows, you know-obedience and all that!"
Guffaws greeted this announcement, bursting out around
the table like cracks from a cannon. "I once told my wife that she didn't
need the fur she was pining for-she had a dozen already," Rutherford told
him as the gambling was temporarily forgotten. "I put my foot squarely down
and told her she could not have it!"
"Surely she didn't buy it anyway?" Baskerville asked in
a horrified tone.
"Certainly not," Rutherford chuckled. "She bought eleven
new gowns instead, to match the furs she already had. She said that if she
had to appear in outer rags, at least no one would have cause to criticize
her gowns. She spent three times the cost of the new fur."
"My God! Did you beat her?"
"Beat her?" Rutherford repeated in amusement.
"No-beating's not at all the thing,' you know. I rather dislike the idea of
it myself. I bought her the new fur instead."
"But-but why?" Baskerville sputtered in shock.
"Why, my good man? I'll tell you why. Because I'd no
wish to own all of Bond Street before she got over her being miffed. Gowns
are devilish costly things, but jewels-jewels she hadn't even thought of
yet! I saved myself a fortune by getting her the fur."
Dawn was already streaking the sky as Whitney trailed
quietly up the broad marble staircase to her room. She had missed Clayton
terribly tonight; missed the feel of his hand lightly riding her waist, of
his bold gaze capturing hers, and of the joy of knowing he was near. How
could he have become so essential to her life in so short a time? She felt
desolate without him, and it was an awful temptation to bring the note to
his room and explain. But what would happen the next time if she couldn't
find a clue like the note, to explain his fury? Then he would punish her
again with his wrath, and she would be helpless to defend herself-and it was
agony to have someone you loved furious with you, without knowing why. She
did not in the least regret her open defiance of Clayton's command tonight,
because she was hoping that when he discovered her disobedience, it would
bring about the confrontation she wanted and needed.
In fact, she wondered if she ought to mention-quite
casually-that she had had a lovely time at the Clifftons', when she saw
Clayton at breakfast in the morning. Yes, Whitney decided, as she groped in
the darkness of her room for the lamp, it would be an excellent idea.
On second thought, it was not a good idea at all, she
realized with a lurch of fear as the room flared to light and from the
corner of her eye, she glimpsed a gleaming, booted foot resting casually
atop the other knee, a pair of dark blue gloves being idly slapped against a
blue-clad thigh. From somewhere in the depths of her momentary panic,
inspiration seized her, and Whitney pretended not to have seen him. She
reached up behind her and began to unfasten her dress on the way into her
dressing room. If she could just make him wait until she could change into
one of her most seductive negligees, she might have a slight advantage-then
desire might overcome anger, and-
"Keep it on!" his voice slashed out, "until I leave."
Whitney swung around, startled by his scathing tone.
Clayton came to his feet, advancing on her with the
predatory grace of a stalking panther. Reflexively, Whitney started to back
away, then checked herself and held her ground. He loomed over her, his gaze
a frigid blast. In a silky, menacing voice, he said, "Do you remember what I
told you would happen if you dared to disobey me again, Whitney?"
He had threatened to lock her in her rooms until her
baby was born. Whitney was angry and frightened-and so much in love with him
that even her voice throbbed with it. "Yes, I remember," she said in an
aching whisper. "I remember all sorts of other things, too. I remember the
words you have whispered to me when you are so deep inside of me that you
have touched my heart. I remember . . ."
"Shut up!" he snapped furiously. "Or so help me God,
I'll..."
"I remember exactly the way your hands feet against my
skin when you touch me and . . ."
He caught her shoulders ma bruising grip and shook her
so hard that Whitney's head snapped back. "Damn you! I said stop!"
"I can't." Whitney shuddered from the pain his hands
were inflicting. "I can't stop, because I love you. I love your eyes, and
your smile, and your . . ."
With a vicious jerk, Clayton yanked her into his arms,
his mouth capturing hers in a savage, punishing kiss that was meant to
silence and hurt and retaliate. He was bruising her lips, and she was
crushed so tightly against him that she couldn't breathe. But Whitney didn't
care; she could feel the hardness of his need swelling rigidly against her,
and when his mouth began to slant fiercely over hers with wild hunger and
desperate urgency, she wrapped her arms around his neck and dung to him.
As abruptly as he had caught her to him, Clayton pushed
her away. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his expression so incensed, so
bleakly embittered that Whitney almost lost her resolve and brought up the
note herself. Instead she raised her chin to its bravest angle and said in
quiet defiance, "I wiD willingly commit myself to being locked in this room
for as long as you wish-provided you are willing to stay locked in here with
me. Otherwise, nothing-and no one-will beep me in here. If I have to set
fire to the house to get out, then I will."
It took a moment for Clayton to react. She looked so
unbearably beautiful, so young and vulnerable, facing him in this outrageous
mutiny, that if he didn't hate her and hate himself, he would have grinned.
He had to remind himself that she was a calculating schemer; even so, his
earlier wrath was momentarily defused by her impertinent suggestion that he
lock himself into her room with her. Lock himself in with her? Christ! He
could barely stand to live in the same house with her, despising her with an
uncontrollable virulence half the time, and wanting her until he ached with
it the rest.
"If you ever again leave the grounds of this estate
without my permission," he said in a low, savage voice, "you will yearn for
the 'tenderness' I showed you the first time I brought you here."
Clayton had taught her to be proud of the power she held
over his body, and that one brutal kiss had shown Whitney how badly he still
wanted her. The knowledge gave her the courage to look at him and say with a
faint blush, "I already do yearn for it, my lord." Then, reverting to her
former air of proud rebellion, she added as she turned and walked into her
dressing room, "However, I shall obey you to the extent of at least asking
for your permission before I leave the grounds."
Whitney heard the outer door close and leaned weakly
against the wall of her dressing room, more shaken by the confrontation than
she had let him see. Her idle threat about setting fire to the house had not
been what had stopped him from having her confined to her room. She knew,
and he knew, that he could very easily have her kept there with a loyal
servant acting as guard in her room to prevent her from doing anything
harmful. But she had thrown him off balance by boldly inviting him to stay
here with her.
She was playing with fire, Whitney knew. She couldn't
risk angering him to the point where he might have her removed entirely from
his presence. She had to be with him so that she could force him into
accusing her of this nonsense he believed. She had to be near him so that
she could continue to stoke the fire of his desire; one of them, either fury
or desire, was going to drive him from his stony silence.
In the east wing, Clayton lay awake in his bed, coldly
contemplating his past and his future. By now he had managed to find an
explanation for every heretofore unexplainable word or action on Whitney's
part. At long last, the reason for her behavior at Elizabeth's wedding
banquet was crystal clear. She had meant every cold, vile word she had said
to him as they danced. After the banquet, in the ensuing weeks, Whitney had
discovered her pregnancy, or thought she was pregnant, and when the father
couldn't or wouldn't offer her his name, she had concocted the scheme of
coming here and renewing their dead betrothal. And he, like a goddamned
fool, had, with great joy, allowed himself to be cuckolded.
He didn't know how long he could stand this living
arrangement. His heart and his mind understood the harsh reality mat there
could never be anything between Whitney and him again, but his body
tormented him with the same insatiable desire for her he'd always felt.
If they weren't living under the same roof, perhaps he
could find some relief from his agony. He could remove to the townhouse in
Upper Brook Street and resume a semblance of his former life, or he could go
to France or Spain for a few months. That would be ideal, but Whitney was,
after all, carrying his child and, in the event of some complication with
her pregnancy, he shouldn't be so faraway.
No, the townhouse would be better. His need for
diversion and his physical needs could both be satisfied in London. All I he
had to do was take Whitney to a few social affairs during r the next month
or two, then, once her pregnancy was apparent, she would not be able to go
out into society anyway, so no one would find it odd that she was no longer
seen on his arm. When they saw him with other women, the old biddies would
chick their tongues and whisper to oat another that "the little nobody" he
had married hadn't been able to hold him very long, and that they had known
all along, that this was how h was going to end. The thought gave Clayton a
certain perverse pleasure.
He hoped to God that Whitney was carrying a boy, for
this was going to be his only opportunity to get an heir. Otherwise he would
have to leave it up to Stephen to sire the heir. Thank God he could count on
Stephen for that; the lands and title had always been held by a
Westmoreland, and his father had been the only boy of five children.
The following morning, Whitney composed a carefully
worded note to Clayton to the effect that Lord Archibald's parents were
celebrating their anniversary and mat Whitney had promised Emily and Michael
to attend the gala affair this evening, and that she would appreciate it
very much if Clayton would escort her. She sent the note into the east wing
with Clarissa, then paced back and forth, waiting for Clay-ton's response.
With trembling fingers she unfolded her note across the
bottom of which was a curt reply in Clayton's bold handwriting. "Advise my
valet whether the dress is formal or informal." She could have laughed with
joy.
That night she spent more time than ever in her life on
her appearance. Clarissa swept her hair up into intricate coils entwined
with a finely wrought gold chain which had belonged to Whitney's
grandmother. Nestled in the hollow between her breasts was a simple topaz
pendant surrounded by a ring of diamonds, which had belonged to Whitney's
great-grandmother. She was not wearing any of the Westmoreland jewelry. She
was not, in fact, wearing her splendid betrothal ring. Far a few minutes
Whitney actually considered removing her wide gold wedding band, but that
she could not do-not even to make her point.
Clayton was standing at the far end of the white and
gold salon, staring moodily out the windows with a glass of whiskey in his
hand, looking utterly magnificent in his black evening clothes. With a gleam
of mischief dancing in her eyes, Whitney floated into the salon in a swirl
of glittering gold-spangled chiffon. She did not remove the golden stole
that was lying softly across her breasts, draped in a gentle half circle
down her back, nor did she intend to do so until they arrived at Michael's
parents' home.
The hour and a half ride was made in frosty silence, but
Whitney contented herself by relishing what Clayton's reaction was going to
be when he saw the tantalizing display of swelling breasts exposed by the
gown's provocatively plunging bodice. If Clayton hadn't liked the emerald
gown in his current mood, he was definitely not going to approve of this
one.
"We don't clash," Whitney remarked when they arrived at
their destination and Clayton was helping her down from the closed carriage.