“Keep it on!” his voice slashed out, “until I leave.”
Clayton came to his feet, advancing on her with the predatory grace of a stalking panther. Reflexively, Whitney started to back away, then checked herself and held her ground. He loomed over her, his gaze a frigid blast. In a silky, menacing voice, he said, “Do you remember what I told you would happen if you dared to disobey me again, Whitney?”
He had threatened to lock her in her rooms until her baby was born. Whitney was angry and frightened—and so much in love with him that even her voice throbbed with it. “Yes, I remember,” she said in an aching whisper. “I remember all sorts of other things, too. I remember the words you have whispered to me when you are so deep inside of me that you have touched my heart. I remember . . .”
“Shut up!” he snapped furiously. “Or so help me God, I’ll . . .”
“I remember exactly the way your hands feel against my skin when you touch me and . . .”
He caught her shoulders and shook her. “Damn you! I said stop!”
“I can’t.” Whitney shuddered in his grasp but persevered. “I can’t stop, because I love you. I love your eyes, and your smile, and your . . .”
Clayton yanked her into his arms, his mouth capturing hers in a savage, punishing kiss that was meant to silence and hurt and retaliate. He was bruising her lips, and she was crushed so tightly against him that she couldn’t breathe. But Whitney didn’t care; she could feel the hardness of his need swelling rigidly against her, and when his mouth began to slant fiercely over hers with wild hunger and desperate urgency, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him.
As abruptly as he had caught her to him, Clayton pushed her away. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his expression so incensed, so bleakly embittered that Whitney almost lost her resolve and brought up the note herself. Instead she raised her chin to its bravest angle and said in quiet defiance, “I will willingly commit myself to being locked in this room for as long as you wish—provided you are willing to stay locked in here with me. Otherwise, nothing—and no one—will keep me in here. If I have to set fire to the house to get out, then I will.”
It took a moment for Clayton to react. She looked so unbearably beautiful, so young and vulnerable, facing him in this outrageous mutiny, that if he didn’t hate her and hate himself, he would have grinned. He had to remind himself that she was a calculating schemer; even so, his earlier wrath was momentarily defused by her impertinent suggestion that he lock himself into her room with her. Lock himself in with her? Christ! He could barely stand to live in the same house with her, despising her with an uncontrollable virulence half the time, and wanting her until he ached with it the rest.
“If you ever again leave the grounds of this estate without my permission,” he said in a low, savage voice, “you will yearn for the ‘tenderness’ I showed you the first time I brought you here.”
Clayton had taught her to be proud of the power she held over his body, and that one brutal kiss had shown Whitney how badly he still wanted her. The knowledge gave her the courage to look at him and say with a faint blush, “I already do yearn for it, my lord.” Then, reverting to her former air of proud rebellion, she added as she turned and walked into her dressing room, “However, I shall obey you to the extent of at least asking for your permission before I leave the grounds.”
Whitney heard the outer door close and leaned weakly against the wall of her dressing room, more shaken by the confrontation than she had let him see. Her idle threat about setting fire to the house had not been what had stopped him from having her confined to her room. She knew, and he knew, that he could very easily have her kept there with a loyal servant acting as guard in her room to prevent her from doing anything harmful. But she had thrown him off balance by boldly inviting him to stay here with her.
She was playing with fire, Whitney knew. She couldn’t risk angering him to the point where he might have her removed entirely from his presence. She had to be with him so that she could force him into accusing her of this nonsense he believed. She had to be near him so that she could continue to stoke the fire of his desire; one of them, either fury or desire, was going to drive him from his stony silence.
In the east wing, Clayton lay awake in his bed, coldly contemplating his past and his future. By now he had managed to find an explanation for every heretofore unexplainable word or action on Whitney’s part. At long last, the reason for her behavior at Elizabeth’s wedding banquet was crystal clear. She had meant every cold, vile word she had said to him as they danced. After the banquet, in the ensuing weeks, Whitney had discovered her pregnancy, or thought she was pregnant, and when the father couldn’t or wouldn’t offer her his name, she had concocted the scheme of coming here and renewing their dead betrothal. And he, like a goddamned fool, had, with great joy, allowed himself to be cuckolded.
He didn’t know how long he could stand this living arrangement. His heart and his mind understood the harsh reality that there could never be anything between Whitney and him again, but his body tormented him with the same insatiable desire for her he’d always felt.
If they weren’t living under the same roof, perhaps he could find some relief from his agony. He could remove to his townhouse in Upper Brook Street and resume a semblance of his former life, or he could go to France or Spain for a few months. That would be ideal, but Whitney was, after all, carrying his child and, in the event of some complication with her pregnancy, he shouldn’t be so far away.
No, the townhouse would be better. His need for diversion and his physical needs could both be satisfied in London. All he had to do was take Whitney to a few social affairs during the next month or two, then, once her pregnancy was apparent, she would not be able to go out into society anyway, so no one would find it odd that she was no longer seen on his arm. When they saw him with other women, the old biddies would cluck their tongues and whisper to one another that “the little nobody” he had married hadn’t been able to hold him very long, and that they had known all along that this was how it was going to end. The thought gave Clayton a brief perverse pleasure.
He hoped to God that Whitney was carrying a boy, for this was going to be his only opportunity to get an heir. Otherwise he would have to leave it up to Stephen to sire the heir. Thank God he could count on Stephen for that; that lands and title had always been held by a Westmoreland, and his father had been the only boy of five children.
* * *
The following morning, Whitney composed a carefully worded note to Clayton to the effect that Lord Archibald’s parents were celebrating their anniversary and that Whitney had promised Emily and Michael to attend the gala affair this evening, and that she would appreciate it very much if Clayton would escort her. She sent the note into the east wing with Clarissa, then paced back and forth, waiting for Clayton’s response.
With trembling fingers she unfolded her note across the bottom of which was a curt reply in Clayton’s bold handwriting. “Advise my valet whether the dress is formal or informal.” She could have laughed with joy.
That night she spent more time than ever in her life on her appearance. Clarissa swept her hair up into intricate coils entwined with a finely wrought gold chain that had belonged to Whitney’s grandmother. Nestled in the hollow between her breasts was a simple topaz pendant surrounded by a ring of diamonds, which had belonged to Whitney’s great-grandmother. She was not wearing any of the Westmoreland jewelry. She was not, in fact, wearing her splendid betrothal ring. For a few minutes Whitney actually considered removing her wide gold wedding band, but that she could not do—not even to make her point.
Clayton was standing at the far end of the white and gold salon, staring moodily out the windows with a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking utterly magnificent in his black evening clothes. With a gleam of mischief dancing in her eyes, Whitney floated into the salon in a swirl of glittering gold-spangled chiffon. She did not remove the golden stole that was lying softly across her breasts
, draped in a gentle half circle down her back, nor did she intend to do so until they arrived at Michael’s parents’ home.
The hour and a half ride was made in frosty silence, but Whitney contented herself by relishing what Clayton’s reaction was going to be when he saw the tantalizing display of swelling breasts exposed by the gown’s provocatively plunging bodice. If Clayton hadn’t liked the emerald gown in his current mood, he was definitely not going to approve of this one.
“We don’t clash,” Whitney remarked when they arrived at their destination and Clayton was helping her down from the closed carriage.
“Meaning what?” he said coldly.
“Meaning the colors we are wearing,” she innocently explained. In a deceptively casual gesture, she pulled off the gold stole and let it flutter from her fingers as she stepped forward beside him toward the house.
“I can’t imagine what damned difference—” Clayton came to a complete halt, his eyes like shards of ice as they froze on the swelling expanse of glowing skin exposed above the glittering bodice. In a low, incensed voice he said, “Are you trying to see exactly how far I can be provoked?”
“No, my lord,” Whitney replied demurely, aware of the curious looks from other arriving guests. “How could I possibly provoke you more than I already have simply by offering you a child.”
“If you will take some advice,” he snapped, making a visible effort to control his fury, “you will remember your condition and behave accordingly tonight.”
Whitney gave him a vivacious smile, aware that his blazing eyes were riveted on her swelling breasts. “Of course,” she said lightly, “I meant to do exactly that, but my knitting wouldn’t fit inside my reticule.” In humorous proof, she held up her little beaded bag, then gasped aloud in surprised pain as Clayton’s hand locked onto her forearm, his fingers biting into her flesh.
“Do not fail to enjoy the party this evening to its fullest, because it is the last one you will be attending. You will remain at Claymore until the child is born, and I am moving into the townhouse.”
All the optimistic hope and determination went out of her, leaving Whitney numb and desolate. She tried to pull her arm free, but his painful grip was relentless. “Then please don’t shame us both tonight by leaving the marks of your contempt on my arm.”
His grip loosened so abruptly that it seemed as if he had been unaware of even touching her. “Pain,” he snapped at her as they passed by the butler, “like love, is a thing to be shared.”
From the first minute she entered the drawing room, Whitney was vaguely aware that something was amiss, but she could not quite put her finger on what it was. It was just that everyone seemed so . . . normal. No, too painstakingly normal—as if they were making a concerted effort to seem normal. Nearly an hour later, Whitney glanced up and saw Lord Esterbrook; she smiled at him and he nodded and bowed, but when he would have started toward her, Whitney made a great show of being deeply involved in her conversation with the group surrounding her. She had never believed that Lord Esterbrook had said, “unkind” things about her to Vanessa at the Rutherfords’ party, but he had an extremely perverse sense of humor and could deliver a cut with a razor’s edge, so she always made a practice of keeping him at a distance.
Emily, who arrived shortly thereafter, immediately provided the answer to the strange atmosphere pervading the evening. “Oh good Lord in heaven,” she said, hauling Whitney off to one side and whispering while she cast furtive looks around her. “My father-in-law is the veriest loose screw about some things. I could not believe my ears when he told me five minutes ago what great pains he’d taken to lure her here as a surprise for my mother-in-law.”
“What are you talking about?” Whitney whispered back as premonitions of disaster began to pound in her brain.
“Marie St. Allermain. She’s here! Michael’s father went through friends of friends to entice her to come and sing here tonight. She’s a guest at the palace where she is to perform tomorrow night, and . . .”
Whitney didn’t hear the rest. Her legs and arms had begun to tremble from the moment Emily had mentioned the name of Clayton’s beautiful and most famous former mistress. Marie St. Allermain was in London, in the very house with Clayton. And not more than an hour ago, he’d announced his intention of moving into the London house. Whitney didn’t remember what she said to Emily or how she managed to return to the circle of acquaintances she’d left. She waited in sick dread for the moment when Marie St. Allermain would walk into the room.
The huge drawing room was packed beyond capacity. From the corner of her eye, Whitney watched Clayton enter the room at the same time the accompanist seated himself at the big grand piano, and the musicians picked up their instruments. There was a crackling tension in the room, although whether it was due to the appearance of a woman whose voice and beauty was legendary, and who was in demand in all the capitals of Europe, or whether it was because everyone was secretly waiting to see Clayton and her come face to face, Whitney didn’t know.
Clayton, who had paused to talk to someone, finally made his way to Whitney’s side. It was as if the crowd parted to clear a path so that they could both stroll to the very front row of guests clustered around the piano.
Whitney stood with her hand linked through Clayton’s arm. She knew he didn’t want it there, but she was feeling ill and desperately needed something to hold onto. “No voice in the world like St. Allermain’s, if you ask me,” the elderly man beside Clayton said. Beneath her fingertips, Whitney felt the muscles in Clayton’s forearm tense into rigidity and then slowly relax. He hadn’t known! she realized. Oh God! Why did he have to look so devastatingly handsome tonight, so completely desirable? And why, she thought, with tears burning behind her eyes as the blond singer entered the room, did Marie St. Allermain have to be so lushly, provocatively, enchantingly beautiful? Whitney could not tear her unwilling gaze from the woman. She had the body of a slender Venus and the magnetism of a woman who is confident of her extraordinary beauty without being at all obsessed with it.
And when she began to sing, Whitney felt the room swim dizzily. She had the sort of lilting voice that could fall gently upon the ears, or deepen until it was rich and sensual. There was a glint of laughter in her eyes while she sang, as if she found the silent adoration being lavished upon her by the hundreds of people who were listening and watching her, secretly very silly.
In comparison to her, Whitney felt girlish and plain and unsophisticated. And deathly ill. For she now knew exactly what being Clayton’s mistress really meant. That woman with the laughing blue eyes had known Clayton’s drugging kisses, had lain naked in his arms and shared the exquisite ecstasy of his body driving deeply into hers. Whitney knew she must be as pale as death; her ears were ringing and her hands felt like ice. She was going to faint if she stayed in here; if she left, she would create a scene that would feed the malicious gossips for years. She tried to tell herself that, after all, Clayton had broken off his affair with Marie to pursue her. But that was before; now he detested and despised her. And very soon, even if he came back to Claymore, her body would be ungainly and swollen with child.
Whitney wished, very sincerely, that she were dead. She was so anguished that she had no idea precisely when Clayton’s hand had come to rest upon her cold, clammy one which was linked through the crook of his arm, or for how long he had been lightly, reassuringly squeezing her fingers. But when she realized it, she shamelessly took what little support he was offering her and curled her fingers tightly around his. At least now she felt as if she could breathe. But only momentarily. For when Marie St. Allermain was accepting thunderous applause with a faintly amused inclination of her head, her blue eyes met Clayton’s, and a current leapt between the two of them that Whitney felt with a painful jolt.
Soon after, the ballroom was opened for dancing. For the next half hour, Clayton did not leave her side, but neither did he speak to her or so much as glance at her. He was there though, and Whitney clung to t
hat fact as if it were the beginning of the reconciliation she had been waiting for. Her hopes were dashed to pieces the moment Clayton led her onto the dance floor and took her in his arms. “Where in the living hell is your betrothal ring?” he snapped angrily as he whirled her in perfect time to the waltz.
“The token of your love?” Whitney asked him, her chin proudly high, her pale face fragile and beautiful. “That betrothal ring?”
“You know damned well which ring.”
“Since it was a token of the love I no longer have from you, I felt it was hypocrisy to wear it.” She waited breathlessly for Clayton to say his love for her wasn’t dead.
“Do as you damn well please,” he said with cynical indifference. “You always have.”
When the dance ended they remained together, each of them putting on a convincing performance of participating in the light-hearted conversation directed at them by the dozen guests surrounding them. A short time later, however, an imperceptible tension seemed to take root and spread through the group, and their laughter suddenly became too hardy and forced as they flicked nervous glances over Whitney’s right shoulder. In her heightened state of nervous awareness, Whitney noticed the change in the atmosphere and turned to see what was causing it. One glance, and she jerked her head around, but it was too late to do more than brace herself. Lord Esterbrook, with Marie St. Allermain on his arm, was approaching them from behind.
“Claymore!” Esterbrook’s mocking voice cut through the little group’s forced joviality like a hot knife through butter. “I’m sure that no introductions are necessary between the two of you.”
Every pair of eyes swivelled to them as Clayton turned automatically at the sound of his name and found himself confronted by a grinning Esterbrook and his former mistress. Whitney, who had no choice but to turn around also, heard the frantic buzzing and gasps, the muted laughter, and felt the weight of avidly curious gazes focusing on them. There was no doubt that everyone present in the huge ballroom was now fully cognizant of the import of the meeting taking place . . . everyone, that is, except Clayton and Marie St. Allermain, who seemed to find the situation rather amusing.