Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  Whitney remembered that she had one for him, too, and was out of the bed in a flurry of long, shapely limbs and creamy curves. “I asked Clarissa to put yours in my room,” she explained as she started away from the bed. Clayton was devouring the sight of her exquisite naked form when she noticed his look, then hurtled herself toward the discarded lace robe.

  He presented her with a necklace of square-cut emeralds, each surrounded with a row of glittering diamonds, and a matching bracelet and ear drops. “Fit for a duchess,” he whispered as he kissed her.

  Whitney laughed as she handed him his gift. “Fit for a duke,” she said, sitting beside him with her legs curled beneath her, watching him open it. Clayton snapped the lid up, then threw back his head and shouted with laughter at the sight of the gorgeously made, solid-gold quizzing glass she had given him. In exactly the same tone she had used at the Armands’ masquerade, she said, “A quizzing glass is an indispensable affectation of royalty.” Then she reached behind her and produced another gift in a small velvet box. As she handed it to him, the laughter vanished from her face, and her whole expression changed.

  Clayton looked at her for a long moment before opening the box, wondering why she suddenly seemed almost shy. Puzzled, he opened the lid and beheld a magnificent ruby set in a heavy gold ring. He took the ring from its bed of black velvet and it glittered in the dim light. Holding it closer to the candles to admire it, he was about to ask her sentimentally if she would like to put the ring on his finger, as he had placed her wedding band on hers, when he caught sight of a small inscription on the inside of the band. In handsome scroll were two words, the first of which was underlined. “My lord.”

  He groaned and pulled her almost roughly down onto his chest. “God, how I love you!” he whispered hoarsely as his mouth captured hers.

  When the kiss ended, Whitney remained in his arms, and her long fingers lightly stroked the hair at his temple. Between the touch of her hand and the feel of her breasts against his naked chest as she half lay atop him, Clayton was acutely aware that his body was stirring to life with alarming intensity. His senses were alive to every inch of her form languorously stretched across him, but he didn’t want to risk frightening her with too much lovemaking their first night. He stirred and Whitney raised herself up on her forearms, bracing them against his chest, affording him a view of her swelling breasts that made desire pour like boiling lava through his veins.

  “Am I too heavy?” she asked him softly.

  “No, but I think you ought to get some sleep, my love,” he suggested with a tinge of regret.

  “I’m not in the least sleepy,” his wife said.

  She looked like an innocent goddess draped across him, her softly tousled hair spilling over his shoulders. “You’re certain you don’t want to sleep?” Clayton asked absently, brushing his knuckles over her smooth cheek, marvelling at her vivid beauty. “Then what would you like to do?”

  In answer, Whitney looked at him and blushed, then she quickly hid her overheated face against his shoulder.

  A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as he shifted her fully atop his aroused length and wrapped his arms around her. “I suppose we could do that,” he laughed huskily.

  34

  * * *

  A week later they left for France on their wedding trip. They stayed one month. When they returned to London the couple did not, as everyone expected they would, repair to the duke’s handsome mansion in Upper Brook Street. Instead they seemed to prefer the seclusion and serenity of Claymore. They did, however, appear regularly at social functions in town, sometimes arriving back at Claymore just as dawn broke.

  In a society where it was considered unfashionable for a husband and wife to be too much in each other’s company when they were out together, the Duke and Duchess of Claymore created a fashion of their own. For the duke and duchess were rarely far from each other’s side, and one could scarcely fail to notice how desirable they made being together appear. They were a striking couple, of course, the duke splendidly tall and elegantly masculine, grinning that lazy, approving grin at his beautiful young wife who seemed to be able to make him laugh with a joy that no one had ever before observed. But it was more than what one saw, it was a feeling that one had when watching them—as if the couple were joined together by more than just affection or even wedlock. It was, the ton remarked with collective sighs of surprise and occasional envy, a most unusual marriage by modern standards. A few members of the haughty elite quite forgot to be brittly sophisticated and even went so far as to muse aloud that it was quite, quite obvious that the duke and duchess were in love with each other.

  Clayton harbored not the slightest doubt of the correct term for what he felt. He loved Whitney with a passion and devotion that were rooted deeply in his soul. He could not see, or hear, or touch her enough to satisfy his craving for her. At night he would feel that hot need rising within him that seemed to increase, instead of diminish each time he exploded inside of her; and she would press herself against him as if she, too, could not be near enough to him, for long enough. In bed she was a passionate, irresistible mistress intent on pleasing him. Clayton taught her in the first weeks of their marriage that there was no place for embarrassment or shyness between them, and Whitney responded by abandoning herself to his caresses. He allowed her to hold nothing back from him and, after a few feeble attempts to hide her passionate responses to his lovemaking, she surrendered herself willingly to the wild and stormy tides that he caused to rise and crash until she cried out. And then he held her in his arms, tracing the curves of her body, whispering until they both slept, happy, peaceful, and sated.

  Whitney’s days were filled with contentment. Whenever possible she would curl up in a corner of Clayton’s spacious study during the day, reviewing the household accounts, planning menus or simply reading, stealing surreptitious, admiring glances at him as he leaned back in his chair, going over the correspondence and reports on his business ventures. Occasionally, Clayton would look up as if to reassure himself that she was there, and grin at her, or give her a quick wink before turning his attention back to the business at hand. In the beginning, Whitney had never dreamed that he might like having her here. This was his private world where he talked about staggering amounts of money with his business agents and gambled in investments that she soon realized were amazingly perceptive and prudent. He liked this work, though—he didn’t have to do it. He told her that one night. And Stephen told her once that in the last five years Clayton had nearly doubled the vast Westmoreland wealth. He even handled some of Stephen’s investments for him and—surprise of surprises—now her father’s as well.

  She loved listening to him meeting with his solicitors and business acquaintances. She adored the thread of quiet authority in his voice as he spoke with them. He was so quick, and sure, and decisive. He was also devastatingly handsome, she thought with a burst of pride whenever she looked at him. She felt cherished and protected when he was near—safe and loved.

  When she went shopping in town or to a play with Emily, she missed the sound of his voice, his warm glances and engaging smile.

  Her nights were a celebration of their love. Sometimes he lingered over her as tenderly as he had on their wedding night. Other times he teased her, deliberately tantalizing her, making her tell him exactly what she wanted; then there were times when he took her swiftly, almost roughly. And Whitney could never decide which way she loved the most.

  At first she had been a little frightened of the stormy, tumultuous passion she could arouse in him with a kiss, a touch, an intimate caress. But it took very little time before she was shamelessly glorying in his bold, virile masculinity. She was his—body, heart, and soul. She was at peace with her world.

  She was also pregnant five months later.

  Now when Clayton slept cradling her in his arms, Whitney lay awake feeling both excited and vaguely distressed. Her monthly flux was three weeks overdue, yet for several reasons, she postponed telling C
layton. Therèse DuVille had confided to Whitney at the wedding that she was going to enjoy the reprieve from her husband’s amorous attentions that being enceinte would provide. Therèse might be looking forward to that, but Whitney definitely was not. On the other hand, she didn’t want to risk harming the baby if such might be the result of their continued lovemaking. To complicate things, Clayton had never voiced any desire for children, although it seemed to Whitney that all men must want children—particularly men with titles to be passed on to their heirs. When she missed her second monthly flux and began to experience occasional queasiness and the yearning to nap in the middle of the day, she was positive, but still she held her silence.

  One day shortly thereafter, as Whitney went upstairs to change for their daily break-neck gallop across the open countryside, Clayton stopped her on the steps. “Khan is favoring his right leg a little,” he said with a peculiar gravity, mingled with profound gentleness in his voice. “Suppose we go for a walk instead, little one.”

  Whitney hadn’t noticed Khan favoring his leg at all, and there were dozens of other splendid mounts at the stables, but she didn’t question his decision. She was a little relieved because they always rode at such a hell-for-leather pace that she shuddered to think of what might happen if she fell, and she hadn’t been able to think of a way to suggest they slow down without telling Clayton why.

  That night, Clayton’s lovemaking took on a new pattern that repeated itself consistently thereafter. He would arouse her until she was delirious with wanting his possession, and then enter her with painstaking gentleness, penetrating deeply, but slowly, withdrawing lingeringly. It prolonged the inevitable moment of joyous release unbearably . . . and very pleasurably. It also provided Whitney with the rationalization that such a gentle invasion of her body could not possibly be harming their baby.

  The next week she took herself firmly in hand and told herself she was being ridiculous. In the first place, she was bursting with her news. In the second, if she delayed much longer, her own body would provide him with the announcement of his impending fatherhood. Accordingly, Whitney went to London and purchased six tiny items of infant apparel at a particular shop. Immediately upon her return, she set to work in earnest with the embroidery thread in the privacy of her rooms.

  She summoned Mary and Clarissa for an opinion of her needlework and said with a sigh as she produced her handiwork, “Amazing, is it not, that I could master Greek and not this?” Mary and Clarissa, who were both secure in their positions in the household, took one look at her embroidery, then looked at each other and collapsed on the bed amidst shrieks of laughter.

  By dinner the next evening, Whitney was finally satisfied with a “W” she had embroidered in blue on the collar of an unbelievably tiny baby gown. “This will have to do,” she sighed to Clarissa.

  “When are you going to tell his grace that my baby is going to have a baby?” Clarissa asked with fond tears sparkling at the multiple creases at the corners of her eyes.

  “That isn’t quite what I planned to say to him,” Whitney giggled, giving Clarissa a pat on her wrinkled cheek. “Actually, I’m not going to tell him at all—I’m going to let this tell him,” she said, indicating the little infant gown. “And I think tonight after dinner will be a perfect time.” With a gay, conspiratorial smile, Whitney tucked the little gown into the drawer of her desk beside her stationery and trooped downstairs for dinner.

  She waited until Clayton had finished his port after the meal and they were sitting in the white-and-gold salon. Feigning absorption in her book, Whitney sighed. “I can’t think why I have been feeling so tired lately.” She did not look up and so missed the look of gentle pride and laughter that Clayton beamed on her.

  “Can’t you, sweet?” he asked cautiously. He thought she knew she was with child but he wasn’t certain, and if there was a chance she feared childbearing, he wanted to spare her the worry as long as possible.

  “No,” Whitney said in a musing tone. “But I wanted to answer my aunt’s letter tonight and I have just realized that I left it in the drawer of my writing desk upstairs. Would you mind terribly getting it for me? Those stairs seem like a mountain to climb lately.”

  Clayton got up, pressed a light kiss on her forehead, affectionately rumpled her heavy hair, and strode briskly up the curving marble staircase.

  He went into her room and grinned to himself as he looked about him. A faint scent of Whitney’s perfume lingered there. Her combs and brushes were on her dressing table. Her presence filled the airy room and made it seem pretty and fresh and vibrant. Like she was.

  Wondering again if she knew she was with child, and wondering why in the world, if she did know, she wasn’t telling him, he pulled open the drawer of her rosewood writing desk. He took some blue stationery off the top of the thick stack for Whitney to use, then rummaged through the drawer, looking for her aunt’s letter. Unable to find it, he pushed aside what he thought was a white handkerchief and flipped through the stack of unused stationery. Near the very bottom he finally discovered a folded letter. Uncertain if it was the one Whitney wanted, he unfolded it and scanned the words Whitney had written many months ago at Emily’s house, in a foolish—and discarded—attempt to force Clayton to come back to her.

  “To my very great mortification, I find I am with child. Please call at once here to discuss what can be done. Whitney.”

  To her very great mortification? Clayton repeated to himself with a bewildered frown. What an odd way for her to feel about the living culmination of the exquisite joy they had found in one another. And what a peculiar way for her to choose to give him the news. “Please call at once.”

  In the space of the next three seconds, three realizations stunned him: The note was dated two months before they were married—in fact, it was written on the day before he had brought Vanessa here and found Whitney waiting for him . . . there was no name on it to indicate who the note had been intended for . . . and the note was in Whitney’s elegant, scholarly hand and signed by her. God help him . . . She had obviously written it to some man she believed had made her pregnant.

  Clayton’s mind registered disbelief, it started to shout denials . . . even while something inside of him slowly cracked and began to crumble. He felt as if he were shattering and all of his pieces flying apart. Evidently, Whitney had been playacting the night she came here to him. He had treasured the memory of the way she had surrendered her pride and crossed the study to come to him, and now he realized it had been a lie, a contemptible, filthy lie! That tender scene in which she had whispered, “I love you” had been an act! In a state of dazed anguish, he sat down while his tormented mind reached for answers and arrived at devastating conclusions: Whitney had come to Claymore the night after she wrote that note, believing she was pregnant. Whoever this note was intended for had either refused his responsibility or couldn’t accept it. Perhaps the son of a bitch was already married.

  Whitney had come to Claymore that night to get herself a father for someone else’s brat—Christ! She and her lover had probably concocted the scheme of her coming here together. Except in the end, she hadn’t really needed a father for her baby. She must have miscarried, Clayton thought with feverishly clear hindsight. No wonder she had looked so tired and wan in the weeks preceding the wedding.

  And what a goddamned act on their wedding night! By then she had to have known she wasn’t pregnant, but she must have been so horrified by her near calamity that she was willing to go ahead and marry him anyway. Perhaps it made it more convenient for her lover and her if Whitney were married. No one would think a thing about her becoming pregnant now. And then Clayton recalled all the times in the last months when she had gone to London on “shopping trips” and to “visit friends.” Bile surged up in his throat. This child she was carrying now was as likely someone else’s as his.

  That bitch! That lying, deceitful little . . . No, he couldn’t call her that again, even in his twisted torment. He had loved her too much,
until a minute ago, to curse her. But he had loved a sham, a consummate actress, a hollow shell of a woman. A body. Nothing more. And the body wasn’t even his alone.

  What an instinct for survival she had, you had to give her that! She had faced him in that study with Vanessa in the same house, borne his fury and pressed her body against his, kissing him as if her whole heart were in it. Because she was pregnant! Clayton wanted to believe the baby might have been his. He even tried to convince himself of that for a moment. But he knew better—the night he had hauled her here from London there had been no more than a moment’s penetration. The act had never been consummated. The possibility that she’d conceived a child that night was too minuscule even to consider.

  The truth was that their lives were a charade. Each word Whitney spoke, every look on her face, the way she was in bed—all of it was a performance she put on every day. It was all an obscene, disgusting act!

  His hand tightened on the piece of blue stationery, slowly crumpling it into a tight, hard ball. The pain inside of him began to dull as a cold, black rage swept over him. He dropped the crumpled note blindly into the desk drawer and slammed it shut, but it wouldn’t close. A tiny white garment with a small “W” embroidered in blue threads on the collar had jammed between the drawer and the desk, half in and half out of it.

  Clayton stared at it, then gave it a vicious jerk. This was what he had been meant to find, he realized with fury. How very touching of her to tell him this way! What a flair for tender drama she had! With distaste, he dropped the tiny garment on the floor and stepped on it as he turned to walk away.

  “I see you found it,” Whitney whispered from the doorway, her gaze frozen in misery on the little gown beneath his foot.

  “When?” he said icily.