Whitney My Love Read online

  “Keep it on!” his voice slashed out, “until I leave.”

  Clayton came to his feet, advancing on her with the predatory grace of a stalking panther. Reflexively, Whitney started to back away, then checked herself and held her ground. He loomed over her, his gaze a frigid blast. In a silky, menacing voice, he said, “Do you remember what I told you would happen if you dared to disobey me again, Whitney?”

  He had threatened to lock her in her rooms until her baby was born. Whitney was angry and frightened—and so much in love with him that even her voice throbbed with it. “Yes, I remember,” she said in an aching whisper. “I remember all sorts of other things, too. I remember the words you have whispered to me when you are so deep inside of me that you have touched my heart. I remember . . .”

  “Shut up!” he snapped furiously. “Or so help me God, I’ll . . .”

  “I remember exactly the way your hands feel against my skin when you touch me and . . .”

  He caught her shoulders and shook her. “Damn you! I said stop!”

  “I can’t.” Whitney shuddered in his grasp but persevered. “I can’t stop, because I love you. I love your eyes, and your smile, and your . . .”

  Clayton yanked her into his arms, his mouth capturing hers in a savage, punishing kiss that was meant to silence and hurt and retaliate. He was bruising her lips, and she was crushed so tightly against him that she couldn’t breathe. But Whitney didn’t care; she could feel the hardness of his need swelling rigidly against her, and when his mouth began to slant fiercely over hers with wild hunger and desperate urgency, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him.

  As abruptly as he had caught her to him, Clayton pushed her away. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his expression so incensed, so bleakly embittered that Whitney almost lost her resolve and brought up the note herself. Instead she raised her chin to its bravest angle and said in quiet defiance, “I will willingly commit myself to being locked in this room for as long as you wish—provided you are willing to stay locked in here with me. Otherwise, nothing—and no one—will keep me in here. If I have to set fire to the house to get out, then I will.”

  It took a moment for Clayton to react. She looked so unbearably beautiful, so young and vulnerable, facing him in this outrageous mutiny, that if he didn’t hate her and hate himself, he would have grinned. He had to remind himself that she was a calculating schemer; even so, his earlier wrath was momentarily defused by her impertinent suggestion that he lock himself into her room with her. Lock himself in with her? Christ! He could barely stand to live in the same house with her, despising her with an uncontrollable virulence half the time, and wanting her until he ached with it the rest.

  “If you ever again leave the grounds of this estate without my permission,” he said in a low, savage voice, “you will yearn for the ‘tenderness’ I showed you the first time I brought you here.”

  Clayton had taught her to be proud of the power she held over his body, and that one brutal kiss had shown Whitney how badly he still wanted her. The knowledge gave her the courage to look at him and say with a faint blush, “I already do yearn for it, my lord.” Then, reverting to her former air of proud rebellion, she added as she turned and walked into her dressing room, “However, I shall obey you to the extent of at least asking for your permission before I leave the grounds.”

  Whitney heard the outer door close and leaned weakly against the wall of her dressing room, more shaken by the confrontation than she had let him see. Her idle threat about setting fire to the house had not been what had stopped him from having her confined to her room. She knew, and he knew, that he could very easily have her kept there with a loyal servant acting as guard in her room to prevent her from doing anything harmful. But she had thrown him off balance by boldly inviting him to stay here with her.

  She was playing with fire, Whitney knew. She couldn’t risk angering him to the point where he might have her removed entirely from his presence. She had to be with him so that she could force him into accusing her of this nonsense he believed. She had to be near him so that she could continue to stoke the fire of his desire; one of them, either fury or desire, was going to drive him from his stony silence.

  In the east wing, Clayton lay awake in his bed, coldly contemplating his past and his future. By now he had managed to find an explanation for every heretofore unexplainable word or action on Whitney’s part. At long last, the reason for her behavior at Elizabeth’s wedding banquet was crystal clear. She had meant every cold, vile word she had said to him as they danced. After the banquet, in the ensuing weeks, Whitney had discovered her pregnancy, or thought she was pregnant, and when the father couldn’t or wouldn’t offer her his name, she had concocted the scheme of coming here and renewing their dead betrothal. And he, like a goddamned fool, had, with great joy, allowed himself to be cuckolded.

  He didn’t know how long he could stand this living arrangement. His heart and his mind understood the harsh reality that there could never be anything between Whitney and him again, but his body tormented him with the same insatiable desire for her he’d always felt.

  If they weren’t living under the same roof, perhaps he could find some relief from his agony. He could remove to his townhouse in Upper Brook Street and resume a semblance of his former life, or he could go to France or Spain for a few months. That would be ideal, but Whitney was, after all, carrying his child and, in the event of some complication with her pregnancy, he shouldn’t be so far away.

  No, the townhouse would be better. His need for diversion and his physical needs could both be satisfied in London. All he had to do was take Whitney to a few social affairs during the next month or two, then, once her pregnancy was apparent, she would not be able to go out into society anyway, so no one would find it odd that she was no longer seen on his arm. When they saw him with other women, the old biddies would cluck their tongues and whisper to one another that “the little nobody” he had married hadn’t been able to hold him very long, and that they had known all along that this was how it was going to end. The thought gave Clayton a brief perverse pleasure.

  He hoped to God that Whitney was carrying a boy, for this was going to be his only opportunity to get an heir. Otherwise he would have to leave it up to Stephen to sire the heir. Thank God he could count on Stephen for that; that lands and title had always been held by a Westmoreland, and his father had been the only boy of five children.

  * * *

  The following morning, Whitney composed a carefully worded note to Clayton to the effect that Lord Archibald’s parents were celebrating their anniversary and that Whitney had promised Emily and Michael to attend the gala affair this evening, and that she would appreciate it very much if Clayton would escort her. She sent the note into the east wing with Clarissa, then paced back and forth, waiting for Clayton’s response.

  With trembling fingers she unfolded her note across the bottom of which was a curt reply in Clayton’s bold handwriting. “Advise my valet whether the dress is formal or informal.” She could have laughed with joy.

  That night she spent more time than ever in her life on her appearance. Clarissa swept her hair up into intricate coils entwined with a finely wrought gold chain that had belonged to Whitney’s grandmother. Nestled in the hollow between her breasts was a simple topaz pendant surrounded by a ring of diamonds, which had belonged to Whitney’s great-grandmother. She was not wearing any of the Westmoreland jewelry. She was not, in fact, wearing her splendid betrothal ring. For a few minutes Whitney actually considered removing her wide gold wedding band, but that she could not do—not even to make her point.

  Clayton was standing at the far end of the white and gold salon, staring moodily out the windows with a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking utterly magnificent in his black evening clothes. With a gleam of mischief dancing in her eyes, Whitney floated into the salon in a swirl of glittering gold-spangled chiffon. She did not remove the golden stole that was lying softly across her breasts