Whitney My Love Read online

  “A duke,” he offered, smiling as he remembered the way they had bantered that night. “Also your husband. Who are you?”

  “A duchess!” she exclaimed with a mixture of joy and disbelief.

  “Also my wife?”

  She nodded slowly, her smile widening delightfully. In his mind, Clayton saw the provocative goddess she had been that night with yellow and purple flowers entwined in her hair. At the same time, he beheld her standing there near his bed, and suddenly it didn’t matter that he couldn’t make love to her tonight. All that mattered was that he had finally made her his! He had done it—she really was his wife! He felt exhilarated and triumphant. “My ‘obedient’ wife?” he teased, emphasizing the word obedient.

  Whitney nodded again and he could almost see the laughter in her eyes.

  “Then come here, my obedient wife,” he commanded huskily.

  A shadow of apprehension crossed her vivid features, but she turned fully toward him and began walking to him with that natural, fluid motion of hers. That was when Clayton realized what she was wearing, and he almost groaned aloud. Her dressing robe was made entirely of fragile white lace, revealing glimpses of skin along her arms, her breasts, and even her long legs; and there was enough soft flesh swelling above her bodice to send him into fresh agonies of desire and regret.

  She stopped a few steps away from him, gazing at him in fear and confusion, as if she wanted to come the rest of the way but couldn’t make herself. “About . . . about your promise,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Remember?”

  Did he remember his promise! “I remember it, little one,” Clayton said quietly. He went to her and gently enfolded her in his arms, trying to ignore the incredible feel of her almost naked breasts softly crushed against his thin shirt. He wanted to kiss her but she was trembling so violently that he was afraid to, so he just held her with her face cradled against his chest and slowly stroked her long, lustrous hair.

  “When I was a little girl,” she whispered unsteadily against his heart, “lying in bed at night, I used to imagine that there were things—in the closets.”

  She fell silent and Clayton urged her, “There were toy soldiers in my closets. What were in yours?”

  “Monsters!” she whispered. “Huge, ugly ones with claws for feet and enormous, bulging eyes.” She drew a shaky breath and said, “There are monsters in this room too—hideous memories lurking in the shadows and corners.”

  Clayton flinched with pained remorse. “I know there are. But you’ve nothing to be afraid of; I’ll not ask anything of you tonight. I gave you my word.”

  She leaned back a little and looked up at him, her face so lovely and vulnerable that Clayton wondered for the thousandth time how he ever, ever could have mistreated her that night. She tried to say something and couldn’t; instead she rested her cheek against his chest, sliding her arms around his waist.

  After a moment, she began again, “I used to lie in bed at night, afraid of what was in the closet. And then, when I couldn’t endure it any longer, I would run across the room and snatch the door open and make myself look inside.”

  Clayton smiled inwardly. It was like her to grow weary of cowering under the blankets and confront the darkness—monsters or no monsters. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear it.

  “The closet was always empty. No monsters . . . nothing to fear.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Clayton, I don’t want to spend our wedding night lying alone in your bed, afraid of what is in the shadows.”

  Clayton’s hand froze in mid-air, then he made himself continue the soothing motion, giving her time to reconsider. “You’re certain?” he asked quietly.

  Whitney nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

  Leaning down, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the big four-poster where he had taught her how degrading the act could be, promising himself, every step of the way, that this time would be so perfect for her that the other time would be banished from her memory. He slipped his hand from beneath her knees, and the gliding feel of her legs sliding down his thighs made his hands tremble as he untied the ribbons at her breasts and tenderly opened the lacy gown.

  Her ivory shoulders and full, rosy-tipped breasts gleamed in the light from the fire across the room. “My God, you are beautiful,” he breathed, and felt her body quiver sharply when his hands slid down her arms, sending the fragile lace gown spilling onto the floor. He took her dewy lips in a long, sweet kiss, then swept the satin coverlet back and lifted her gently, laying her on the cool sheets.

  She closed her eyes and turned her head away, and Clayton saw the flush that swept up her long shapely legs and slender curves, staining the glowing ivory skin right up to her hairline. Out of consideration for her obvious embarrassment, he reluctantly extinguished the candles burning on the bedside table. Afraid to leave her alone with the memories she was ready to confront, he undressed there beside the bed, then stretched out alongside her and carefully pulled her into his arms. Whitney stiffened. He ran his hand soothingly over her naked back, and she stiffened even more. Clayton stopped caressing her and lay back against the pillows with her head on his chest.

  In the next few moments her breathing went from slow and shallow, to rapid and shallow, and he was not even touching her. Christ, how he hated himself for what he had done to her that night! She was so tense, so taut in every fiber of her body that, unless he could help her relax, he would hurt her no matter how gentle he was.

  So that she wouldn’t be overly conscious of their nakedness, Clayton reached down and drew the sheet over them. “I want to talk awhile first,” he explained. Relief flooded her features and he chuckled because she looked as if she’d just been granted a last-minute reprieve from the guillotine. “If you possibly can, I would like you to try to put out of your mind what happened before. I’d also like you to forget whatever you may have heard about what happens between a husband and wife in bed, and simply listen to me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Expressions such as ‘submitting to him’ or ‘taking her’ should never have been applied to lovemaking, yet I know this is the way you must think of it. The first implies a duty. The second is a selfish act and implies the use of force. I am not going to ‘take’ you, and you are not going to ‘submit’ to me. Nor are you going to feel any pain.” With a tender smile at her upturned face, he said, “I promise you that you are not malformed. You are perfectly and exquisitely made.”

  He ran a forefinger over her lovely cheek. “What is about to take place between us is a sharing, born of my desire to be as close to you as I can be, to actually become a part of you. Little one, when I am inside you I am not taking, I am giving. I am giving my body to you as I gave you my love before, and my ring today. When I am inside of you, I will put the seed of my own life into you and leave it there for you to keep and shelter within you—a symbol of my love and need for you, like your betrothal ring.”

  In the flickering orange glow from the fireplace across the room, Clayton saw her hesitate, and then imperceptibly tilt her face up, offering her lips for his kiss. Very slowly and gently, Clayton leaned over and began to kiss his wife. He kissed her long and lingeringly, with all the aching tenderness in his heart and she, after a few moments of tense passivity, laid her slender fingers against his cheek and began to kiss him back with all the shy, trembling love Clayton knew she felt.

  Her soft lips parted with only the slightest urging from his probing tongue, and her arms went around his neck as she drew his tongue into her mouth, then gave him hers. He teased her, tormented her, offered himself to her by thrusting deep with his tongue, then slowly retreating and thrusting again and again, until Whitney was clinging to him, her mouth moving back and forth over his in passionate surrender to the wildly erotic kiss.

  He stroked her hair and slid his hand down over her throat to her breasts, circling the pink crests with his thumb until they stood up proudly. Whitney shivered with delight and