Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  Whitney halted and stared at him. "Lord Westmoreland," she began with a hint of a smile touching her soft lips.

  "Stephen," he corrected.

  "Stephen-I think you ought to know that there's every chance your brother won't be in the least 'delighted' to see me."

  "I'll risk it," Stephen said with a grin.

  Whitney was overawed by the white-and-gold room, but she carefully refrained from gazing at the intricately carved plasterwork on the ceilings and the masterpieces displayed in ornate gold frames along the walls while Stephen led her to his mother.

  "Mother, may I present Miss Stone," Stephen said. "Since Clay did not return last night, he is unaware of Whitney's intention to call, but I have persuaded her to stay and wait with us until he arrives."

  As Whitney curtsied to the duchess, she heard the emphasis Stephen placed on her first name-which she hadn't told him-and she saw the duchess's blank, answering look.

  "Are you a friend of my son's, Miss Stone?" the duchess politely inquired as Whitney took the indicated seat across from her.

  "Occasionally we have been friends, your grace," Whitney replied honestly.

  The duchess blinked at the unusual response, studied the jade-green eyes regarding her solemnly from beneath a heavy fringe of dark lashes, then suddenly half rose from her chair, caught herself, and sat back down. Her gaze flew to Stephen, who nodded imperceptibly at her.

  Cheerfully ignoring his mother's apprehensive glances, he relaxed back in his chair and listened while she and Whitney discussed a variety of topics, from Paris fashions to London weather.

  After nearly an hour the front door was swung wide and voices drifted in from the entryway. The words were inaudible, but there was no mistaking the soft murmur and throaty laughter of a woman as she answered Clayton. Stephen saw Whitney's stricken expression as she realized that Clayton was accompanied by a female. Rising quickly, he flashed a sympathetic, encouraging look at her and then carefully placed himself so that he was standing in front of her, blocking her from Clayton's view to give her time to compose herself.

  "I'm sorry we're late. We were delayed," Clayton said to his mother as he leaned down and pressed a tight kiss on her forehead. Teasingly he added, "I trust you had no trouble finding your rooms without me?" Turning aside, he drew Vanessa toward. "Mother, may I present Vanessa . . ."

  Stephen expelled his breath in a rush of relief when Clayton finished. "Standfield."

  Vanessa sank into a deep curtsy before the duchess and when the two ladies had exchanged the proper civilities, Clayton waved a casual arm in Stephen's direction and laughingly added, "Vanessa, you already know Stephen." With that he turned back to his mother and bent tow, speaking quietly to her.

  "A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Standfield," Stephen said with amused formality.

  "For heaven's sake, Stephen," Vanessa laughed. "You and I have been on a first-name basis forever."

  Ignoring that, Stephen reached behind him, touched Whit-ney's arm, and she rose with quaking reluctance to her feet. "Miss Standfield," Stephen raised his voice slightly, "may I present Miss Whitney Stone …"

  Clayton jerked erect and swung around.

  "And this stony-faced gentleman," Stephen continued lightly to Whitney, "is my brother. As you know."

  Whitney actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in Clayton's eyes as they raked over her. "How is your aunt?" he inquired icily.

  Whitney swallowed and replied in a barely audible whisper, "My aunt is very well, thank you. And you?"

  Clayton nodded curtly. "As you can see, I have survived our last encounter without scars."

  Vanessa, who apparently recognized Whitney as her rival for Clayton from the Rutherfords' ball, gave Whitney a feint inclination of her elegantly coiffed head and said with a frosty smile, "Esterbrook was introduced to you at Lord and Lady Rutherford's affair, Miss Stone." She paused as if trying to recall the occasion more clearly. "Yes, I remember that he spoke of you at some length to many of us."

  Realizing that Vanessa was waiting for an answer, Whitney said cautiously, "That was very kind of him."

  "As I recall, what he said was not in the least kind, Miss Stone."

  Whitney stiffened at Vanessa's unexpected and unprovoked attack, and Stephen waded into the deafening silence. "We can all discuss our mutual acquaintances at dinner," he announced cheerfully, "providing that I can convince my beautiful guest to dine with us."

  Whitney shook her head in a desperate, emphatic no. "I really can't stay. I-I'm sorry."

  "Ah, but I insist." He grinned. Arching a brow at his white-faced brother, he said, "We both insist, don't we?"

  To Stephen's infinite disgust, Clayton didn't bother to second the invitation. Instead he merely glanced over his shoulder and nodded curtly to the servant hovering in the doorway, indicating that another place should be set at the table. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode to the sideboard where he snatched a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

  Stephen seated himself beside Whitney, then looked around to where Clayton stood, his tall frame rigid with anger, his back to them as he poured himself a drink. "Me too, big brother," he called good-naturedly.

  Clayton threw Stephen a look of unwavering distaste and said in a voice of tightly controlled fury, "I am certain, Stephen, that included among your other brilliant talents is the ability to pour your own drink."

  "Correct," Stephen said serenely, getting up from the settee where he was seated beside Whitney. "Ladies?" he offered. "A glass of wine?"

  Vanessa and Whitney both accepted, and the duchess stifled the urge to request a full bottle.

  Stephen strolled over to the sideboard, poured himself some whiskey, and began filling three crystal glasses with wine, blithely ignoring the simmering rage emanating from his brother. Under his breath, Clayton snapped, "Is there the slightest chance that you don't know who she is-to me?"

  "Not the slightest." Stephen grinned imperturbably, picking up three of the four glasses. As he turned toward the ladies he said in a carrying voice, "Will you bring Whitney's glass, Clay? I can't manage all four. '

  Carrying her wineglass, Clayton bore purposefully down on Whitney, and she unconsciously pressed further back into the seat cushions, searching his forbidding countenance for some sign that he still cared for her. But there was none.

  In a state of acute misery, she absently sipped her wine surreptitiously studying Clayton, who was seated across from her beside Vanessa, with his gleaming booted foot resting casually atop the opposite knee, his long legs encased in superbly tailored gray trousers. Seeing him here, relaxed and at home in the splendor of this white-and-gold room, he was every inch the aloof, elegant nobleman, the master of all he surveyed. Never had he looked more handsome-or more unattainable. And to make everything worse, Vanessa Stand-field, who was draped in flowing blue silk, was more haughtily, breathtakingly beautiful than Whitney had realized that night at the Rutherfords' ball.

  In the hour before dinner was announced, Stephen carried the greatest share of the conversational burden, with Vanessa contributing two more pointed insults aimed at Whitney. Clayton spoke in clipped, abrupt phrases only when absolutely necessary, and Whitney replied to Stephen's light banter with weak monosyllables. The duchess had three more glasses of wine and said nothing at all to anyone.

  Curled into a tight ball of suspended anguish, Whitney silently counted the minutes until dinner could be finished and the ordeal over, so that she could creep away. She now knew she should never have come. It was too late.

  Mercifully, dinner was announced shortly thereafter. Clay-ton rose, and without so much as a glance in Whitney's direction, he offered his arm to his mother and, with Vanessa on the other, escorted both women from the room.

  Whitney stood and took Stephen's arm, her gaze clinging hopelessly to Clayton's back. She started to follow in his wake, but Stephen stopped her. "Damn Vanessa!" he laughed softly. "I could strangle her. It's time for us to change our stra
tegy-although everything has been going well so far."

  "Strategy?" Whitney gasped. "Going well?"

  "Perfectly. You've been sitting here looking beautiful and vulnerable, and Clayton can't tear his eyes off you when he thinks you aren't looking. But it's time for you to do something to get him off alone with you."

  Whitney's heart soared precariously. "He can't tear his eyes-? Oh, Stephen, are you certain? I don't think he even knows I'm here."

  "He knows you're here," Stephen said, laughing. "Not that he doesn't wish to God you weren't! In fact, I can't recall ever seeing him this furious. Now it will be up to you to push his anger beyond the limits of his control."

  "What?" Whitney whispered. "Dear God, why?"

  They had reached the entrance of the dining room, but Stephen turned and paused before a portrait on the wall opposite the double doors; their backs were in full view of the diners who were already seated at the table. He gestured at the painting as if pointing out its merits to Whitney. "You have to make him furious enough to leave the table and take you with him. If you don't, as soon as dinner is over, he'll find some excuse to draw Vanessa and my mother off somewhere else, and simply leave you with me."

  The prospect of actively trying to engage Clayton in verbal combat filled Whitney with an odd mixture of fear and anticipation. She reminded herself of what Emily had said about not being meek, and told herself bracingy that if demure Elizabeth Ashton could do it, so could she. "Stephen," she said suddenly, "why are you doing this?"

  "There's no time to go into that now," Stephen replied, guiding her toward the dining room. "But remember this-no matter how angry he is, my brother is in love with you. And if you can get him alone, I think you'll be able to prove it to him."

  "But your mother will think I'm the gauchest female alive if I deliberately provoke him."

  Stephen grinned boyishly at her. "My mother will think you are brave and wonderful. Just as I do. Now courage, young lady! I'm expecting to see more of the gay, spirited female I watched at the Kingsleys' the other night."

  There was just time for Whitney to flash an astonished, grateful look at him as he led her to her place at the table. As Stephen seated her, Clayton remarked with withering sarcasm, "It's kind of you finally to join us."

  "It was kind of you to ask me, your grace," Whitney returned pointedly.

  Clayton ignored her and nodded to the servants to begin serving. He was seated at the head of the table, with his mother on his right, and Vanessa on his left. Whitney was next to the duchess, and Stephen took a place opposite Whitney, beside Vanessa.

  As the servant poured champagne into Whitney's glass, Clayton drawled caustically, "Leave the bottle next to Miss Stone. She is overly fond of champagne, as I recall."

  Whitney's spirits gave a leap of joy-Clayton was no longer able to ignore her! Surely he must still care for her to be angry enough to say such a thing. She smiled enchantingly at him over her glass and sipped the bubbly wine. "Not overly fond of champagne. Although at times it does help to reinforce one's courage."

  "Really? I wouldn't know."

  "Ah yes, you prefer whiskey to reinforce yours," she quipped as he lifted his glass to his mouth. His eyes narrowed ominously and Whitney quickly looked away. Please love me, she implored him silently. Don't make me go through this for nothing.

  "Do you play the pianoforte, Whitney?" the duchess asked, nervously stepping in to cover the charged silence.

  "Only if I wish to give offense," Whitney replied with a shy smile.

  "Do you sing then?" her grace persisted in sheer desperation.

  "Yes," Whitney laughed, "but without the slightest attention to tune, I'm afraid."

  "Really, Miss Stone," Vanessa drawled, "it's extraordinary to meet a gently reared Englishwoman who has not been taught either to sing or to play. Exactly what are your accomplishments?"

  "Whitney is a proficient flirt," Clayton interjected scathingly, answering Vanessa's question himself. "She is conversant in several languages and could undoubtedly do a creditable job of cursing fluently in all of them. She plays a fair game of chess, a poor game of solitaire, and is a capable horsewoman when deprived of her crop. She claims to excel with a slingshot-a talent for which I can't vouch firsthand, and she is a convincing actress-a talent for which I can. Have I treated you fairly, Whitney?" he snapped.

  "Not entirely, your grace," Whitney said softly, stinging from the cruel whips of his words even though she was smiling. "Surely my chess game is better than 'fair.' And if you doubt my skill with the slingshot, I shall be pleased to demonstrate it to you-providing that you volunteer to be my target, as I have just been yours."

  Stephen gave a sharp crack of laughter and his mother croaked, "Have you attended many social functions since you've come back from France?"

  Whitney felt Clayton's scorching gaze on her and could not quite meet it. "Many parties and balls. Although no one has given a masquerade, and I particularly enjoy them. I believe my lord duke enjoys them equally-"

  "Do you also enjoy weddings?" Vanessa asked her smoothly. "If so, we shall be certain to invite you to ours."

  The silence of an ancient tomb settled over the table Whitney tried valiantly to continue eating but could not swallow past the lump of desolation swelling in her throat. She looked miserably at Stephen, who shrugged imperturbably, and arched a brow in Clayton's direction. She knew that Stephen meant for her to continue, but she couldn't now. It was over. As transparent as it would be to everyone when she pleaded sudden illness, Whitney couldn't bear to stay at that table. She was too bruised and battered to care that everyone would know that the announcement of Clayton and Vanessa's betrothal was the reason she was leaving.

  She took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table beside her plate. As she reached down to slide her heavy chair back, a feminine hand suddenly came to rest over hers. The duchess gave her fingers a brief, encouraging squeeze, then held them tightly in a gesture that clearly said, "Stay and finish what you have begun."

  Whitney smiled uncertainly, hesitated, then replaced her napkin. She glanced at Clayton, who was moodily contemplating the wine in his glass, then at Vanessa. Whitney couldn't bear to think of Clayton married to such a haughty beauty-not when she herself loved him so much, and had come this far, in this embarrassing fashion, to tell him so. She thought of Clayton holding Vanessa in his arms and kissing her in that intimate way of his, and that made Whitney angry and jealous enough to stay.

  Vanessa put her hand on Clayton's arm. "I hope you aren't angry with me for blurting out our secret in front of a stranger."

  "I'm certain he isn't in the least angry, Miss Standfield," Whitney said quietly, but her eyes were on Clayton. "We all do foolish things when we're in love. Don't we, your grace?"

  "Do we?" Clayton countered repressively. "I hadn't noticed."

  "Then you either have a very short memory," Whitney challenged softly, "or a very convenient one. Or perhaps you've never been in love, after all."

  Clayton's wineglass slammed on the table. "Precisely what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

  Whitney withered before the blast of those gray eyes. "Nothing," she lied softly.

  The clink of silver began again. She watched Clayton's hand flexing on his goblet of wine, clenching it and loosening, then clenching again, and she knew he was wishing that her neck, not his goblet, were in his grip. After several minutes, his mother nervously cleared her throat, and cautiously said to Whitney, "Tell me, my dear, were things very different here in England when you returned?"

  Whitney started to reply impersonally, but then she realized that the duchess had just unknowingly given her exactly the opening she needed. Since Clayton wasn't willing to let her explain in private, perhaps she could at least make him partially understand, here, at the table. "Very different!" she said with feeling. "You see, shortly after I returned to England, I discovered that while I was still in France my father had arranged for my marriage to a man I had scarcely met, a
nd did not even recognize when I saw him again here." "How distressing," replied the duchess with a dawning look of understanding.

  "Indeed it was-particularly because I have a freakish streak in my nature which positively rebels against being coldly ordered about by anyone. And the man I was to marry, although he was kind and understanding in many ways, was quite horridly arbitrary and imperious about the betrothal. He acted as if I had no choice in the matter whatever."

  "These arranged marriages can be difficult to adjust to at first," the duchess agreed. "What did you do then?"

  "She betrothed herself to another man who was thoroughly spineless and an idiot!" Clayton announced coldly.

  "But not dictatorial and tyrannical," Whitney shot back. "And I did not betroth myself to Paul at all!"

  Angry silence reigned until Stephen laughingly said, "My God, don't keep us in suspense. Then what happened?"

  Clayton answered for her in a contemptuous drawl. "Since there were another thousand eligible men in London, Miss Stone set about seeing how many of those she could betroth herself to as well."

  Whitney couldn't endure it when he used that tone of voice. She bit her lip and meekly shook her head. "No, I was only ever betrothed to one man, but he's so angry with me, he won't give me a chance to explain. He's already withdrawn his offer."

  "The beast!" Stephen said cheerfully, helping himself to a second portion of duck a 1'orange. "He sounds like an evil-tempered sort. You're probably much better off without him." "I-I have a rather formidable temper myself," Whitney admitted.

  "In that case, he's better off without you," Clayton snapped, then his gaze swung on Stephen with deadly menace. "Stephen, I find this conversation not only excessively boring, but in excruciatingly bad taste. Am I making myself clear?"

  Stephen met his brother's look with sham bewilderment and nodded, but even he didn't dare to reopen the subject.

  Servants moved about the room, and all five people at the dining table studiously concentrated on the sumptuous fare on their plates, but only Stephen ate with any enjoyment. Whitney told herself she would try once more, just once more, to make Clayton leave the room with her. Although how she was going to cope with him if she succeeded, was beyond her imagination.