Whitney My Love Read online

  Much of his anger evaporated as he considered the last few hours with Whitney. He could sense that she was slowly yielding to him. She had sought the comfort of his embrace of her own accord, and she had even admitted to a fondness for him. All that really stood between them now was her fading absorption with Paul Sevarin, and her understandable resentment over the way her stupid father had told her of her betrothal to Clayton. Just thinking of that night infuriated Clayton. Because of Stone’s callous insensitivity, Clayton had been deprived of the pleasure of courting and winning Whitney. Despite its turbulent ups and downs, he had been enjoying his bizarre courtship, including Whitney’s haughty rejections. She made him work to gain an inch, but each gain was a heady victory, more meaningful because it was so hard-won.

  Yet there were times lately when his patience almost lost out in the battle against his desire. When she sniped at him and sparred with him, it took his last ounce of restraint not to snatch her into his arms and subdue her rebellion with his hands and mouth. He was neglecting his estates and his business interests, yet just when he decided that she would have to accustom herself to their betrothal after they were married, she’d look at him with those unbelievably green eyes of hers, and he could not quite bring himself to exert the power he held over her by forcing her to marry him.

  Sighing, Clayton turned away from the window. Not for a moment did he ever doubt that Whitney would marry him. She would marry him either willingly, or unwillingly. In the latter case, the balance of their courtship and combat would have to take place in his bed.

  20

  * * *

  Fresh, cool breezes scented with the invigorating aroma of burning leaves floated into Whitney’s room, and she sniffed appreciatively as she stepped from her bath. Wrapped in a dressing robe, she went over to the open window and perched her hip upon the sill. Autumn, that most glorious of all the seasons, greeted her with a golden morning. She gazed out across the topaz and ruby landscape splashed with yellow and amber, and she tingled with the exuberant optimism she always felt at this time of year.

  Reluctantly, she left the window and deliberated over the matter of clothing, finally choosing a high-waisted gown of dusky pink wool with a square neckline, long narrow sleeves, and a wide flounce at the hem. Clarissa pulled her hair straight back and up, then wound it into curls entwined with velvet ribbons of the same muted pink as her dress.

  Thoughts of Paul and her unwanted betrothal to Clayton hovered uneasily at the back of her mind, but Whitney refused to dwell on them. Tonight she could agonize over her confused status, but for now, she was eager to be out in the sunshine. Nothing was going to spoil the perfection of such a gorgeous day.

  At five minutes past eleven, a servant tapped at the door and announced that Mr. Westland was waiting downstairs. Snatching up the printed shawl which complemented her dress, Whitney hurried downstairs. “Good morning,” she said gaily. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  Clayton took her hands in his and gazed down at her glowing features. Quietly and without emphasis, he said, “You have a smile that could light up a room.”

  It was the first time he had ever remarked on her appearance, and although his compliment was much milder than the lavish ones the Frenchmen had heaped on her, it made Whitney feel unaccountably shy. “You are late,” she admonished him with laughing severity, unable to think of anything else to say, “and I have been pacing the length of my bedchamber these past five minutes, waiting for you.”

  He said nothing, and for a moment Whitney fell under the spell of those boldly seductive gray eyes. His hands tightened on hers, drawing her closer. She held her breath, excited and alarmed at the realization that he was going to kiss her.

  “I’m early,” he stated unequivocally.

  Whitney swallowed back a gurgle of relieved laughter, and he added, “However, now that I know how eager you are to see me, I shall make it a point to be early all the time.” The great hall clock began to chime the hour of eleven as they left the house, and Clayton shot her an I-told-you-so look.

  She climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the moss-green velvet squabs, gazing up at the puffy white clouds skittering across an azure sky. She felt his weight settle into the seat beside her, and her sidewise gaze wandered admiringly over his shiny brown boots, his long, muscular legs clad in biscuit superfine, his rust-colored jacket, and cream-silk shirt.

  “If what I’m wearing doesn’t please you,” he drawled, “we can go to my humble abode and you can decide which of my garments you approve.”

  Whitney’s head jerked up. Her first impulse was to retort that it didn’t matter in the least to her what he wore. Instead she surprised them both by shyly admitting the truth: “I was thinking that you look splendid.”

  She caught his startled look of pleasure before he gave the spirited grays the office to start, sending them trotting away.

  Trees marched along both sides of the country lane, their branches meeting overhead like lines of partners in a country dance, forming an arch for the carriage which rocked along beneath. Leaves swirled and drifted down in slow motion, and Whitney reached up, lazily trying to catch a bright yellow one.

  When Clayton guided the pair south at the fork in the road, however, she sat bolt upright, turning on him in bewilderment and panic. “Where are we going?”

  “To the village, for a start.”

  “I—I don’t need anything from the village,” Whitney insisted urgently.

  “But I do,” he said flatly.

  Falling back against her seat, Whitney closed her eyes in bleak despair. They would be seen together and, in that sleepy little village where nothing ever happened, much would be made of it. She knew that everyone, with the exception of the man beside her, was expecting the announcement that she and Paul were soon to be married. She felt ill just thinking of Paul stopping in the village on his way home and hearing an exaggerated version of today’s outing.

  Their carriage clattered across the stone bridge and down the cobbled streets of the village, between the long rows of quaint, shuttered buildings which housed a few inferior shops and a small inn. When Clayton pulled the horses to a smart stop before the apothecary’s shop, Whitney could have screamed. The apothecary, of all people—the worst of the village tattlers!

  Clayton came around to help her alight. Trying to make her voice sound normal, she said, “Please, I would rather wait here.”

  In the voice of one issuing a command, but politely phrasing it as a request, Clayton said, “I would like it very much if you accompanied me.”

  That particular tone of his never failed to raise Whitney’s hackles, and the friendly atmosphere of their outing abruptly disintegrated. “That’s very unfortunate, because I’m not going into that shop.” To her consternation and fury, Clayton reached into the carriage, grasped her by the waist, and lifted her down. She was afraid to struggle or push his hands away for fear of creating even more of a scene than they undoubtedly had already. “Are you trying to make a public spectacle of us?” she gasped, the instant her feet touched the cobbles.

  “Yes,” he said unanswerably, “I am.”

  Whitney saw the florid, jowly face of Mr. Oldenberry peering curiously at them through the window of his shop, and all hope of escaping notice was shattered. Inside the tiny, dimly lit shop an odd array of medicinal scents mingled with the odors of herbs, over which there was the pervading sting of ammonia salts. The apothecary was all effusive greetings, but Whitney saw his eyes lock with fanatic curiosity upon Clayton’s hand, which still cupped her elbow.

  “How is Mr. Paul?” he asked her slyly.

  “I believe he’s expected to return in another five days,” Whitney said, wondering what this little man would be saying six days from now if she carried through with her tentative plan to elope with Paul.

  Clayton asked for a bottle of hartshorn and the apothecary handed it to Whitney. Grimacing with distaste, Whitney waved it away. “It’s for Mr. Westland, Mr. Oldenberry