“Where is Clarissa?” Whitney asked a few minutes later as Clayton handed her into his empty chaise.
Clayton, who had unceremoniously dispensed with the irate, protesting chaperone by thrusting her into the other chaise with his valet, said smoothly, “She is comfortably ensconced in the coach behind us, undoubtedly browsing through the excellent books I took the liberty of providing for her.”
“Clarissa adores romances,” Whitney remarked.
“I gave her The Successful Management of Large Estates and Plato’s Dialogues,” Clayton admitted impertinently. “But then, I had already put up the stairs and slammed the door before she ever had an opportunity to see the titles.”
Whitney swallowed a futile protest and wryly shook her head.
The chaises swayed gently as they turned from her drive onto the rutted country road, and it occurred to Whitney that although the chaise looked, from the outside, like hundreds of similar conveyances, it was much more spacious and luxurious on the inside. The velvet squabs were deeper and more comfortable, and the coach was so well sprung that it seemed to float on its frame. Beside her, Clayton had ample room to stretch out his long buckskin-clad legs without being cramped by the opposite seat, and although his broad shoulders were almost touching hers, it was not a lack of ample room that caused him to sit so close to her on the seat. Her pulse stirred as the faint scent of his spicy cologne touched her nostrils, and she hastily turned her head to concentrate on the lovely fall landscape moving past.
“Where is your home?” she asked after a long, comfortable silence.
“Wherever you are.”
The quiet tenderness in his deep voice took her breath away. “I—I mean where is your real home—Claymore?”
“An hour and a half’s drive from London in good weather.”
“Is it very old?”
“Very.”
“Then it must be quite dismal,” Whitney reflected. He shot her a quizzical look and she hastily explained, “I mean that most of the old noble houses look very large and spacious from without, but inside they seem dark and oppressive.”
“There have been some modernizations and additions made to Claymore.” Dry amusement vibrated in his voice. “I don’t think you’ll find it ‘dingy.’ ”
Whitney instantly assumed that his ducal residence must be palatial and extravagantly beautiful, but then she realized she would never see it, and a strange depression settled on her. Clayton seemed to sense her change of mood, and to Whitney’s surprised delight he began regaling her with hilarious stories of his boyhood and his brother, Stephen. In all the time she had known him, he had never been so open with her, and her mood lightened with every mile until they neared Emily’s London townhouse.
The sun was descending, and Whitney grew increasingly tense as she stared out at the cobbled London streets. “What’s wrong?” Clayton asked beside her.
“I feel conspicuous, arriving at Emily’s house with you,” Whitney admitted miserably. “It’s going to seem very odd to her and to Lord Archibald.”
“Pretend we’re going to be married,” Clayton laughed. Gathering her into his arms, he kissed her so long and so thoroughly that Whitney almost believed it.
The Archibalds’ townhouse was trimmed with ornamental wrought iron and grillwork. Emily greeted them in the entry hall with smiling graciousness, and although Whitney knew Emily must be shocked that she had come to London with Clayton, she was relieved that Emily gave no hint of it. After giving Whitney a warm hug, she escorted her quickly up to a guest room, then went back downstairs to join her husband and Clayton in the drawing room and fulfill her duties as a hostess.
When she returned a quarter of an hour later, her serenity was gone and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Whitney, who was helping Clarissa unpack, took one look at Emily’s overbright eyes, and braced herself. “It’s him!” Emily burst out, leaning against the door, gaping at Whitney. “He just told me who he really is. Michael has known all along, but his grace had asked Michael to keep his identity a secret. Everyone in London talks about him constantly, but I’d never seen him! Whitney!” she exclaimed, her pretty face lit with unabashed pride in her friend. “You are going to the Rutherfords’ ball with the most eligible bachelor in all Europe! The Rutherfords’ ball,” she repeated as if trying to inspire enthusiasm in her friend. “Invitations to their parties are as coveted as diamonds!”
Whitney bit her lip uncertainly, longing to confide in Emily, yet unwilling to burden her with her own problems. If she told Emily she was betrothed to “the most eligible bachelor in Europe” Emily would obviously be thrilled. If she told Emily she didn’t want to be betrothed to him, Emily would automatically sympathize. If she told Emily she was going to elope with Paul a few days from now, Emily would fear the inevitable scandal and she would plead with her not to do it.
“How long have you known he is the Duke of Claymore?”
“Less than a week,” Whitney said cautiously.
“Well?” Emily prompted eagerly, so excited that her sentences ran together. “Tell me everything. Are you in love with him? Is he in love with you? Weren’t you surprised to discover who he is?”
“Astounded,” Whitney admitted, smiling slightly at the memory of her shocked horror at learning Clayton was her betrothed.
“Go on,” Emily prodded.
Her delight was so infectious that Whitney’s smile warmed, but she shook her head and answered in a firm tone that at least temporarily discouraged her friend from further probing. “He isn’t in love with me, nor I with him. I am going to marry Paul. It’s all but settled.”
* * *
Clayton glanced at the clock above the mantel of the Robert Adams fireplace in his spacious bedroom suite as his valet eased a crisp white evening shirt onto his muscular shoulders. It was nearly ten, and he felt almost irrationally eager to be on his way to the Archibalds’.
“If I may say so, my lord,” Armstrong murmured, assisting him into a black brocade waistcoat, “it’s very good to be in London again.”
While Clayton was buttoning the waistcoat, Armstrong removed a black evening jacket from the wardrobe, flicked a nonexistent speck off the lapel, then held it up while Clayton plunged his arms into the sleeves. After adjusting the ruby shirt studs, Armstrong stood back to survey the full effect of his master’s tall frame in impeccably tailored, raven-black evening attire.
Clayton leaned close to the mirror to assure himself that his shave was close enough and flashed a broad grin at the hovering valet. “Well, do I pass muster, Armstrong?”
Surprised and gratified by the duke’s uncharacteristic informality, Armstrong swelled with pleasure. “Most assuredly, your grace,” he said, but when the duke left, Armstrong’s pleasure slowly gave way to dismay as he realized that Miss Stone must be the cause of the duke’s extraordinary good humor. For the first time, Armstrong began to doubt the wisdom of his wager with McRae, the coachman, against the master marrying the girl.
“Have a pleasant evening, your grace,” the butler intoned as Clayton shrugged into an evening cloak lined with crimson silk and bounded down the long sweep of stairs that paraded from his magnificent Upper Brook Street mansion to the street. McRae, in full Westmoreland livery now, swept open the door of the coach as Clayton approached. Grinning at the red-haired Irish coachman, Clayton jerked his head toward the horses. “If they can’t get above a trot, McRae, shoot them.”
Elated anticipation seemed to build inside of Clayton with every revolution of the coach’s wheels clattering over the cobbled London streets. He was exhilarated at the prospect of appearing in London with Whitney at his side. The Rutherfords’ ball, which he’d originally intended to be a diversion for her, was now a profound pleasure for himself. He’d been dreaming of showing her off as his own since the night of the Armands’ masquerade—and what better place to present her to London society than at the home of his good friends?
With boyish enjoyment, he contemplated Marcus and Ell
en Rutherford’s reaction when he introduced Whitney to them tonight as his fiancée. By presenting Whitney to London society as his fiancée, he wouldn’t be breaking his promise to her, for she could still have the secrecy she desired when they returned to her home, at least for another few days. Secrecy! he thought disgustedly. He wanted the world to know!
* * *
“He’s here,” Emily exclaimed, rushing back into Whitney’s room after greeting her noble guest downstairs. “Just think of it,” she laughed. “You are making your London debut at the most important ball of the year, and the Duke of Claymore is your escort. How I wish Margaret Merryton could see you tonight!”
Emily’s delighted enthusiasm, which had been increasing all evening, was so contagious that Whitney couldn’t help smiling as she stood up to leave, nor could she suppress the unexplainable joy that surged through her when she saw Clayton talking with Lord Archibald at the foot of the stairs.
Clayton looked up automatically as she began descending the staircase, and what he saw stopped his breath and made his heart burst with pride. Draped in a Grecian gown of nugget-gold satin which left one of her smooth shoulders deliciously bare and hugged her slender, voluptuous curves until it ended in a swirl of gold, Whitney looked like a shimmering golden goddess. A rope of yellow tourmalines and white diamonds was entwined in her lustrous dark hair, and a radiant smile lit her face and glowed in her eyes. Clayton thought she had never looked so provocatively lush, nor so regally sensual as she did tonight. She was beautiful, glamorous, bewitching—and she was his.
Long gloves of matching gold covered her bare arms to well above the elbows, and when she reached the bottom of the staircase, Clayton took both her gloved hands in his. His gray eyes were smoldering, and his voice was almost hoarse. “My God, you are beautiful,” he whispered.
Caught in the spell of those compelling gray eyes, Whitney yielded to the sudden temptation to let herself truly enjoy the evening, which already held the promise of enchantment. Stepping back, she favored Clayton with a sweeping look of unabashed admiration that ran the length of his long, splendidly clad frame, then she raised her laughing green eyes to his. “Not nearly so beautiful as you, I fear.” Her eyes twinkled as she feigned dismay.
Clayton put her gold satin cape over her shoulders then rushed her from the house, not realizing until the door had closed behind them that he had neglected to say good night to the Archibalds.
Staring at the closed door, Emily expelled her breath in a long, wistful sigh.
“If you are wishing for something,” Michael warned her gently, placing his arm around her shoulders, “wish that Whitney keeps her head, and not that Claymore loses his heart, because he won’t. You’ve heard enough London gossip about him to know that. Even if he did lose his heart, and was willing to overlook her lack of fortune, he would never marry a female whose lineage was less aristocratic than his own. He is obligated by family custom not to marry beneath himself.”
Outside the night was foggy, and a chilly breeze sent Whitney’s cape fluttering behind her. She paused halfway down the steps to pull up the wide satin hood in order to protect her coiffeur. In the act, her gaze fell on the coach waiting in the street beneath the gas lamp. “Good heavens, is that yours?” she gasped, staring at the magnificent burgundy-lacquered coach with a gold crest emblazoned on the door panel. “Of course it is,” she said quickly, recovering her composure and walking alongside Clayton down the steps. “It’s just that I don’t think of you as a duke. I think of you as you are at home. My home, I mean,” she explained, feeling thoroughly absurd and unsophisticated as she stopped again to stare, not at the coach, but at the horses who drew it—four glorious grays with snowy white manes and tails, who stamped and tossed their heads in a restless frenzy to be off.
“Do you like them?” Clayton said, helping her into the coach and settling down beside her.
“Like them?” Whitney repeated as she pushed back her hood and turned her head to smile shyly into his eyes. “I have never seen such magnificent animals.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Then they’re yours.”
“No, I couldn’t accept them. Really, I couldn’t.”
“Is it now your intention to deprive me of the pleasure of giving you gifts?” he asked gently. “It pleased me mightily to know I had paid for your gowns and jewels even though you had no idea they were from me.”
Lulled by his tolerant good humor, Whitney asked the one question she had heretofore been afraid to voice. “How much did you pay my father for me?”
The mood was shattered. “If you will grant me nothing else,” he said shortly, “at least grant me this. Stop persisting in this foolish determination to see yourself as something I purchased!”
Now that she’d asked the question and incurred his anger, Whitney wanted an answer “How much?” she repeated obstinately.
Clayton hesitated and then snapped icily, “One hundred thousand pounds.”
Whitney’s mind reeled. Never in her wildest imaginings had she dreamt of a sum like that; a household servant only earned thirty or forty pounds a year. If she and Paul scrimped and saved for the rest of their lives, they could never pay back a fortune like that. She wished with all her heart that she hadn’t asked the question. She didn’t want to spoil their evening; tonight would be their first and last gala affair together, and for some reason it was terribly important to her not to ruin it. Trying desperately to recover some of their earlier gaiety, Whitney said lightly, “You were a fool, my lord duke.”
Clayton threw his gloves onto the seat across from them. “Really?” he drawled in a bored, insulting voice. “And why is that, Ma’am?”
“Because,” Whitney informed him pertly, “I don’t think you should have let him fleece you out of a single shilling over £99,000!”
Clayton’s stunned gaze shot to her face, narrowed on her smiling lips, and then he leaned back his head and laughed, a rich throaty sound that warmed Whitney’s heart. “When a man sets out to acquire a treasure,” he chuckled, drawing her closer and smiling at her, “he does not argue over a few pounds.”
The silence between them lengthened and the amusement in his eyes was slowly replaced by a slumbering intensity. His silver gaze held hers imprisoned as he slowly bent his head to her. “I want you,” he breathed, and his lips parted hers for a deep, violently sensual kiss that left Whitney shaken and flushed.
The Rutherford mansion was ablaze with lights, and the long drive leading up to it crowded with vehicles making their way toward the front of the house where they stopped to allow their resplendent passengers to alight. Footmen carrying torches met each vehicle, then escorted the guests up the terraced front steps to the main door.
In a reasonably short time, Whitney and Clayton were being escorted up the steps by a torch-bearing, liveried footman. In the entry foyer, a servant took their outerwear, and they proceeded up the carpeted staircase where enormous bouquets of white orchids in tall silver stands had been placed on each step.
They walked around the corner and out onto a balcony and Whitney paused to gaze down at the scene in the ballroom below. Her first London ball, she thought. And her last. The crowd seemed to dip and sway as the ladies moved about the floor, talking and laughing. Immense crystal chandeliers reflected the dazzling kaleidoscope of colorful gowns, which were multiplied over and over again in the two-story mirrored walls.
“Ready?” Clayton said, tucking her hand possessively in the crook of his arm and trying to draw her toward the wide curving staircase which led from the balcony down to the crowd below.
Whitney, who had been casually looking for Nicki, suddenly realized that everyone down in the ballroom was beginning to look at them, and she pulled back in confused alarm while hundreds of curious gazes swiveled up to where they were standing. The roar of conversation began steadily winding down until it was reduced to whispers and murmurings, and then it soared to deafening heights. Whitney had the terrifying feeling that ever
y person in that ballroom was either looking at them or talking about them. A woman looked up at Clayton, then hurried over to speak to a tall, distinguished-looking man, who immediately turned to gaze up at Clayton, then disengaged himself from the people surrounding him and strode purposefully in the direction of the balcony where they stood. “Everyone is staring at us,” Whitney whispered apprehensively.
Completely impervious to the stir he was creating, Clayton flicked a glance down at the guests, then shifted his gaze to Whitney’s lovely, upturned face. “I see that,” he agreed drily as the distinguished-looking man, who Whitney assumed must be their host, bounded up the last stair onto the balcony.
“Clayton!” Marcus Rutherford laughed. “Where the devil have you been? I was beginning to believe the rumors that you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”
Whitney listened as the two men, who were obviously close friends, exchanged greetings. Lord Rutherford was handsome, and looked to be about seven and thirty, with piercing blue eyes that spoke of perceptiveness. Without warning, those blue eyes leveled on her, inspecting her with unconcealed admiration. “And who, pray, is this ravishing creature beside you?” he demanded. “Must I introduce myself to her?”
Glancing uncertainly at Clayton, Whitney was startled to find him gazing down at her with a look of profound pride. “Whitney,” he said, “may I present my friend, Lord Marcus Rutherford—” Directing a meaningful glance at Whitney’s hand which was still firmly clasped in Lord Rutherford’s, Clayton finished, “Marcus, kindly take your hands off my future wife, Miss Whitney Stone.”