Whitney My Love Read online

  To add to her misery, as her wedding day bore down on her, her agitated mind began tormenting her with constant visions of that terrible night when Clayton had cruelly and deliberately shamed her with his hands and mouth and body. The humiliation of that night came back to haunt her, magnifying her remembered physical pain until she was a mass of fear and trepidation.

  Five days before the wedding, she was simply too worn down to attend the ball being given by one of Clayton’s friends. The next day she sent Clayton a note, asking him to excuse her from an afternoon party at the Rutherfords’.

  Clayton, who had removed to his townhouse in Upper Brook Street to be near Whitney during the weeks preceding the wedding, read her brief note declining the Rutherfords’ party with a faint frown of bewilderment. After a moment’s thought, he ordered his carriage brought round and went directly to the Archibald townhouse where he was informed that Miss Stone was in the Blue Salon, and that Lord and Lady Archibald were out for the day.

  Whitney picked up a fresh piece of stationery, dipped her quill into the ink pot, and continued with the exhausting task of writing notes of appreciation for the staggering number of wedding gifts which had been arriving in an endless stream for weeks. In the doorway of the salon, Clayton stopped and gazed at her. She was seated at a desk, her dark chestnut hair twisted into thick curls bound with narrow green ribbons. Her head was bent slightly as she wrote, her flawless profile turned to him. With the sun streaming in the window beside her, Clayton thought she looked so fragile and lovely that she seemed ethereal. “Problems?” he said after a long moment, closing the doors behind him. He crossed to her, took her by the hand and pulled her gently, but firmly, out of her chair and over toward the sofa. “Young lady, is it your intention to treat me as a bystander in all of this, and only remember my existence when you walk down the aisle?”

  Whitney sank down beside him. “I’m sorry about the Rutherfords’ affair,” she said with a tired smile that made Clayton instantly regret his mild reprimand. “It’s just that I’m so busy with everything, that even I feel like a bystander at times.” Turning her face into the comforting curve of his shoulder and neck, she said, “I missed you terribly last night—did you have a pleasant time at the ball?”

  Clayton tilted her chin up. “Not without you,” he murmured as his mouth covered her. “Now, show me how much you missed me . . .”

  Within moments, Whitney’s tension and exhaustion had melted away in the heat of Clayton’s passionate kiss. In a kind of sensual haze, she was dimly aware that he was inexorably drawing her down to lie beside him on the silk sofa, but with his lips moving persuasively against hers, and his tongue teasing and exploring, the shift in her position scarcely seemed to matter.

  Her senses swam dizzily, assaulted by his deep kisses and the gentle, arousing things he whispered against her parted lips as he kissed her. “I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, leaning over her. “I’ll never get enough of you.” His hand roamed possessively over the sensitive skin above her bodice, his fingers nimbly unfastening the row of tiny buttons at the front of her lime-wool dress. Before Whitney could react, her chemise was down and his mouth was moving leisurely toward her naked, exposed breasts. “The servants!” she gasped.

  “They’re scared to death of me,” Clayton said. “They wouldn’t come in here to warn us of a fire.”

  His tongue touched a rosy nipple, and Whitney struggled in genuine, frantic earnest. “Don’t! Please!” she said hoarsely, lurching into a sitting position and clutching her open bodice, clumsily refastening it.

  Clayton started to reach for her, but she leapt off the sofa. Amazed, he sat up and stared at her. She looked slightly flushed, very beautiful—and frightened half to death! “Whitney?” he said cautiously.

  She jumped, took three steps backward, then sank onto the sofa across from him, her expression tortured and embarrassed. As Clayton watched, she started to speak, changed her mind, then ran her hand over her forehead. Finally, she raised pleading green eyes to his and drew a long, unsteady breath. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you—a favor. But it’s dreadful and embarrassing. It’s about our wedding. Night.”

  Frowning with worry over the tension and anxiety he saw on her face, Clayton leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “What favor do you want to ask of me?” he said quietly.

  “Promise me you won’t be angry when you hear it?”

  “You have my word,” Clayton assured her calmly.

  “Well, you see,” she began hesitantly, “I—I would like to be able to really look forward to our wedding. But I can’t, because I keep thinking about what is going to happen—you know—later that night. Other brides don’t understand, not exactly, but I do now and I—” She was as pink as roses when she trailed off into pathetic silence.

  “What is it that you wanted to ask of me?” Clayton said. But he already knew—God help him, he already knew.

  “I was wondering if you might agree to wait,” she explained miserably. “I mean, agree not to do that to me on our wedding night.” Unable to meet his steady gaze any longer, Whitney looked away in sheer embarrassment. Uninformed she might be about some things, but she knew full well that wives made no such bargains with husbands, and that marriages were consummated on the wedding night. Why, in days gone by, a marriage was consummated with observers in the room, in the old—and thank heavens, antiquated—custom of “bedding” the newly wedded couple. A wife’s duty, her vows, required that she submit to her husband in all things, and that included satisfying his passion.

  “Are you absolutely certain this is the way you want it?” Clayton asked after a long silence.

  “Positive,” Whitney whispered, her eyes downcast.

  “What if I refuse to agree?”

  Staring at her hands, Whitney swallowed. “Then I’ll submit to you.”

  “Submit to me?” Clayton repeated, stunned and a little irritated by her choice of words. He could hardly believe that after eight weeks, Whitney still thought of the final culmination of their desires as some form of punishment to which she must “submit.” She always came eagerly into his arms, returning his kisses with a fervor and hunger that almost matched his. And whenever he held her, she instinctively fitted her voluptuous body to the contours of his. What in the living hell did she imagine he was going to do on their wedding night—turn into a crazed animal and tear her clothes off again? “Is it me you’re afraid of, little one?” he asked quietly.

  Her gaze flew to his and her response was emphatic. “No! I couldn’t bear it if you thought that. I know you aren’t going to—to treat me the way you did before. It’s just that I feel embarrassed, because I know exactly what you are going to do to me. And there’s something else too—something terrible that I should have told you weeks ago. Clayton, I think I am malformed in some way. You see, it—what you did to me that night—hurt dreadfully. And I don’t think other females feel such pain or . . .”

  “Don’t!” Clayton interrupted harshly, unable to bear hearing how badly he had hurt her. With an inward sigh, he accepted this as the penalty he was going to have to pay for his callous cruelty that night. And in view of what he had actually done to her, it seemed a small price, at that. “I will give you my word to wait, on two conditions,” he told her quietly. “The first is that, after our wedding night, the option of choosing the time is mine.”

  She nodded so eagerly and looked so relieved that Clayton almost smiled.

  “The second condition is that you promise that during the next few days you will seriously consider what I am about to say.”

  Again she nodded.

  “Whitney, what occurred between us before was nothing more than an act of outrage on my part; it was not ‘making love,’ it was an act of selfish revenge.”

  She was listening, and Clayton realized she was trying to understand, but to her at this point, an act was an act, and if it was painful and humiliating before, it would be again. “Come here,” he