Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  He saw Janet Cambridge's reflection in the window glass and heard her low, throaty laugh behind him. Until a few months ago, he had enjoyed her sensuous beauty and seductive voice. But now she lacked something. Her eyes weren't the green of India jade; she didn't took at him with that teasing, appraising, impudent sidewise glance; she didn't tremble in his arms with shy, awakening emotions that she couldn't identify. She was too available, too eager to please him, but then other women always were. They didn't spar with him or stubbornly defy him. They weren't fresh and alive and witty and wonderful. They weren't. . . Whitney.

  He took another long swallow of his drink to dull the ache that came with just her name. He wondered what she was doing. Was she planning to marry Sevarin? Or was she with DuVille instead? DuVille was in London; he would be able to comfort her and tease her, to help her forget. DuVille would suit her better, Clayton decided with a wrenching pain. Sevarin was dull and weak, but DuVille was sophisticated and urbane. Clayton hoped with all his heart that she would choose the Frenchman. Well, with half his heart; the other half twisted in agony at the image of Whitney as another man's wife.

  He tortured himself by thinking of the way she had said, "I was going to tell you that I would marry you." And bastard that he was, he had mocked her! Viciously, deliberately, coldly stolen her innocence! And when he had finished, she had put her arms around him and cried. Oh Christ! he had all but raped her and she had cried in his arms.

  Clayton dragged his thoughts from that night. He preferred the more refined torture of thinking about the joy of her: the jaunty way she had looked at him at the starting line of their race, just before the pistol fired. "If you would care to follow me, I shall be happy to show you the way."

  He could still visualize her exactly as she was that night La the garden at the Armands' masquerade, her beautiful face aglow with irreverent merriment because he had told her he was a duke. "You are no duke," she had laughed. "You have no quizzing glass, you don't wheeze and snort, and I doubt you have even a mild case of gout. Tm afraid you'll have to aspire to some other title, my lord."

  He thought of the way she had melted against nun and kissed him with sweet passion that day beside the pavilion. God, what a warm, fiery, loving creature she could be-when she wasn't being stubborn and rebellious . . . and wonderful.

  Clayton closed his eyes, cursing himself for letting Whitney leave Claymore at all. He should have demanded that she marry him as soon as he could summon a cleric to the house. And when she put up a fight, he could have bluntly pointed out that since he had already taken her virginity, she had no choice in the matter. Then, in the months that followed, he could have found some way to make up for what happened.

  Clayton slammed his glass down and strode past the guests and out of the room. There was nothing he could ever do to atone for the profane act he had committed against her. Nothing!

  The guests departed early the following morning and the brothers celebrated their last evening together by getting purposely, thoroughly, blindly drunk. They reminisced about their boyhood misdemeanors and when they ran out of those, they began telling each other bawdy stories, laughing uproariously at the tavern jokes, and drinking all the while.

  Clayton reached for the decanter of brandy and spilled the last drop of it into his empty glass. "Migawd!" Stephen rasped admiringly, watching him. "You drinked . . . drunked . . . finished the whole damned bottle." He grabbed another crystal decanter and pushed it across the table toward Clayton. "Here, see what you can do to the whiskey."

  Clayton shrugged indifferently and pulled the top from the decanter.

  Through slightly bleary eyes, Stephen watched him fill the glass to the brim. "What the hell are you trying to do, drown yerself?"

  "I am trying," Clayton informed him in a proud, drunken tone, "to beat you to the finish line of oblivion."

  "Probably you will, too." Stephen nodded jerkily. "But I was always the better man. It was unkind in you to be born, Big Brudder."

  "Right. Never should've done it. Wisht I hadn't, but she's . . . she's paid me back for it tenfold."

  Although the words were slurred, they were filled with such Weak pain and despair that Stephen snapped his head up and stared, as alert as his sodden wits would permit. "Who paid you back for being born?"

  "She did."

  Stephen shook his head, desperately trying to clear the alcohol euphoria from his hazy senses and concentrate. "Which . . . she?"

  "The one with the green eyes," Clayton whispered in an agonized voice. "She's making me pay."

  "Whad you do to make her want to pay you back?"

  "Offered for her," Clayton announced thickly. "Gave her stupid father Ј100,000. Whitney wouldn't have me though." He grimaced, taking a long swallow of whiskey. "Betrothed herself to somebody else. Errybody's talking about it. No," he corrected himself, "she din't get betrothed. But I thought she had and I… and I…"

  "And you . . . ?" Stephen rasped softly.

  Clayton's features twisted into a mask of anguish. He lifted nis palm to Stephen as if asking nun to understand, then let it fall onto the table. "I didn't believe she was still a virgin," he grated. "Didn't know … till I took her … and .. ."

  The tense silence that followed was suddenly shattered by a terrible sound that ripped from Clayton's chest. "Oh, God, I hurt her," he groaned agonizingly. "I hurt her so damned much!" He covered his face with his hands, his voice a hoarse, ravaged whisper. "I hurt her and she . . . she put her arms around me because . . . because she wanted me to hold her. Stephen," he choked brokenly, "she wanted me to hold her while she cried!"

  He crossed his arms on the table and buried his face in them, finally sinking into the oblivion he'd been seeking all night. His raw voice was so low Stephen could hardly hear it. "I can still hear her crying," he whispered.

  In dumbfounded amazement, Stephen stared at Clayton's bent head, trying to piece together the disjointed story. Apparently his self-confident, invulnerable, older brother had lost his heart to some girl with green eyes named Whitney.

  There had been a wild rumor sweeping London this past week that Clayton was betrothed-or on the verge of it-to some female, but that was nothing out of the ordinary and Stephen had shrugged it off as being the usual idle speculation. But it must have been true, and this Whitney must have been the girl.

  Stupefied, Stephen continued to gaze at his sleeping brother. It was unbelievable that Clayton, who had always treated women with a combination of amused tolerance and relaxed indulgence, could have been driven to rape. And why? Because the girl refused to marry him? Because he was jealous? Impossible! And yet the evidence was across from him; Clayton was tearing himself apart with remorse.

  Stephen sighed. Clayton had always been surrounded by dazzling women; Whitney must have been very special to have meant so much to him, for it was perfectly obvious that he loved her desperately-and still did.

  In fact, Stephen thought tiredly, if the girl had turned to Clayton for comfort after he had just forcibly deprived her of her virginity, she must have loved Clayton a little too. More than a little.

  The following morning, the brothers shook hands on the front steps, neither able to look at the bright, sunlit day without flinching in pain. The duchess waved a cheerful goodbye to Clayton, then rounded on Stephen. "He looks awful!"

  "He feels awful," Stephen assured her, gingerly rubbing his temples.

  "Stephen," she said firmly, "there is something I wish to discuss with you." She swept into the salon, closed the door behind them, and sat down in the nearest chair. Then she took an extraordinarily long time arranging her skirts to her satisfaction. In a halting but determined voice, she said, "Last night I couldn't sleep, so I came downstairs, thinking I'd spend a little more time with the two of you. When I reached the library, I realized that both of you were shockingly in your cups, and I was about to say how stunned I was to discover that I had raised two drunken louts, when I… when I …"

  Stephen's lips twitched w
ith laughter at the "drunken louts" but otherwise he kept his face straight. "When you overheard what Clay was telling me?" he assisted her.

  Miserably, she nodded. "How could he have done such a thing?"

  "I'm not certain why he did it," Stephen began carefully. "Obviously he cared for the girl, and he's a man-"

  "Don't treat me like an imbecile, Stephen," her ladyship interrupted hotly. "I am a grown woman. I've been married and I've borne two sons. I am perfectly aware that Clayton is a man and that, as such, he has certain … ah …"

  "Certain urges?" Stephen provided when she began fanning her flushed face, looking agonizingly ill at ease. She nodded but Stephen said, "What I was trying to say is that Clay is a man who has always been sought after by women, yet he never cared for any of them enough to offer marriage.

  Apparently, he finally found the woman he wanted. If he gave her father Ј100,000, I assume the girl is undowered and her family is poor, but even so, she refused him."

  "She must have been seven kinds of fool to refuse your brother," Lady Westmoreland exclaimed. "She would have to be stupid not to want him."

  Stephen grinned at her loyalty, but he shook his head. "It's unlikely the girl is stupid or foolish. Clay has never been interested in vapid, empty-headed misses."

  "I suppose you're right," Lady Westmoreland sighed, coming to her feet. She stopped at the door and gave Stephen a sad look over her shoulder. "I think," she said quietly, "that he must have adored her."

  "He did."

  Clayton read the legal document dissolving the betrothal agreement, then signed it and quickly shoved it across the desk to the solicitor. He could barely stand the sight of it. "There's something more," he said when the solicitor began to rise. "See that this note and a bank draft for Ј10,000 are delivered along with the document to Miss Stone at her home."

  Clayton pulled open one of the heavy, carved drawers of his desk and extracted a blank sheet of white parchment with his seal embossed in silver at the top.

  He stared at the blank sheet, the moment freezing in time.

  He couldn't believe it had truly come to this. How could it be ending like this, with this wrenching stab of pain and loss, when he'd been so confident only a few weeks ago that it would end with Whitney standing beside him as his bride, lying beside him as his wife?

  He forced himself to pick up the quill and write the words, "Please accept my sincere wishes for your happiness and convey them to Paul. The enclosed bank draft is intended as a gift." Clayton hesitated, knowing that Whitney would fly into a rage over the money, but he couldn't bear to think of her having to pinch pennies for a new gown, which she would have to do as Sevarin's wife. If by some miracle she didn't marry Sevarin, then the money would be hers. At least her stupid father couldn't once more spend everything she had.

  "Enclose the draft and this note in the same envelope as that." He jerked his head toward the hateful document dissolving their betrothal. Rising, he concluded the painful interview with a silent nod of dismissal.

  When the solicitor left, Clayton sank back down in his chair, fighting against the impulse to have the man stopped at the gates and brought back, to snatch the envelope from him and tear it to pieces. Instead he leaned his head against the padded leather back of his chair and closed his eyes. "Oh little one," he breathed aloud, "why do I have to send you that damned envelope?"

  He thought of the words he had really wanted to write to hen "Please come back to me. Just let me hold you and I swear I will make you forget. I'll fill your days with laughter and your nights with love. I'll give you a son. And if you still can't love me, then all I ask is that you give me a daughter. A daughter with your eyes, your smile, your-"

  Swearing savagely, he lurched forward and grabbed the stack of correspondence that had accumulated in his absence.

  With single-minded determination, Clayton threw himself into the task of forgetting her. He immersed himself in work, spending hours each day poring over reports on his present business investments and planning future ones. He drove his secretary, Mr. Hudgins, so hard that an assistant had to be hired for the man. He met with his business managers, his estate managers, his stewards, and his tenants. He worked until it was time to go out at night to attend a ball, the opera, the theatre.

  Each evening he deliberately escorted a different woman, hoping each time that this woman would spark something within him-something that had died four weeks ago. But if she was blond, Clayton discovered that he had an aversion to pale hair. If she was brunette, her hair lacked the lustre of Whitney's. If she was vivacious, she grated on his nerves. If she was sultry, he found her distasteful. If she was quiet, he had a wild urge to shake her and say, "Dammit, say something!"

  But slowly, very slowly, he found his balance again. He began to feel that if he continued to block a pair of laughing green eyes from his memory, he might actually forget her someday.

  As the weeks passed, he smiled more easily, and, occasionally, he was even able to laugh.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  WHTTNEY'S DAYS IN LONDON HAD ESTABLISHED A PATTERN. SHE went shopping with Elizabeth and Emily, or for an occasional drive through the park. Nicki called regularly at the house. Rarely did she let him escort her anywhere, but at least he came, and he made her smile. And he never asked her for more than she was able to give.

  Elizabeth was a daily visitor. She was so caught up in her wedding plans, so eager to discuss her gown, the flowers, the banquet menu, and everything else that concerned the wedding which was only four days away, that Whitney could hardly remain in the same room with her exuberant joy, and even while she was frantically thinking up excuses to leave, Whitney hated herself for not being better able to take pleasure in Elizabeth's happiness.

  She no longer lived in frantic expectation of seeing Clayton, but neither was she able to relax. She existed in a tense limbo, suspended between a past she refused to think about and a future she could not bear to contemplate.

  Today was much like the others, except that when Elizabeth launched into an enumeration of all Peter's wonderful qualities, Whitney leapt to her feet, excused herself, snatched her cape from her room and practically ran out of the house. Ignoring the stricture which required that she take someone with her, she fled to the small park a few blocks away, then slowed her steps and wandered aimlessly down the deserted paths.

  Aunt Anne and Whitney's father were coming up to London for Elizabeth's wedding-Elizabeth had surprised everyone by deciding she wished to be married in all the splendor London could provide. As much as she longed to see her beloved aunt, Whitney dreaded the confrontation. In four days Aunt Anne would arrive, expecting to find Clayton and Whitney acting like an unofficially engaged couple. Instead, Whitney was going to tell her that she was never going to marry the Duke of Claymore. And Aunt Anne would insist on knowing why.

  Why? Whitney thought wildly, rehearsing the scene with her aunt. "Because he dragged me away from Emily's party, he took me to his house and he tore my clothes off, and he made me get into his bed."

  Aunt Anne would be stunned and outraged, but she would want to know what had happened before that. She would want to know why. Whitney sank down onto a park bench, her shoulders drooping with confused despair. Why had Clayton believed she had given herself to Paul? And why hadn't he at least come to find out how she was faring? Or to tell her what he was going to do?

  Not once in the last four weeks had Whitney allowed herself to think about that night, but now that she 'had started, she couldn't stop. She tried to remember Clayton as the man who had coldly and viciously ripped her clothes off. Instead she remembered him in that awful, pain-blurred moment when he had discovered her virginity. She saw his tensed shoulders above her, his head thrown back, his face a tortured mask of anguish and regret.

  She wanted to remember the names he had called her and the insulting, degrading things he had said to her. Instead she remembered that he had held her in his arms while she cried, stroking her hair and whispe
ring to her in a voice raw with emotion. "Don't cry, darling. Please don't cry anymore."

  An awful, stabbing ache grew and grew in Whitney's throat, but now the pain she felt was for Clayton, not herself. When she realized it, she jumped furiously to her feet. She must be mad, utterly mad! She was actually feeling sorry for the man who had violated her! She never wanted to lay eyes on him again. Ever!

  She walked quickly back down the path, the gusty wind blowing her cape around her like a tourniquet. As suddenly as it had come up, the wind died and a squirrel scampered toward her, then stopped, watching her half in fear, half in expectation. Whitney stopped too, waiting for him to move, but he sat up and chattered reproachfully at her.

  She saw the acorn lying beside her foot and bent down to pick it up, offering it to him. The furry little animal blinked nervously, but came no closer, so Whitney tossed it to him. "Better take it," she told him softly, "it's going to be winter soon." The squirrel flicked its eyes to the precious acorn now lying only inches from him. For a moment he hesitated, then he turned, fleeing from it as quickly as his legs would carry him. !

  Not once in the weeks since that fateful night had Whitney broken her brave promise not to cry. She had succeeded, but she had also stored up a terrible burden of emotion. A little squirrel who preferred to starve rather than take something she had touched, was the last straw. "I hope you starve!" she choked as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She pivoted on her heel and stalked down the path, past the park gates.

  Tears streamed down her face and the wind burned her eyes, but she cried anyway. She cried until there were no more tears of bitterness or hurt left to shed-and strangely her spirits began to lift. In fact, by the time she reached the Archibald house, Whitney felt better than she had since "it" had happened.