Whitney My Love Read online

  The entire conversation was excessively improper in the presence of ladies and, with great relief, Whitney saw that her aunt was going to intervene at last. “Mr. Merryton,” Aunt Anne said, waiting until she had his full attention. “Would you care to make it £10?”

  A shocked silence followed her aunt’s unladylike proposition, and Whitney was grateful when Clayton’s choked laugh made it seem as if it was all in good fun. Aunt Anne then turned to Clayton. “And you, Mr. Westland?” she asked brightly. “Would you care to wager on Lady Standfield being the future Duchess of Claymore?”

  Clayton’s lips twitched with amusement. “Certainly not. I have it from an unimpeachable source that Clayton Westmoreland has decided to wed an enchanting brunette he met in Paris.”

  Whitney caught the sly, piercing look that Lady Eubank passed over Clayton, then forgot about it when someone else said, “There’s a remarkable similarity in your names, Mr. Westland. Are you by chance related to the duke in some way?”

  “We’re closer than brothers,” Clayton answered promptly, with an arch grin to make it seem an outrageous jest. From there, the conversation drifted to inaccurate descriptions of the duke’s lavish estates, to the horses in his famous stables, and inevitably returned to more tales of his mistresses and conquests.

  Clayton glanced at his future wife to see how attentively she was listening (and therefore how much further he was sinking in her estimation, by virtue of what she was hearing) and saw Whitney concealing a yawn behind her slender fingertips. Under cover of the group’s boisterous banter, Clayton leaned toward her and teased in a low voice, “Aren’t you concerned about the future Duchess of Claymore, my lady?”

  Caught in the act of yawning, Whitney’s gaze flew guiltily to his face. She smiled that slow, unconsciously provocative smile of hers that sent a fresh surge of pure lust flaring through Clayton’s veins, while smoothing the satin skirt of her gown, preparatory to leaving. “Of course I’m concerned about her,” she whispered gravely. “I have the deepest sympathy for anyone who marries that disgusting, dissolute, amoral, lecherous seducer of women!” With that, she turned and headed for the ballroom to instruct the musicians to begin.

  * * *

  There hadn’t been the slightest opportunity for Paul to speak to Whitney’s father, and with a sinking heart, Whitney watched the hands on the clock lurch toward twelve midnight. During their only dance together, Paul and she had carefully chosen the precise moment of his departure, so that they might snatch a few stolen minutes to say good-bye. Excusing herself, Whitney picked up her skirts and discreetly followed well behind Paul as he strode from the room.

  With a shoulder propped against a Gothic pillar, Clayton raised his glass to his lips and watched with a mixture of possessive pride and irritation as Whitney glanced secretively around, then started to follow Sevarin from the room. One of the guests waylaid her, and while Clayton looked on, Sevarin returned to the ballroom and, abandoning all pretense at discretion, took her by the arm and drew her away.

  That particular proprietary gesture of Sevarin’s sent a stab of sharp anger through Clayton. Why, he wondered, was he standing here like a damned fool, tolerating the Merryton girl’s flirtatious advances, when his own betrothed was strolling away on another man’s arm? With a sardonic smile, he contemplated the satisfaction he could have by crossing the room in a dozen quick strides and informing Sevarin that he did not like another man’s hands on his betrothed. Then, in a few sentences, he could inform Whitney that his “disgusting, lecherous” attentions were permanently fixed on her and that she should prepare herself to be wed within the week!

  He was seriously considering doing exactly that when Amelia Eubank bore down on him. “Margaret,” Amelia barked heartlessly, “stop hanging on Mr. Westland and go attend to your hair.”

  Without a trace of sympathy, she watched the young woman blush furiously, then turn and leave. “Nasty chit,” Amelia said, directing her attention to Clayton. “The girl is nothing but malice and spite, held together by a core of viciousness. Her parents spend every penny they can scrimp together to send her to London and keep her in society. They can’t afford it, and she doesn’t belong there. She knows it too, and that makes her envious and mean.”

  Realizing that he wasn’t paying any attention to her, Amelia craned her turbaned head in an effort to discover the object of his unwavering interest. Whitney Stone, she noticed with a tiny smile, was just returning to the ballroom, directly in his line of vision. “Well, Claymore,” she said, “if the ‘enchanting brunette’ you’ve decided upon is who I think it is, you’ve taken too long. Her betrothal to Sevarin is to be announced as soon as Sevarin returns.”

  The duke’s eyes turned cold and cynical. “Excuse me,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. Putting his glass down, he walked away, leaving Amelia gazing after him with gleeful satisfaction.

  Whitney felt Clayton’s light touch at her elbow and turned, her warm smile filled with gratitude. From the moment he’d diverted Uncle Hubert at the beginning of the evening, Clayton had carefully placed himself wherever a conversant, amiable, unattached gentleman was most needed. Without being told, he had recognized her need for help and come to her aid. “You must be exhausted,” he murmured in her ear. “Can’t you slip away and get some sleep now?”

  “Yes, I think I will,” Whitney sighed. Nearly all the guests had already departed or retired upstairs for the night, and Aunt Anne seemed perfectly willing and able to function as hostess to those remaining. “Thank you for all your help tonight,” she said as she turned to leave. “I’m very grateful.”

  Clayton watched her until she disappeared down the hall, then he strode purposefully toward Martin Stone. “I want a word with you and Lady Gilbert after your guests leave tonight,” he said curtly.

  Just climbing the stairs was an effort for Whitney’s tired legs. Once she was in her room, it took ten minutes of struggling with the long row of tiny satin buttons down her back to unfasten her gown. She leaned forward to step out of it, and a shiny object tumbled from the gaping bodice of her chemise.

  With infinite tenderness, Whitney picked up the opal ring from the carpet and looked at it. Paul’s ring, given to her as he left tonight. “To remind you that you’re mine,” he had whispered, pressing the ring into her palm.

  A wild thrill of excitement shot through her now as she slowly placed the opal ring onto her finger. All the exhaustion she’d felt but a moment before seemed to melt away in a burst of joy.

  She hummed softly as she wrapped herself in an oriental dressing gown of red silk and sat down at her dressing table to unpin and brush her hair. With each stroke of her ivory-handled brush through her long hair, the glittering opal seemed to catch fire and sparkle in the mirror. Laying the brush aside, Whitney held her hand out in front of her to better admire her betrothal ring. Her betrothal ring! “Mrs. Paul Sevarin,” she said softly, smiling at the sound of the wonderful words. “Whitney Allison Sevarin.” Something about that tickled her memory, and Whitney said it again, trying to recall . . .

  With a joyous laugh, Whitney remembered and hurried over to her bookshelves. Taking down the leather-bound Bible from the shelf, she quickly fanned through the pages, but found nothing. Finally she grasped the book by its covers and turned it upside down, giving it a hard shake. A small scrap of paper, smudged and folded several times, drifted to the floor. Picking it up, Whitney smiled as she began to read:

  “I, Whitney Allison Stone, being fifteen years of age and in full possession of my mind and all my faculties (despite what Papa says) do hereby Vow, Swear and Promise that I shall someday manage to make Paul Sevarin marry me. I shall also make Margaret Merryton and everyone else take back every single horrid thing they have said about me. Sworn this day and duly signed by the future Mrs. Paul Sevarin.”

  Beneath the signature, she’d written “Whitney Allison Sevarin” and then, apparently carried away by her longing, had practiced the wished-for name at least a dozen more tim