Clayton had carried a picture in his mind of how she would look at this moment—a picture of a beautiful bride in a veil and flowing white gown. But the vision he saw coming toward him through the candlelight snatched his breath away. Pride burst within him, exploding through his entire body until he ached with it. No bride had ever, ever looked the way she did. Whitney was coming to him without shyness, without even a veil to cover herself from him. As he watched, she raised her eyes to his—then kept them there—deliberately letting every man, woman, and child in that church see that she was proud to be going to him.
Her luxuriant hair spilled over her shoulders, the gold chain that rode her slender hips swayed gracefully with each step, and behind her trailed a magnificent cape glowing with pearls. She was a queen in all her breathtaking glory, serene but not haughty, provocatively beautiful, yet aloof, untouchable. “Oh my God, little one,” Clayton whispered in his heart.
The crowd watched in breathless anticipation as the duke stepped forward, his tall frame resplendent in rich royal purple velvet. They saw him take her hand and smile into her eyes—and they knew he said something to her. But only Whitney heard his softly spoken, “Hello, my love.” The sight of the handsome duke gazing down upon his beautiful bride with such gentle pride brought handkerchiefs to eyes before the couple ever began to say their vows.
Clayton led her to the altar, to her place beside him, the place that would be hers for all eternity.
Whitney stood with her hand in his strong, reassuring grasp. When the archbishop asked her to repeat her vows, she turned to Clayton and lifted her eyes to meet his warm, reassuring gaze. She made her voice sound firm and sure, but when she was promising to obey him, Clayton’s expression changed. He lifted one brow in a look of such humorous skepticism that Whitney almost missed a word as she choked back a stunned giggle.
At last they were pronounced man and wife; the organ music rose and swelled; and Clayton claimed his right to kiss his bride. It was such a chaste peck, so unlike any kiss he had ever given her before, that Whitney’s eyes registered visible surprise. “I will have to practice,” Clayton whispered teasingly as they turned, “until I get the hang of it.”
His gloriously beautiful bride nodded with sham solemnity and whispered demurely, “I shall be happy to help you with your lessons, my lord.”
Which is why, as it was later reported, the Duke of Claymore’s shoulders were shaking with laughter as he left the altar with his duchess on his arm.
* * *
Whitney sat beside Clayton in his coach as they swept over the smooth roads toward Claymore. The Gilberts’ conveyance was still hopelessly snarled in traffic at the church, so Whitney’s aunt and uncle were grateful, but reluctant, passengers in the vehicle with the bride and groom which, as the four of them were all acutely aware, left no privacy for the newlyweds.
Listening to Clayton conversing with them, Whitney looked at the heavy gold band he had slid onto her hand. It felt strange there, covering her long slender finger almost to the first knuckle—a bold proclamation to the world that she belonged to her husband.
Her husband? Whitney stole a glance at Clayton through her lashes. My husband, she repeated to herself, and a thrill shot through her. Dear Lord . . . he was her husband; six feet three inches of bold masculinity, elegant and sophisticated—but forceful too; a gathered power, carefully restrained. She even bore his name now. She belonged to him. It was a scary thought—and a little wonderful, too, she decided.
The bridal entourage moved decorously through the main gates at Claymore then swept along the winding private drive where festive torches were already ablaze on both sides of the road to light the way for the guests who would soon be arriving. When they pulled up before the main house, Clayton helped Whitney to alight, and she was amazed to see that all the staff—from butler, steward, housekeeper, footmen, and maids; to gardeners, keepers, foresters, and stableboys—were lined up on the front steps in immaculate livery and uniforms, according to their individual rank.
Clayton led her, not to the front door as she expected, but rather to the foot of the steps to stand before them. Whitney smiled a little uncertainly at the hundred and fifty faces, then glanced at Clayton.
“Brace yourself,” he whispered, grinning. A second later the air was split with the thunder of cheers and applause.
He waited for the clamor to die down. “This is another tradition,” he explained to Whitney as he remained there, regarding the servants gravely, but with a smile in his eyes. “Behold your new mistress, my wife.” Clayton spoke the ancient words of the first Duke of Claymore, who had returned with his abducted bride, in a deep resonant voice that carried to all. “And know that when she bids you, I have bidden you; what service you render her, you are rendering me; what loyalty you give or withhold from her, you give or withhold from me.” Wide smiles wreathed the faces of the staff, and as Clayton turned to lead Whitney away, a cheer twice as uproarious as the last went up.
In the white-and-gold salon, Clayton poured champagne for Whitney, Lord and Lady Gilbert, and himself. Stephen and his mother joined them and Clayton automatically filled two more glasses. All one hundred and twenty-six rooms of the main house and the seventy rooms of the combined guest houses were occupied with wedding guests, many of whom had arrived the day before. Already there was the incessant sound of carriages pulling up in the drive, which meant the house guests were returning from the church.
“Would you like to rest, love?” Clayton asked as he handed Whitney her glass. Whitney glanced at the clock. It was seven and the festivities were to begin at eight. In the meantime, Clarissa would need to press her gown, which meant she had no time to finish her champagne. Reluctantly, she nodded and put down her glass.
Clayton saw her wistful glance at her wineglass and, giving her a mocking grin, he picked up both their glasses and led her up the broad curving staircase toward their chambers. At the suite which adjoined his, and which she would occupy from this day forward, he stopped, opened the door for her, and handed her a glass of champagne. “Shall I have a full bottle sent up, my lady?” he teased, and before Whitney could make a suitably audacious reply, his mouth came down, lightly playing over hers in a sweet, fleeting kiss.
* * *
A crimson carpet stretched from the drive up the terraced steps leading to the great house which was ablaze with lights. The guests arrived in a steady, endless stream, making their way up the grand staircase, which was flanked by thirty footmen standing stiffly at attention in burgundy-and-gold Westmoreland livery.
Beneath a six-tiered chandelier in the ballroom, Whitney stood beside Clayton while the butler intoned, “Lord and Lady . . . Sir . . . Mr. and Mrs. . . .” as each individual passed beneath the marble portals into the flower-decked room. “Lady Amelia Eubank,” she heard the butler say. Automatically, Whitney tensed as the gruff old dowager bore down on them wearing an outrageous green turban and purple satin gown.
“I trust, Madam,” Clayton mocked, grinning at the old harridan, “that I did not fail to provide you with adequate ‘competition’ for Sevarin?”
Lady Eubank gave a sharp crack of laughter, then leaned closer to Clayton. “I’ve been wanting to ask you, Claymore, precisely why you happened to select the Hodges place for your ‘rest?’ ”
“Precisely,” Clayton said as he tipped his head toward Whitney, “for the reason you think I did.”
“I knew it!” said she with a triumphant chuckle. “It took me weeks to be certain, though. You arrogant young pup!” she nodded almost affectionately as she put monocle to eye and turned, looking for one of her unfortunate neighbors from the village to pounce upon.
Supper was a magnificent affair which began with a round of champagne toasts, the first of which was offered by Stephen. “To the Duchess of Claymore,” he said.
Looking over at Clayton’s mother, Whitney smiled gaily and lifted her glass, prepared to toast her. “I believe Stephen means you, love,” Clayton whispered with
a chuckle.
“Me? Oh yes, of course,” Whitney said, quickly lowering her hand as she tried to cover her mistake. But it was too late, for the guests had seen her and were already roaring with laughter.
After toasts had been offered for the bride and groom’s health, their happiness, and long life, the guests began calling for a toast from the groom. Clayton rose from his chair and Whitney felt a burst of pride as he stood there, surrounded by that aura of quiet command that was so much a part of him.
He spoke and his deep voice carried to the farthest corners of the silent room. “Several months ago in Paris,” he said, gazing for a tender moment at Whitney, “a lovely young woman accused me of ‘pretending’ to be a duke. She said that I was such a poor ‘impostor’ that I really ought to choose some other title to which to aspire—some title that would suit me better. I decided there was only one other title I wanted: that of her husband.” He shook his head ruefully, while laughter kindled in his gray eyes. “Believe me, my first title was far more easily acquired than the second.” When the deluge of laughter subsided, Clayton added solemnly, “and of far, far less value.”
When the musicians struck up the first waltz, Clayton led her onto the dance floor. Taking her in his arms, he whirled her around and around for all to behold, but when the guests joined them on the floor, he relaxed and danced more quietly with her.
His senses were alive to the elusive perfumed scent of her, to the light touch of her fingertips. He thought of tomorrow night, or the night after, when he would truly make her his, and his blood stirred so hotly that he had to force the thought aside. He tried to concentrate on something else, and in the space of ten seconds, was mentally undressing and kissing her, caressing her with his hands and mouth until she was wild for him.
Her father claimed her for the next dance, and Clayton danced with his mother, and so it went for hours. It was long after midnight when Whitney and he left the dance floor to stroll together, arm in arm, laughing and talking with their guests.
Whitney was obviously enjoying herself and Clayton was certainly in no hurry to take her away from her party. After all, he had nothing to look forward to tonight except sleeping alone in his bed. As the clock neared the hour of one, however, Clayton began to have the uneasy feeling that the guests were expecting them to retire—a suspicion which was confirmed when Lord Marcus Rutherford remarked to him in a low, laughter-tinged voice, “My God, man, if you’re wondering when you can leave without causing talk, it was about two hours ago.”
Clayton went to Whitney. “I’m sorry to put an end to your evening, little one, but if we don’t leave soon, people will begin to talk. Let’s say good night to your aunt and uncle,” he urged, but he wasn’t particularly eager to leave either, and it irked him to be evicted from his own damned party in his own damned house by his own damned guests . . . which, he instantly realized, was an entirely hilarious way for a bridegroom to be thinking on his wedding night, particularly when that bridegroom was himself. Grinning, he shook his head at the irony of it.
Unfortunately, Clayton was still grinning when Whitney bade her uncle good night, and that gentleman, mistaking Clayton’s grin as a leer, felt it incumbent upon himself to give the bridegroom a dark, reproving frown. Clayton stiffened under the silent reprimand and, feeling unfairly villified, said flatly, “We shall see you at breakfast,” when he had intended but a moment before to bid Lord Gilbert a friendly good night.
In silence, Clayton led Whitney down the long hall from the west wing. Tension twisted within her as they crossed the balcony, and at the staircase, her steps began to lag. Clayton, however, was grappling with a new problem and did not notice: Should he take Whitney to his chambers, or should he take her to hers? There were servants swarming all over the damned place and he didn’t want their lack of marital intimacy on their wedding night to be common knowledge among the staff.
He had just decided to take her to her chambers when two footmen came up the stairs and, feeling guilty as a thief in his own house, Clayton quickly changed direction, stepped back, and opened the door to his rooms instead of hers. He had started into his suite before he realized that Whitney had stopped in the doorway and was staring in stricken paralysis at the familiar room where he had savagely torn her clothes off. “Come, sweet,” he said, casting a quick look down the hall and forcibly drawing her within. “There is nothing to fear in here, no madman to ravish you.”
With a toss of her head, she seemed to shake off the memories that were haunting her, and she stepped inside. Sighing with relief, Clayton closed the door behind them and guided Whitney over to the long green sofa at right angles to the fireplace, across from the chair he had sat in that fateful night. He started to sit down beside her on the sofa, took one look at her enticing profile, and thought it would be wiser if he sat in the chair across from her instead.
Whitney couldn’t possibly sleep in her rooms tonight and he in his, he decided, because the servants would think it odd if both beds were slept in. She would have to sleep in his bed and he would sleep on the sofa.
He looked at her. Her dark head was turned toward the blazing fire on the hearth, away from the large bed on the dais. It dawned on him then that she must be wondering why, if he meant to keep his promise, he hadn’t taken her to her chambers instead of his. “You will have to sleep in here, little one—otherwise the servants will gossip. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She looked up at him and smiled, as if her thoughts had been far away.
After an awkward moment, he suggested, “Would you like to talk?”
“Yes,” she agreed readily.
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Oh—anything.”
Clayton racked his brain for something interesting to discuss, but his mind and his body were both riveted on her exciting presence in his bedroom. “The weather was extremely fine today,” he announced finally. He could have sworn that laughter flickered across her features, or was it only a trick of the firelight? “It didn’t rain,” he added, beginning to feel utterly ridiculous.
“It wouldn’t have mattered if it did rain. It still would have been a beautiful, wonderful day.”
God! he wished she wouldn’t look at him with those glowing green eyes and smile at him in that entrancing way. Not tonight. There was a discreet knocking upon his door, and also hers. “Who in the hell would—?”
“I imagine it’s Clarissa,” Whitney said, already rising and looking about her for the connecting door which would lead into her bedchambers. Clayton went to the door that led into the hall, pulled it open and stared irritably at his valet, who said blandly, “Good evening, your grace,” and automatically came in. Damn! He’d forgotten about his valet and Whitney’s maid. For his part, Clayton thought it would be less trying on his aroused senses if they both slept in their clothes. Mentally cursing all servants in general, Clayton showed Whitney to the connecting door, then turned on his heel and strode into the study adjoining his bedchambers, already having forgotten his valet’s presence somewhere in his suite.
Staring at the shelves of books lining the study walls, he tried to decide what to read. What to read, for God’s sake! On his wedding night! After eight weeks of the barely restrained passion they had shared, why was she still so frightened? And what insanity had possessed him to make her that promise?
As he reached for a book, Armstrong padded silently into the study behind him. “May I assist you, your grace?” Jerking his hand self-consciously away from the bookshelf, Clayton rounded on his hapless valet. “I’ll ring if I need you!” he said curtly, trying to keep his annoyance hidden. The servants would say he was as nervous as a boy on his wedding night, if he snapped and growled. “That will be all, Armstrong. Good night,” he added, then he personally escorted the surprised valet to the door of the suite, thrust him out into the hallway, and locked the door behind him.
Clayton strode back to his study, stripped off his jacket and neckcloth, and unbuttoned the top
two buttons of his shirt. Pulling the stopper out of the decanter on his desk, he poured a liberal amount of brandy in a glass, then he took a book off one of the shelves, sat down, and stretched out his long legs. Intending to relax, he sipped his brandy and read the same paragraph four times before he finally gave up and slammed the book shut.
He was genuinely annoyed with himself, and a little surprised, at being so unnerved by what was, after all, only one more night of celibacy. After eight weeks of celibacy, why did this one extra night matter so much? It mattered, he realized ruefully, because he couldn’t shake the conviction that a wedding night automatically, irrevocably, meant lovemaking—because that was the way it was supposed to be. Considering that in his entire adult life, he’d never paid much heed to the way things were “supposed to be,” Clayton couldn’t imagine why he should be doing so tonight. Unless it was because his wife’s (he liked the sound of that—his wife’s) intoxicating body was his now, by marital right. And it was also tantalizingly near his own starved body.
He allowed Whitney twice the amount of time she could possibly need before he finally got up and reentered his bed chamber. She wasn’t there. The connecting door was ajar, and he went through her dressing room into her bed chamber. She wasn’t there either. His heart began to hammer even though he told himself she could not have, would not have, actually fled from him. Surely she had more faith in his word than that!
With quickened pace, Clayton retraced his footsteps, drawing to a relieved halt in the doorway of his bed chamber. Whitney was at the opposite end of it, standing near the dais, staring at the huge four-poster bed upon it. In the glow of candlelight, he could see the memories, the fear in her expression. He moved into the room and his shadow lengthened down the long wall.
Whitney looked up at him, and Clayton saw her quickly hide her fear behind an enchanting smile. “Who are you—really?” she asked in the same conspiratorial tone she’d used at the Armands’ masquerade so long ago.
Whitney, My Love Page 49
