"Stephen asked you a question, Clayton," Vanessa whispered.
"What?" Clayton demanded, staring at Stephen with blazing animosity.
"I asked how your horses did at the last race."
"They did well," was the curt answer.
"How well?" Stephen persisted. Although he addressed the table at large, the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was aimed at Whitney as he explained. "We had a bet that three of Clayton's and two of mine would come in the money. I know mine placed, and only two of his did, which means he lost the bet, and he owes me Ј300." Stephen's conspiratorial grin widened meaningfully at Whitney. "He doesn't care about the money, but he hates to admit he lost. He's never learned to accept defeat."
Clayton laid down his knife and fork, preparing to give Stephen the brutal setdown he'd earned hours before, but Whitney, taking Stephen's cue, immediately drew off Clay-ton's fire. "How strange you should say that," she said to Stephen, looking genuinely amazed. "I have found that your brother accepts defeat without even putting up the slightest struggle. Why, faced with the tiniest discouragement, he simply gives up and-"
Clayton's open hand slammed down on the table with a crash that made the dishes dance. He surged to his feet, a muscle leaping furiously along the taut line of his jaw. "Miss Stone and I have something to say to each other which is best said in private." He gritted out the words, flinging his napkin down on the table. Swiftly, he strode around the table and jerked Whitney's chair back. "Get up!" he snapped in a tow, terrible voice when Whitney remained frozen in her seat. His hand clamped down painfully on her forearm and Whitney rose unsteadily.
The duchess looked at her in helpless dismay, but Stephen lifted his glass to Whitney in a silent toast and grinned.
Forcibly pulling her beside him, Clayton strode purposefully from the room and down the carpeted marble hallway. As they passed the front door, he snapped at the butler, "Have Miss Stone's carriage waiting in front in three minutes!" He turned down a side hall and nodded curtly to a servant who opened the doors of a luxurious study for them.
Clayton hauled her halfway across the room, which was lined with books recessed behind richly carved arches of polished oak, then flung her arm away and stalked to the fireplace. Turning, he regarded her with a look of undiluted loathing, white he visibly strove to bring his rampaging temper under control. Suddenly his voice slashed through the silence. "You have exactly two minutes to explain the purpose of this unexpected and unwelcome visit of yours. At the end of that time, I will escort you to your carriage and make your excuses for your absence to my mother and brother."
Whitney drew a tortured breath, knowing that if he saw her fear now he would use it against her. "The purpose of my visit?" she said in a small, distracted voice, her mind frantically counting off the passing seconds. "I-! would have thought by now it was obvious."
"It is not obvious!"
"I've come to-to explain why I said what I did to you at the banquet. You see," she said, stammering in her haste to finish in the minutes he'd allotted her, "earlier at the church, I thought we-you and I-still had an agreement, and-"
Clayton's eyes raked contemptuously over her. "We have no agreement," he said scathingly. "It's over. Done with. It should never have begun! The betrothal was an insane idea, and I curse the day I thought of it."
Sick with failure and defeat, Whitney dug her nails into the flesh of her palms and shook her head in denial. "It never had a chance to begin because I wouldn't let it.''
"Your two minutes are almost up."
"Clayton, please listen to me!" she cried desperately "You-you told me a long time ago that you wanted me to come to you willingly, that you didn't want a cold, unwilling wife."
"And?" he demanded furiously.
Whitney's voice shook. "And, I am here. Willingly."
Clayton stiffened, his whole body tensing into a rigid line as her meaning pierced the armor of his wrath. He stared at her for a moment, his jaw tight and hard, then he leaned back against the mantel and closed his eyes.
He was fighting her, Whitney knew. Trying to shut her out. In a paralysis of fear, she waited, watching him. It seemed an eternity before he reluctantly straightened. His eyes nicked open, meeting hers, and Whitney's heart gave a wild leap. She had won! She could see it in the slight softening of his rugged features. Oh God, she had won!
He looked first at the long stretch of carpet separating them, and then at her. When he spoke, the harsh edge of his voice was tempered, but his words were low and meaningful. "I'll not make this any easier for you," he told her evenly.
The distance between them stretched like a mile, and Whitney knew that he meant she would have to make the trip across the room to him if she wanted him, that he would not so much as meet her halfway . . . because, even now, he didn't entirely trust her.
His eyes never left hers as Whitney started walking toward him on legs that felt like water. A mere step away from him, she had to pause to still the slamming of her heart and quaking of her knees. She took the final step on legs that feit as if they were about to buckle beneath her, and stopped so close to him that her breasts were only inches from his gray jacket.
With her head bowed, she waited, but the seconds ticked by, and Clayton made no move to touch her. Finally she lifted her head and raised green eyes shining with surrender to his.
"Would you please," she whispered achingly, "hold me now?"
Clayton started to reach for her and stopped . . . and then he caught her arms and jerked her to Mm, crushing her against his chest as his mouth came down hungrily on hers. With a smothered moan of joy, Whitney returned his kiss, glorying in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers.
Twining her arms around his neck, she pressed against him, fitting her melting body to the hardening contours of his. A shudder shook him as she leaned into him, and his hands tightened possessively on her back and hips, molding her closer to him, sliding up her spine, then lower, gathering her willing body into his. "God, how I've missed you!" he whispered hoarsely against her lips, and he deepened the kiss. At the first tentative touch of his tongue, Whitney's lips parted without further urging, and Clayton groaned, clasping her tighter as his tongue plunged into her sweet softness, searching with an almost desperate urgency, taking what she was offering.
The exquisite feeling of her in his arms, the taste of her lips dinging to his, the fullness of her breasts against his palms, was unbearable joy to Clayton. He couldn't go on, and he was afraid to stop . . . afraid that if he broke the contact, she would vanish, and the aching desire racking him would become an aching emptiness instead.
When he finally tore his mouth from hers, he kept his arms around her, resting his chin atop her shining head, waiting for his breathing to even out. And Whitney stayed there-as if being in his arms were the only place in the world she wished to be.
Drawing back slightly, Clayton looked down into the limpid pools of her eyes and quietly asked, "Are you willing to marry me?"
Whitney nodded. She nodded, because she could not speak.
"Why?" he persisted evenly. "Why do you want to marry me?" From the moment he had made her cross the room to him, rather than meeting her halfway, Whitney had known Clay-ton was going to require an unconditional surrender from her; she knew what he was demanding of her now. Through joy and tears and relief constricting her breath, she found her voice and softly said, "Because I love you."
His arms closed around her with stunning force. "God help you if you don't mean it!" he warned fiercely, "because I'll never let you go again."
Shamelessly yearning to be kissed, Whitney whispered, "I shall be very happy to prove I do mean it." She saw his eyes darken with passion as he bent his head to her, and she leaned up on her toes to prove it. She kissed him with all the aching longing that being this close to him evoked; she kissed him in all the ways he had ever kissed her, feeling faint with joy when he began to kiss her back, his mouth moving with fierce tenderness, then opening with fiery d
emand over hers, until their breaths were mingled gasps, and they were straining to one another.
It was Clayton who broke the kiss and forced his hands to stop their exploration, the pleasure-torture of caressing the cherished curves and hollows of the slender, voluptuous body that had haunted his dreams. But he kept her in his arms, tangling his hand in her heavy hair, loving the familiar texture. of it. "Why did you make me wait so long?" he breathed.
Leaning back, Whitney tipped her head in the direction of the dining room where Vanessa was. "Why couldn't you have waited a little longer?"
"Little one," he chuckled tenderly, "you are the only female alive who would bring up Vanessa at a time like this."
Whitney's expression suddenly turned solemn, and Clayton didn't see the smile that glowed in her eyes as she said, "I have a confession-and it may make a difference in which of us you decide upon."
Clayton stiffened. "And that is?"
"I told your mother the truth about my talent at the pianoforte."
With a laughing sigh of relief, Clayton drew her close. "Can you sing any better?" he teased.
"No. I'm afraid not."
Although his tone was light, Whitney beard the huskiness of desire that deepened his voice as he said, "In that case, I suppose you will have to learn some other ways to please me." Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his chest was warm and hard against her cheek. Whitney smiled as she slid her hand upward and spread her fingers over his pounding heart. "The last time we discussed my shortcomings in that area, you said yon didn't have the time to instruct a tiresomely naive schoolgirl. But I think-if you have the time-you will find that I'm an excellent student."
He was silent a long moment, then he said, "Perhaps I should begin by teaching you* more suitable response than your last when I tell you that I love you?"
Whitney nodded happily, but her voice suddenly filled with tears. "If you'd care to try again, I'll show you that I've already teamed that lesson."
Tipping her chin up, Clayton looked deeply into her eyes and quietly said, "I love you, little one."
"I love you, too," Whitney whispered, shyly laying her trembling hand against his smoothly shaven cheek and jaw. "I love you very much."
He grinned. "Now that, my sweet, is a vast improvement."
She tried to smile back at him, but Clayton saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Cradling her face between both his hands, be gazed at her misty green eyes. "Why tears, darling?"
"Because," Whitney whispered brokenly, "until this moment, I was certain you would never say that to me again."
With a groaning laugh, Clayton hugged her tightly to him. "Oh, little one, I have loved you since the night we played chess at my house and, after announcing that you would never call any man your 'lord,' you called me a conniving, black-hearted scoundrel when I took the game from you." He had loved her from the moment she had laughingly told him a story about a girl who used to pepper her music teacher's snuffbox.
Stephen tapped lightly on the door, then stepped into the study and closed the door behind him. He grinned wickedly at his brother, who tightened his arms possessively around Whitney. "Excuse me, brother dear, but your absence is making things increasingly uncomfortable in the other room."
Clayton heard this with a frown of distaste. "Is dinner over?"
"Long since," Stephen confirmed. "And Vanessa is displaying a marked antagonism toward my charming efforts to enlighten her on the proper care and feeding of racehorses."
"Stephen, your brother is in something of a dilemma." Whitney smiled, turning sideways in Clayton's arms. "Let me think-how did he phrase it? Oh yes. He has only two hands and he has offered them both."
Stephen arched a thoughtful brow. "I have two hands, and they are neither of them promised, Miss Stone," he offered gamely.
"Stephen," Clayton said sternly, but with a slow grin, "do not strain the bonds of brotherly affection beyond what you already have this evening. I'll attend to freeing one of my 'hands' when I take Vanessa home tonight."
"I should be leaving too," Whitney sighed, reluctantly pulling out of Clayton's arms and smoothing her gown. "It will be very late by the time I get back to Emily's."
"You, my love, are not setting foot out of this house. I'll send a servant to the Archibalds' for your things when I leave with Vanessa, and he can inform them that you will return in a week. Not one day before."
Whitney knew perfectly well that Clayton was issuing this edict because of her unexplained change in attitude between the time she left him at the church and saw him again at the wedding banquet. Since she wanted with all her heart to stay with him, Whitney acceded to his flat command with a demure smile.
With one hip perched atop his desk, Clayton watched while Whitney sat behind it and wrote a note to Emily. She assured her that the duchess was in residence and asked that Clarissa and her clothes be dispatched post haste to Claymore. Winsomely, Whitney added a postscript. "This time, I'll send the invitations. This one is yours-will you please be my matron of honor? I love you. Whitney."
Clayton took the note from her and, serenely ignoring his brother's presence, pulled her to her feet and kissed her with tender thoroughness. "I'll be back in two hours, perhaps a little more. Will you wait up for me?"
Whitney nodded, but as Clayton started from the room, she turned away from him, tracing her finger across his gleaming mahogany desktop. "Clayton," she said softly, her voice threaded with tears, "when Vanessa asked about my 'accomplishments' tonight, I forgot to mention that I do have one. And it's-it's so splendid that it compensates for my lack of all the others."
Stephen and Clayton grinned at each other, neither of them hearing the emotion that clogged her voice. "What 'splendid accomplishment' is that, little one?" Clayton asked.
Her shoulders hunched forward and began to shake. "I made you love me," she whispered brokenly. "Somehow, some way, I actually made you love me."
The laughter faded from Clayton's face, replaced by an expression so intense, so profoundly proud, that Stephen quietly left the two of them alone.
Clayton emerged from his study a few minutes later on his way to face Vanessa in the salon and take her home. He flashed a quick, grateful grin at Stephen, inclined his head toward the study doors and said in a low, laughter-tinged voice, "Stephen, do not let her out of your sight!"
While Clayton was leaving with Vanessa, Whitney sat across from Stephen in the study, trying to vanquish her sudden embarrassment over the earlier part of the evening. Finally she clasped her hands in her lap and regarded him directly. "Whatever made you want me to stay for dinner, when it was so obvious that Clayton didn't want me here at all? What made you help me, when I could have been just any female who-"
"I knew you weren't Must any female.'" Stephen corrected.
"Your name was Whitney and you had green eyes. And one drunken night many weeks ago, my fair brother could talk of little else."
Two hours later, Clayton strode into the salon and Stephen drily remarked, "I suppose Lord Standfield was not in the best humor when you left?"
"He was reasonable," Clayton said briefly. He sat down beside Whitney and, defying all the proprieties with his usual careless elegance, he put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her dose. With a meaningful look at his smiling mother and brother, he ungraciously hinted, "I imagine you're both exhausted from your trip this morning and would like to retire?"
"I happen to be exhausted from a good deal more than my trip," the duchess said laughingly, and obligingly she bade them both good night. Stephen, however, did nothing of the sort. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, "I'm not in the least tired, big brother. Besides, I want to hear about the wedding plans." Ignoring Clayton's dagger look, he glanced expectantly from him to Whitney. "Well, when's it to be?"
Clayton sighed, resigning himself to Stephen's continued presence, and smiled at Whitney. "How long will it take you to get ready, love?"
Gazing up into his compell
ing gray eyes, Whitney thought she would much rather have his arms around her and feel his lips moving over hers than discuss the wedding plans right now, but, like Clayton, she had no choke except to answer Stephen's question. "I suppose it will be a huge wedding?" she mused, considering Clayton's title, and the vast number of friends and acquaintances she knew he had.
"Very large," Clayton confirmed.
"Then it will take a great deal of time to plan. There are so many arrangements to make, the gowns to be chosen, endless fittings-and the dressmakers take forever. The invitations must be prepared, sent out, and acknowledged-" She paused. "About how many guests will there be?"
"Five or six hundred, I imagine," Clayton said.
"Closer to a thousand unless you want to offend half the
ton and alienate our relatives," Stephen corrected, grinning at Whitney's expression of stunned honor. Taking pity on her, he added, "Westmoreland dukes are always married in a church, and the wedding celebration is always here at Claymore. It's an ancient tradition, and everyone will know it, so you needn't worry about anyone thinking it queer that it's at Clay's home instead of yours."
"Always married in a church, and the celebration here?" Whitney repeated, with an accusing look at her grinning fiance. "When I think of how you threatened to abduct me and take me to Scotland!"
"The custom, Madam," Clayton chuckled, tracing the elegant curve of her cheek and jaw with his forefinger, then tilting her chin up, "began because the first Duke of Claymore abducted his lady from her parents' castle, which was several days journey from Claymore. On the way here was a monastery, and since my ancestor had technically compromised her honor, one of the monks was more than willing to marry them, despite the lady's temporary reluctance. The celebration," he emphasized, "took place here because the young woman's outraged relatives were in no mood to celebrate in their home an occasion which, at the time, they viewed as more a reason to fight than to feast." His grin widened devilishly. "So you see, had I carried you off to Scotland, married you there, then brought you back here, I'd have been honoring the tradition almost to the original letter."
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