"Please!" Whitney cried in agitation, leaping to her feet. "I told you why. Because I had just gotten the documents and his note and his wretched bank draft. Because I thought he had merely been attending Elizabeth's wedding and I had practically thrown myself at his feet!"
"And now I suppose you think he'll come crawling to you?"
Whitney shook her head and stared at the floor. "No. When he sees me he acts as if I don't exist."
"What else would you expect him to do? He loved you enough to want to marry you and he gave your father a fortune. He loved you so much he committed a terrible act out of jealousy, so much that he gave you up, hoping to make you happy, so much that he came to Elizabeth's wedding to be near you. But believe me, he will not come near you
A kaleidoscope of disbelief, misery, loneliness, and despair hurtled through Whitney's mind-but the fragile hope Emily had given her burst like white sunshine in the midst of it all. She bent her head and her hair tumbled forward over her shoulders, concealing her face. In a pained, choked voice, she said, "However will I get him back without crawling to him?"
A smile of joyous relief flashed across Emily's features. "Actually, I'm afraid that's the only way. You trampled his pride every time you had the opportunity. Your pride is going to have to suffer now."
"I'll-I'll think about it," Whitney whispered.
"You do that," Emily applauded, cautiously laying down her trump card. "And while you're thinking about it, consider how you're going to feel when he marries Vanessa Stand-field. The gossips say he already has-but they are never entirely accurate. Probably, he is about to marry her."
Whitney leapt to her feet. "What can I do? I can't think where to begin."
Emily hid her smile as she walked to the door. "You will have to go to him and explain why you behaved in such a freakish way at the banquet."
"No," Whitney said, frantically shaking her head. "I'll send him a note and ask him to come here."
"You can. But he won't do it. Which will only make it doubly embarrassing when you have to go to him anyway. Provided, of course, that in the meantime he doesn't marry Miss Standfield."
Whitney Sew to the desk and snatched up her notepaper, but after Emily left she paused to think. There had to be some way to make Clayton come to her, some ruse she could use. It was too humiliating to crawl to him, particularly when he was on the verge of marrying Vanessa Standfield. After several thoughtful minutes, her eyes widened with inspiration and her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. There was a way-it was a horrid deception, but she was in no position to quibble over niceties now. Clayton had taken her to his bed and if-if he believed he had gotten her with child, then he couldn't possibly refuse to come to see her. And what's more, he certainly couldn't marry Miss Vanessa Standfield! Not only that, he would also have to marry Whitney immediately! But if he loved her as much as Emily thought he did, then surely after they were married, he would forgive her far deceiving him.
Whitney wrote the date on the note, then paused. What sort of salutation was appropriate to use when addressing a man who never wanted to hear from her again, but who was to be informed he was the father of her forthcoming baby? "Dear Sir?" Hardly! "Your grace?" Ridiculous. "Clayton?" Not under these circumstances. Whitney decided to omit the salutation completely. She thought for another minute and then wrote: "To my very great mortification, I find I am with child. Therefore, I ask that you call upon me here at once." She signed it "Whitney," then reread it.
Her faced burned with shame. It was degrading and, because it wasn't true, it was contemptible as well. It was also nearly impossible for Clayton to have fathered a child in the incomplete act, but Whitney was blissfully unaware of that.
She called Emily and, blushing to the roots of her hair, she showed the note to her. "I-I'm not certain I could send it, even if it were true," Whitney said with a shudder, shoving the hateful thing in a box of unused stationery to prevent its discovery by a servant.
"Whitney," Emily said firmly, "send a note saying that you wish to speak to him and would prefer to do it in the privacy of his home, rather than in the busy confines of this one. Tell him that you will come there tomorrow. It's as simple as that"
"It isn't 'as simple as that,'" Whitney argued, staring apprehensively at the blank piece of notepaper. "Even if Clayton agrees to see me, there's every chance he'll let me apologize and then send me away. You can't imagine how awesome he is when he's angry."
"Then don't even try to see him. He'll marry Vanessa Standfield, and if Michael and I are invited to the wedding, I'll tell you all about it."
With that motivation, Whitney's quill fairly flew across the paper, and the note was dispatched to Number 10 Upper Brook Street with a footman who was instructed to learn from one Mr. Hudgins, the Duke of Claymore's secretary, where the duke was and then to deliver the note to that place.
The footman returned within the hour. The duke, he said, had been away from home visiting Lord and Lady Standfield, however his grace was returning to his estate at Claymore late this evening. Mr. Hudgins, who was leaving to join him there, had taken the note and promised to give it to the duke as soon as he saw him tonight.
In the note Whitney had told Clayton that if she didn't hear from him by noon the next day, she would assume that he was willing to see her at five o'clock in the afternoon. Now there was nothing for her to do but wait out the torturous hours until noon tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-nine
AT PRECISELY ELEVEN O'CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, FOUR elegant travelling chaises swept through the gates of Claymore. The first was occupied by the Dowager Duchess of Claymore and her son Stephen. The second by Stephen's valet and the duchess's personal maids. The remaining two were filled to capacity with trunks of clothing and accessories which the dowager duchess deemed absolutely essential for any extended visit-particularly when one expected to meet one's new daughter-in-law, i.e., the future mother of one's grandchildren.
"It's always been so lovely here," her grace sighed, letting her gaze roam appreciatively over the vast estate's manicured lawns and formal parks which paraded majestically on both sides of the curving, paved road. Pulling her gaze from the familiar scenery, she gave her son a penetrating look. "You're quite certain that your brother is bringing me a daughter-in-law to meet tonight?"
Stephen grinned at her. "I can only tell you what I know, darling. Clay's note said simply that Vanessa and he had remained an extra night with her parents but that they would both join us here at four-thirty this afternoon."
"He only referred to her as 'Vanessa'?" her ladyship said. "Are you certain he meant Vanessa Standfield?"
Stephen sent her a wry look. "If the rumor mill is to be believed, her name is now Westmoreland."
"I saw her years ago. She was a beautiful child."
"She's a beautiful woman," Stephen said with a roguish grin. "Very blond, very blue eyes, very everything."
"Good. Then I will have beautiful grandchildren," the duchess predicted happily, her thoughts ever reverting to that Glancing sideways, she discovered her son frowning out the coach window. "Stephen, is there something about her you don't like?"
Stephen shrugged. "Only that her eyes aren't green and her name doesn't happen to be Whitney."
"Who? Oh, Stephen, that's ridiculous. What can you be thinking of? Why the girl, whoever she was, made him positively miserable. He's obviously forgotten all about her, and that's for the best."
"She's not that easy to forget," Stephen said with a grim smile.
"What do you mean?" she demanded suspiciously. "Stephen, have you met that girl?"
"No, but I saw her at a ball at the Kingsleys' a few weeks ago. She was surrounded by London's 'most eligibles,' excluding Clay, of course. When I heard her name was Whitney and saw those eyes of hers, I knew who she was."
The duchess started to demand a description of the young woman who had brought such torment to her eldest son, then dismissed the idea with a shrug. "That's all over now. Clayton is b
ringing home his wife."
"I can't think he'd so easily forget someone who meant so much to him. And I can't believe Clay is bringing home a wife. More likely a fianc6e."
"I almost hope you're right. There'll be the very devil to pay if Clayton married Miss Standfield so abruptly. The gossip will be terrible."
Stephen gave her a mocking, sideways glance. "Clay wouldn't care two hoots about the gossip, as you well know."
"Time to get up," Emily announced gaily, throwing back the curtains. "It's past noon and there's been no word from his grace telling you to stay away."
"I didn't go to sleep until dawn," Whitney mumbled, then she sat bolt upright in bed, catapulting from deep sleep to total awareness in the space of an instant. "I can't do it!" she cried.
"Of course you can. Just swing your feet over the side of the bed. It works every time," Emily teased.
Whitney pushed the covers aside and slid from the bed, her mind groping frantically for ways to extricate herself from the arranged meeting with Clayton. "Why don't we spend the day shopping and see that new play at the Royal?" she suggested desperately.
"Why don't we wait until tomorrow and begin shopping for your trousseau instead?"
"We are both candidates for Bedlam!" Whitney cried. "This entire scheme is insane. He won't listen to me, and even if he does, it won't change anything. I've seen the way he looks at me now-he despises me."
Emily shoved her in the direction of the bath. "That's encouraging. At least he feels something for you." She came back, just as Whitney finished dressing.
"How do I look?" Whitney asked uncertainly, turning in a slow circle for Emily's inspection. Her gown of rich aquamarine velvet had long sleeves and a low square-cut bodice. Her heavy mahogany hair had been brushed until it shone, then pulled back off her forehead, and fastened at the crown with an aquamarine and diamond clip, letting the rest fall in natural waves that curled at the ends halfway down her back. The lush gown was enticing and yet demure; the hair style framed her slightly flushed face, setting off her heavily fringed green eyes and finely sculpted features, giving her a softly vulnerable appearance.
Solemnly Emily said, "You look like a beautiful temple goddess about to be sacrificed to the bloodthirsty gods."
"You mean I look frightened?"
"Panic-stricken." Emily crossed to Whitney and took her cold, clammy hands in her own. "You've never looked better, but that's not going to be enough. I've met the man you're going to see, and he'll not be swayed by a poor-spirited, terrified young woman with whom he is still furious. He loved you for your spirit and courage. If you go to him all meekness and timidity, you'll be so different from the girl he loved, that you'll fail. He'll let you explain and apologize, then he'll thank you, and say goodbye. Do anything: argue with him, make him angrier if you must, but don't go there looking frightened. Be the girl he loved-smile at him, flirt with him, argue or fight with him-but don't, please don't be meek and supplicating."
"Now 1 know how poor Elizabeth must have felt when I made her defy Peter." Whitney half sighed, half laughed. But her chin came up and she was once again regal and proud.
Emily walked her out to Michael's coach and Whitney gave her a fierce hug. "Whatever happens, you've been wonderful."
The coach pulled away with a much calmer Whitney and left behind a wildly nervous Emily.
After an hour of her journey, Whitney's fragile serenity began to slip, and she tried to calm herself by imagining their meeting. Would Clayton open the door himself, or would he have the butler show her into a private room? Would he make her wait? Would he stalk in and loom over her, his handsome face cold and hard while he waited for her to finish so that he could thrust her out the door? What would he be wearing? Something casual, Whitney thought with a sinking heart, as she glanced down at her gorgeous finery-which he had paid for.
With firm determination, she pulled her mind away from this nonsensical preoccupation with the possible dissimilarities in their attire and concentrated on their meeting again. Would he be angry-or would he be merely cool? Oh God! she thought miserably, let him be angry or even furious; let him storm at me or say terrible things to me; but please, please don't let him be coldly polite, because that will mean he doesn't care anymore.
A terrible premonition of failure quivered through her. If Clayton still cared about her, he would never have waited impassively for her to come to him today; he would have at least sent her a terse note acknowledging that he would be there at five.
The coach made a sharp eastward turn and approached a pair of gigantic iron gates barring their way. He'd had the gates closed against her! Whitney thought frantically. A gatekeeper dressed in burgundy cloth trimmed in gold braid stepped out of the gatekeeper's house and spoke to the Archibalds' coachman.
An audible sigh of relief escaped Whitney as they were permitted to pass, and the coach lurched forward onto the smooth, private road. They swayed gently along the curving drive bordered with wide sweeping lawns and huge formal parks dotted with leafless trees. The gently rolling landscape seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.
They clattered over a wide bridge whose arches spanned a deep flowing stream, and at long last a magnificent house with immense expanses of mullioned windows and graceful balconies came into view. It loomed against a backdrop of clipped lawns, rising to a height of three stories in the center. Gigantic wings swept forward on both sides of the main structure, creating a terraced courtyard that was the size of a London park.
So bleak had been her mood the last time she had seen this house, Whitney could scarcely remember it. She laid her head back and closed her eyes in sublime misery: Had she called the house "dingy," or was that his word? Her own large house would fit into one of the wings with room enough left over for four more like it. She felt as if she were coming to see a stranger; whoever owned this palatial estate was not the carelessly unaffected man who'd raced against her on Dangerous Crossing or taught her to gamble with cards and chips.
Darkness had settled on the November afternoon, and the windows of the great house were aglow with lights when the coach pulled to a stop and the coachman climbed down and lowered the steps for Whitney to alight.
Comfortably ensconced in the white and gold salon at the front of the house, Stephen glanced away from his mother's anxious face and considered with distracted admiration the eighteenth-century furnishings covered in white silks and brocades. A magnificent Axminister carpet stretched across the seventy-foot length of the room, and the walls were papered in white watered silk, with paintings by Rubens, Reynolds, and Cheeraerts hanging in ornate gold gilt frames.
His gaze shifted restlessly to the clock, and he rose to pace impatiently. As he passed the wide bow windows, he saw the coach pulled up in the front drive and, with a quick grin over his shoulder at his mother, he strode from the room.
The butler was just opening the front door as Stephen stepped into the foyer with a welcoming smile on his face, expecting to see his brother with Vanessa Standfield. He halted in surprise, staring instead at a vaguely familiar, beautiful girl wrapped in a blue-green velvet cape lined with white ermine. When she reached up and pushed the hood back onto her shoulders, Stephen's pulse gave a wild leap of recognition. "My name is Miss Stone," she told the butler in a soft, musical voice. "I believe his grace is expecting me."
In that brief flash of tune, Stephen thought of his brother's anguished drunken ramblings, debated whether it was likely Clay was bringing home a wife or only a fiancee, considered the wisdom of involving himself in his brother's personal life, and on a wild impulse, made his decision.
Stepping quickly forward to intervene before the butler could say that his master wasn't at home, Stephen put on his most engaging smile and said, "My brother is expected at any minute, Miss Stone. Would you like to come in and wait?"
Two very conflicting reactions flickered across the beautiful young woman's face: disappointment and relief. She shook her head. "No. Thank you. I sent word ye
sterday that I would like a few moments of his time, and asked that he let me know if today wouldn't be convenient. Perhaps some other day…" she murmured, half turning to leave.
Stephen reached out and firmly grasped her elbow. The reaction earned him a surprised look from the young woman, which deepened to astonishment as Stephen gently-but forcibly-drew her back into the entrance foyer. "Clay was delayed and didn't return yesterday," Stephen explained with a disarming smile. "So he doesn't know you intended to call on him today." Before she could utter a protest, he reached up and politely lifted the aquamarine velvet cape off her shoulders, then he handed it to the butler.
Whitney's gaze was riveted on the immense marble staircase which swept in a wide graceful half circle, terminating in an arc along the broad balcony above. She remembered how Clayton had carried her up that staircase, and she recalled vividly how brutal his rage could be. Abruptly, she turned toward the door. "Thank you for inviting me to stay, Lord Westmoreland."
"Stephen," he corrected.
"Thank you, Stephen," she said, taken aback when he insisted she use his given name. "But I've decided not to wait. If I could have my cape, please?" She looked at the butler, who looked at Stephen, who firmly shook his head, whereupon the butler crossed his arms over his chest and simply pretended not to have heard her request.
"I would like you to stay," Stephen said, his voice firm, but his smile cordial.
Bewildered laughter crept into Whitney's voice as she accepted Stephen's outstretched arm. "I don't think I've ever been made to feel quite so welcome, my lord."
"Westmorelands are famous for their hospitality," Stephen lied with a roguish grin as he drew her inexorably toward the salon where his mother was waiting.
At the sight of the duchess seated on one of the settees, Whitney drew back in startled embarrassment.
"My mother and I will both be pleased to have you wait for Clay with us," Stephen urged gently. "I know he will be delighted to see you, Miss Stone, and that he would never forgive me for letting you go before he returned."
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