Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  “We were introduced,” Clayton interrupted. “We were introduced that same night, by Madame DuPre. You didn’t pay enough attention to hear my name, and you accorded me a brief nod and one shrug before you returned to the more pressing business of accumulating as many fawning admirers as you could squeeze around your skirts.”

  How that cool reception must have deflated him, Whitney thought with secret pleasure. “Did you ask me for a dance?” she needled sweetly.

  “No,” he replied drily. “My card was already full.”

  Under other circumstances, Whitney would have laughed at the joke, but she knew it was intended as a barbed reminder that he, too, was popular with the opposite sex. As if she needed to be reminded! She threw him a derisive look that matched her tone. “I imagine that if men did have dance cards, yours would always be full! Now that I think about it, what does a man do with his mistress when he desires to dance with someone else?”

  “I don’t recall having found that an insurmountable obstacle the night you and I danced at the Armands’ masquerade.”

  The gloves Whitney had been holding dropped to the grass. “How dare you be so crude as to—”

  “—as to even bring up such a thing?” he countered smoothly. “Isn’t the saying ‘an eye for any eye’?”

  “I can hardly believe my ears!” Whitney scoffed furiously. “If you aren’t a living example of ‘the devil quoting scripture.’ ”

  “Touché.” He grinned.

  His amusement only made Whitney angrier. “You may be able to dismiss your scandalous conduct with a laugh, but I can’t. In the time I remember knowing you, you’ve made lewd suggestions to me at the Armands’, insulted me at Lady Eubank’s, and assaulted me in this very spot.” Whitney bent down and snatched her gloves from the grass. “God alone knows what you’ll try to do next.”

  Her last sentence brought a warm gleam to his eyes, and Whitney warily decided it was time to leave. She started to stalk past him toward the horses, but he reached out and caught her wrist, pulling her toward him. “With the exception of the Armands’ masquerade, I have always treated you precisely as you’ve deserved to be treated, and that’s the way it will always be between us. I have no intention of letting you walk all over me. If I did, you’d soon have no more respect for me than you would have had for Sevarin, had you been unfortunate enough to marry him.”

  Whitney was thunderstruck by his monumental gall in presuming to know how she would feel, and she was stricken by the awful finality with which he dismissed her plan to marry Paul as an unfortunate whim, entirely beyond the realm of possibility. And to make everything worse, his arms were encircling her at that very moment. “Don’t you care that I don’t love you?” she asked despairingly.

  “Of course you don’t,” Clayton teased, “You hate me. You’ve told me so at least half a dozen times. Right here, in this very spot, as a matter of fact. And just a few moments before you became a warm, passionate woman who held me in her arms.”

  “Stop reminding me of what happened that day! I want to forget it.”

  He gathered her closer against his muscular frame and gazed down at her with tender amusement. “Little one, I would give you anything within my power, but I will never let you forget what you were that day. Never. Ask anything else of me, and it’s yours.”

  “Ask anything else of you and it’s mine?” she scoffed, wedging a space between them by forcing her hands up against his chest. “Very well. I don’t want to marry you. Will you release me from my father’s bargain?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Whitney could hardly contain her bitterness and animosity. “Then don’t insult my intelligence by pretending to care about my wishes! I don’t want to be betrothed to you, but you won’t release me. I don’t want to marry you, but you fully intend to drag me to the altar anyway. I—”

  He let go of her so abruptly that Whitney staggered back a step. “Had I any intention of ‘dragging you to the altar,’ ” he said tersely, “you would have been ordered home from France to be fitted for your wedding gown. However, the simple fact is that I don’t want a cold, unwilling wife in my bed.”

  Whitney was so relieved and overjoyed that she completely forgave his suggestive reference to his bed. She threw up her hands. “Good heavens, why didn’t you tell me that before? Since that’s the way you feel, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself with me any longer.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I would make you the coldest, most unwilling wife imaginable.”

  One dark eyebrow flicked upward in a measuring look. “Are you threatening me?”

  Whitney hastily shook her head, smiling. “No, of course not. I’m only trying to explain that my feelings toward you won’t change.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Absolutely positive,” Whitney said brightly.

  “In that case, there’s very little point in delaying the wedding any longer, is there?”

  “What?” Whitney gasped. “But you said you wouldn’t marry me if I was cold and unwilling.”

  “I said that I didn’t want to do so. I did not say that I wouldn’t, if that’s the way it has to be.” With that he nodded curtly toward the horses and started to turn, leaving Whitney petrified that he intended to go straight back to the house and summon a cleric to officiate at their wedding. No doubt he already had a special license! Her mind sought frantically for some way to save herself. If she fled, he’d overtake her; if she threatened him, he’d ignore her; if she refused, he’d make her.

  She chose the only solution open to her, humiliating though it was to have to plead and wheedle. Reaching out, she laid her hand upon his sleeve. “I have a favor to ask of you, and you did say that you would give me anything within your power—?”

  “Within my power,” he stated coolly, “and within reason.”

  “Then will you give me time? I need time to get over this awful feeling I have of being a helpless pawn in a chess game being played by you and my father, and I need time to become adjusted to the idea of our marriage.”

  “I will give you time,” he agreed evenly, “provided that you use it with discretion.”

  “I will,” Whitney assured him, lying more easily now. “Oh, and there’s one thing: I’d like to keep both your identity and our betrothal a secret between us for a while.”

  His expression turned coolly speculative. “Why?”

  Because when she eloped with Paul next week, Clayton was going to be furious. But if she made a complete fool of him by publicly scorning him in front of villagers who knew of their betrothal, God alone knew what form his vengeance might take.

  “Because,” she said cautiously, “if everyone knows about you—us—they’ll want to talk about who you are and how we met and when we’re getting married, and I’ll feel more pressed than I already do.”

  “Very well, we’ll keep it a secret for now.” He walked her to her horse and lifted her effortlessly into the saddle. Thinking the subject was closed and their meeting at an end, Whitney gathered up Khan’s reins, eager to get away. But he wasn’t finished yet, and her entire body tensed at the threat disguised beneath the smooth politeness of his tone. “I’ve granted you the time you asked for because you said you want to become accustomed to the idea of our marriage. If I ever have reason to think you want the time for some other purpose, you will not like the consequences.”

  “Are you through?” Whitney asked, hiding her fright behind hauteur.

  “For now,” he sighed. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Whitney spent the rest of the day with her relatives. With her entire future hanging by a thread, it took a supreme effort to smile and converse with these cheerful, well-meaning people, and to ignore her father’s apprehensive glances. The moment the evening meal was over, she excused herself and escaped to the quiet of her room.

  Late that evening, Anne came up to see her. Whitney, who had been dying to confide in her all day, jumped
up from the settee, wringing her hands in pent-up frustration. “Aunt Anne, that arrogant, ruthless tyrant actually intends to force me to marry him. He said as much this morning.”

  Settling herself on the settee, Anne drew Whitney down beside her, “Darling, he can’t force you to marry him. I’m certain England has laws which would prevent him from doing so. As I see it, your problem is not whether he can force you to marry him, but rather, what will happen to your father if you don’t.”

  “My father didn’t consider the consequences to me when he agreed to the betrothal, so I don’t feel the slightest need to consider the consequences to him, if I don’t agree to the marriage. He has never loved me, and I no longer love him.”

  “I see,” Anne said, watching her closely. “Then it’s probably best that you feel that way.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because your father has already spent the money Claymore gave him. If you refuse to honor the betrothal agreement, his grace will naturally demand the return of his money. Since your father can’t give it back, he will very likely spend his declining years in a rat-infested cell in debtors’ prison. If you had any love left for him, it might be very difficult for you to be happy with Paul, knowing that you were responsible for your father’s plight. But so long as you’re completely certain that you’d feel no guilt, we really needn’t concern ourselves one way or another with your father, need we?”

  The door closed behind her aunt, leaving Whitney haunted with gruesome images of her father, ragged and filthy, rotting away in a wretched, dank cell.

  There had to be some way to repay Clayton Westmoreland the money he had settled on her father. Perhaps if she and Paul lived very carefully, they could repay the debt on her father’s behalf over a period of years. Or better yet, there might be some way to goad the duke into crying off from the engagement himself, so that the money wouldn’t have to be returned. Or would it? How had the preliminary marriage contract been worded? Whitney wondered.

  “Uncle Edward!” she breathed suddenly, Uncle Edward would never stand idly by, knowing Whitney was being forced to exchange her life for her father’s debts. Perhaps Uncle Edward could advance her father the funds to repay Clayton—a purely business arrangement, of course. She herself would see that the estate was put up as collateral.

  But did Uncle Edward have sufficient capital to repay Clayton? If only she knew how much money had changed hands. It must have been a great deal, because it had paid for all the extensive repairs to the house, two dozen new horses, a dozen servants, and her father’s debts, too. £25,000? £30,000? Whitney’s heart sank; Uncle Edward wouldn’t have so much as that.

  * * *

  When Clarissa came in to awaken Whitney the next morning, she found her seated at her writing desk, thoughtfully nibbling on the end of a quill.

  After a minute’s deliberation, Whitney began to write. Her eyes sparkled with triumphant satisfaction as she politely explained to Clayton that she had wrenched her knee and had to remain abed. She ended with a sugary statement that she would look forward to seeing him on the morrow—if her pain lessened. She signed it simply, “Whitney,” then sat back congratulating herself.

  The idea of an injured knee was an absolute inspiration, for such injuries were not only painful, but unpredictably long in mending. Tomorrow she could send him another sorrowful note, and add a few convincing details about how the imaginary injury had occurred. With any sort of luck, she might be able to avoid seeing him until after Paul returned!

  “What would you like to wear when you see the duke today?” Clarissa asked.

  A beaming smile dawned across Whitney’s features. “I’m not going to see him today, Clarissa. Or tomorrow, or the day after. Listen to this,” Whitney said, and quickly read the note to her.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked, folding it and sealing it with a few drops of wax.

  Clarissa’s voice was tight with alarm. “I think he’ll realize what you’re up to, and he’ll bring the house down around our ears. I don’t want any part of it. You should ask Lady Anne before you send it.”

  “I can’t wait for my aunt to rise, and you have to take part in it,” Whitney explained patiently. “You must bring the note to him.”

  Clarissa paled. “Me? Why do I have to do it?”

  “Because I need to know exactly how he reacts to it, and I can’t depend upon anyone else to tell me.”

  “I get palpitations of the heart just thinking of what could go wrong,” Clarissa complained, but she took the note for delivery. “What if he asks me questions about the injury?”

  “Just make up answers,” Whitney advised cheerfully. “Only remember to tell me what you say to him so that I don’t accidentally contradict you.”

  When Clarissa left, Whitney felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Humming gaily, she went over to the wardrobes to select a gown to wear.

  Clarissa returned twenty minutes later, and Whitney rushed out of the dressing room. “What did he say?” she asked eagerly. “How did he look? Tell me everything.”

  “Well, his grace was at breakfast when I arrived,” Clarissa said, nervously fingering the starched collar of her dress. “But the butler showed me directly to him as soon as I said who I was. Then I gave his grace the note and he read it.”

  “He wasn’t angry, was he?” Whitney prompted, when Clarissa fell silent.

  “Not that I could tell, but I don’t think he was pleased either.”

  “Clarissa, for heavens sake! What did he say?”

  “He thanked me for bringing the note, then he nodded toward one of those uppity servants of his, and I was shown out.”

  Whitney wasn’t certain whether she should feel relieved or apprehensive about his reaction, and as the day wore on, she discovered that her respite was not so blissful as she’d expected it to be.

  By noon, she jumped every time she heard footsteps in the hall, thinking that she was going to be informed that Clayton had come to call. It would be just like the man to insist that her aunt accompany him to her bedchambers, even though that would be an unforgivable breach of propriety.

  Dinner was brought up to her on a tray, and Whitney ate in bored solitude. For the first time all day, her thoughts drifted to Paul. Poor Paul, she thought contritely. She’d been so caught up in this web of intrigue, trying to outmaneuver and second-guess Clayton Westmoreland, that she hadn’t devoted any thought at all to the man she loved.

  19

  * * *

  The next morning, Whitney dashed off a second note to her betrothed, going into more detail about the agonizing pain she was suffering from her clumsy tumble down the staircase, and begging rather prettily to be excused from seeing him today. Although it meant having to spend another long day alone in her room because she couldn’t risk being caught downstairs with her relatives should Clayton decide to inquire personally about her knee, Whitney felt the enforced solitude was more than worth it—not only because she could avoid Clayton, but because she had the equally great satisfaction of outwitting him!

  “Do you really think this is wise, darling?” Anne frowned, reading Whitney’s clever note. “If you anger him needlessly, I can’t think what he’ll do.”

  “There’s nothing he can do, Aunt Anne,” Whitney reassured, sealing the note and handing it to Clarissa to deliver. “You’ve already written to Uncle Edward asking him to come quickly. When he arrives, he’ll help me think of some way out of this. In the meantime, I’ll continue with this farce about my knee for as long as I can, then I’ll think of something else. Maybe I can bore his grace into going away,” Whitney laughed.

  Clarissa returned to report in a harassed voice that the duke had scanned the note, and looked at her in an exceedingly odd way.

  “Clarissa, please, can’t you be more specific than that?” Whitney begged impatiently. “What sort of ‘odd’ way?”

  “Well, he read it,” Clarissa recounted. “Then he looked as if he were ab
out to smile. But he didn’t exactly smile, and he asked another one of his high-and-mighty servants to show me out.”

  Whitney bit her lip as she puzzled over Clayton’s baffling reaction, then with a smiling shrug, she dismissed the entire matter. “The three of us really should stop worrying about his every word and gesture. After all,” she said breezily, flopping down on the settee, “whether he thinks I’m lying or not, what can he possibly do about it?”

  The answer to that question arrived shortly after luncheon in a sleek, black-lacquered Westmoreland traveling coach drawn by four prancing black horses in silver harnesses. A somberly garbed, portly gentleman alighted from the conveyance and proceeded briskly toward the house. In his left hand he carried a large black leather bag; in his right a small engraved card which he handed to Sewell. “I am Dr. Whitticomb,” he said to the butler. “I have been brought here from London and instructed to ask for Lady Gilbert.”

  When Anne greeted him in the salon, Dr. Whitticomb smiled politely into her puzzled eyes and explained, “His grace, the Duke of Claymore, has sent me to examine Miss Stone’s knee.”

  Lady Gilbert turned so white that Dr. Whitticomb feared she might be ill, but after bidding him to wait, she left the room, snatched up her skirts, sprinted down the hallway, and vaulted up the staircase with a speed and agility that would have been remarkable in a healthy female half her years.

  “He’s done what?” Whitney shrieked, jumping to her feet and sending the volume of Pride and Prejudice in her lap thudding to the floor. “Why that low, vile . . .”

  “There’ll be time enough for all that later, if we survive this,” Anne panted, already unfastening Whitney’s dress with shaking fingers and jerking it unceremoniously over her head. Clarissa was hauling back the bedcovers, then flying to the wardrobe from which she snatched a fleecy dressing robe.

  “Couldn’t you have told him that I was asleep or something, and sent him back to London?” Whitney implored as she dived into bed and pulled up the covers.