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," she said solemnly. "I fear he suffers quite terribly from the vapors and the headache."
Clayton accepted her slur upon his masculine vitality with an infuriating grin. "Indeed I do," he chuckled, while his hand left Whitney's elbow and swept possessively around her shoulders, drawing her close for an affectionate squeeze. "And I intend to continue 'suffering.'" He winced as Whitney ground her heel into his instep, then winked at the apothecary. "My suffering gains me a great deal of sympathetic attention from this enchanting neighbor of mine."
"Oh rubbish!" Whitney burst out.
Clayton turned a conspiratorial smile on the apothecary and observed admiringly, "She certainly has a temper, doesn't she, Mr. Oldenberry?" Mr. Oldenberry puffed up with importance and agreed that, indeed, Miss Stone had always had a temper, and that he, like Mr. Westland, preferred females with spunk.
Whitney watched Clayton pay for the hartshorn, and she caught the subtle movement of his hand as he placed the bottle back on the counter. Certain now that he had invented this errand for the sole purpose of illustrating to every gossip within fifteen miles that he had some claim upon her affection, Whitney spun on her heel. Clayton caught up with her as she stepped from the shop into the sunlight. "You're going to regret this," Whitney promised in a furious undertone.
"I don't think so," he said, guiding her across the street.
Elizabeth Ashton and Margaret Merryton were emerging from one of the shops, the latter's arms laden with bundles wrapped in white paper and tied with string. Politeness dictated that they all stop and exchange civilities. For once, Margaret didn't greet Whitney with an insulting, vindictive remark. In fact, she didn't greet her at all. Turning her shoulder to Whitney, she smiled into Clayton's gray eyes while Clayton obligingly took her bundles from her. As they crossed the street toward Margaret's carriage, Margaret linked her arm through his and said just loudly enough for Whitney to hear, "I've been meaning to ask you if I left my parasol in your carriage the other evening."
The shock of his betrayal knocked the breath from Whitney. True, she herself didn't feel obligated to honor their betrothal agreement, but Clayton had willingly and legally committed himself to her in a contract almost as binding and solemn as marriage. The man was worse than a rake, he was . . . promiscuous! And of all the women for him to be seeing in secret, he had chosen to consort with her bitterest enemy. Pain and rage seeped through Whitney's system.
"Margaret hates you terribly," Elizabeth murmured to Whitney as they both watched Clayton deposit Margaret's parcels in her carriage, then walk over to his carriage, apparently to search for Margaret's parasol. They lingered there, talking and laughing. "I think she hates you more for Mr. Westland than she did for that gentleman from Paris- Monsieur DuVille."
It was the first tune Elizabeth had ever addressed a voluntary comment to Whitney, and if she hadn't been so miserably preoccupied, Whitney would have made a more cordial response. Instead she said stiffly, "I would be very obliged to Margaret if she were to snatch Mr. Westland right from under my nose."
"That's just as well," Elizabeth said, her pretty face troubled, "because she means to have him."
After assisting Elizabeth and Margaret into their carriage, Clayton reclaimed Whitney's hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, as if nothing at all had happened. Whitney walked beside him, her face frozen with anger. At the end of the street was a small inn which boasted only one private dining parlor, the public rooms, and a small courtyard concealed from the street by vine-colored trellises. The proprietor's daughter greeted Clayton as if she knew him, then hastened to show them to a table in the courtyard.
Whitney watched in mounting annoyance as Millie batted her big brown eyes at him, then bent over the table, smoothing the linen and rearranging the vase of flowers, while deliberately providing Clayton with an unimpaired view of the ample bosom spilling over her bodice. Seething, Whitney observed the girl's swaying hips as she went to get their meal. "If that is the way Millie conducts herself around men, her poor parents must be at their wits' end."
Clayton observed Whitney's indignant features with a gleam of knowing amusement, and Whitney's tenuous hold on her temper snapped. Raking him with a contemptuous look, she added, "Of course, you've probably given Millie reason to believe you find her very desirable."
"What the devil do you mean by that remark?" he demanded.
"I mean that you have a notorious reputation with women -a reputation which you've undoubtedly earned!"
"Not for dallying with serving wenches, I haven't."
"Tell that to Millie," Whitney retorted frigidly. When Millie brought their meals, Whitney attacked her meat as if it were still alive. The instant they were finished eating, she pushed her chair back and arose.
Neither of them broke the charged silence on the way home until Clayton turned into his own drive, rather than continuing past it to hers, and pulled the grays to a stop before his house. When he came around to help her alight, Whitney pressed back into her seat. "If you think for one minute that I am going to set foot in that house with you, you're sadly mistaken."
A look of sorely strained patience crossed his face, and for the second time that day, he caught her by the waist and lifted her down from the carriage. "God help me if I ever injure my back," he quipped.
"God help you if you ever turn it," she snapped, "for there'll surely be some heartbroken papa or cuckolded husband ready with a knife-if I don't murder you first."
"I have no intention of arguing with you or ravishing you," Clayton said with exasperation. "If you will only look around, you'll see why I brought you here."
Whitney did, irritably at first and then with surprise. The Hodges estate had always had a seedy look about it, but all that had changed. The bushes were pruned, and the grass neatly trimmed. Missing flagstones from the walk had been replaced, and rotted woodwork repaired. But the biggest change was brought about by the twin expanses of great mullioned windows on the first story, where before there had only been three gloomy little glass-covered holes. "Why have you gone to such expense?" Whitney asked when it was apparent that he was waiting for some reaction from her.
"Because I bought it," Clayton said, indicating that she should walk with him toward the newly erected pavilion at the far end of the front lawn.
"You bought it?" Whitney gasped. Just the thought of the cozy trio they would mate-she and Paul, with Clayton for a neighbor-made her feel quite violently ill. Was there no end to the obstacles one single man could put in the way of her happiness?
"It seemed a reasonably sound idea. This land adjoins yours, and someday the two estates can be combined."
"Adjoins your land, not mine!" Whitney corrected him bitingly. "You paid for it, just as you paid for me."
She started to step blindly into the wooden pavilion but his hand shot out and captured her arm, jerking her around. He studied her flushed, angry face for a moment, and then he said calmly, "Margaret Merryton's carriage wheel was broken, and I offered to take her up with me, rather than leaving her there in the road. I brought her home, where her father thanked me profusely and invited me to dinner, which I declined. There was nothing more to it than that."
"I don't care in the least what you and Margaret did!" Whitney lied angrily.
"The hell you don't! You've been sniping at me ever since she asked if she left her parasol in my carriage."