"You won't think so tomorrow," Clayton laughed, putting his arm around her.
Clutching his arm to help maintain her fragile balance, Whitney trailed beside him up the steps toward the front door of the Archibalds' townhouse, her face turned up to the dawn-streaked sky. At the front door, Clayton stopped.
Whitney finally realized that he was evidently waiting for something and pulled her gaze from the sky to his face. Her eyes narrowed on the laughter tugging at his lips, and she drew herself up to her fullest height. In a voice of offended dignity, she asked, "Are you thinking that I have had too much to drink?"
"Not at all. I am hoping that you have a key."
"Key?" she repeated blankly.
"To the door . . ."
"Oh certainly," she proudly declared.
After several moments passed, he chuckled. "May I have it?"
"Have what?" Whitney asked, trying desperately to concentrate. "Oh yes, of course-the key." She glanced about, trying to remember where she'd left her elegant little beaded reticule, and discovered it hanging haphazardly from her left shoulder by its short golden chain. Grimacing to herself, she muttered, "Ladies do not carry their reticules thus," and pulled it down, rummaging clumsily within it until she finally found the key.
In the darkened entrance hall, Whitney turned abruptly to bid Clayton good night, misjudged the distance separating them and collided with his chest. His strong arm encircled her, steadying her. She could have drawn away, but instead she stood there, her heart beginning to hammer as his gray eyes slid to her lips, lingering on them for an endless moment. And then he purposefully lowered his head.
His mouth opened boldly over hers, his hands sliding intimately over her back and then her hips, molding her tightly to his muscular frame. Whitney stiffened in confused alarm at the hardening pressure of his manhood, then suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck and shamelessly returned his kiss, glorying in the feel of his tongue insistently parting her lips, then plunging into her mouth, slowly retreating and plunging again in a wildly exciting rhythm so suggestive that she felt as if his body were plunging into hers.
Dizzily, she finally pulled away, and then was disappointed that he released her so readily. Drawing a long, unsteady breath, she opened her eyes and saw two Claytons gazing down at her, one superimposed over the other on her swimming vision. "You are shockingly forward, sir," she admonished severely, then spoiled it with a giggle.
Clayton grinned impenitently. "Understandably so, since you seem to find my attentions less than repulsive tonight."
Whitney considered that with a hazy, thoughtful smile. "I suppose that's true," she admitted in a candid whisper. "And do you know something else-I believe that you kiss quite as well as Paul!" With that backhanded compliment she turned and started up the stairs. On the second step, she paused to reconsider. "Actually," she said, looking at Clayton over her shoulder, "I think you kiss as well as Paul, but I can't be perfectly certain until he returns. When he does, I shall ask him to kiss me the way you do, so that I may make a more objective comparison." On a stroke of brilliance, she added, "I shall make a scientific experiment of it!"
"The hell you will!" Clayton half growled, half laughed.
Whitney lifted her delicate brows in haughty challenge. "I will if I wish."
A hard smack landed familiarly on her derriere. Whitney lurched around, swinging her arm in a wide arc with every intention of slapping his grinning face. Unfortunately, her aim was off and her hand grazed the wall alongside the staircase instead, dislodging a small painting and sending it clattering to the polished floor. "Now look what you've done!" she hissed unfairly, "You're going to awaken the entire household!" Turning, she flounced up the stairs.
Three Archibald servants were stationed at the sideboard which was covered with steaming platters of buttered eggs, ham, bacon, wafer-thin sliced sirloin, fresh crusty rolls, three kinds of potatoes and several other tempting dishes which Emily had ordered last night after due consideration as to what was appropriate to serve a man of the Duke of Claymore's lofty rank. They were waiting for Whitney to come downstairs and join them for the meal, to which the duke had been invited since he was escorting Whitney back home that day. Stirring her tea, Emily furtively studied the duke as he conversed across the table with Michael, while a romantic daydream of Whitney becoming the Duchess of Claymore floated through her mind.
"It appears that our houseguest is going to sleep away the day," Michael remarked.
Emily saw the meaningful look which his grace directed at her husband as he said mildly, "Whitney may be suffering from the effects of her evening."
"I had no idea she might be ill," Emily exclaimed. "I'll go up and see her."
"No," Whitney croaked behind them. "I-I'm here."
At the sound of her hoarse voice, all three turned in unison. She was standing in the doorway, arms extended, her hands braced against the doorframe on either side of her, swaying slightly as if she couldn't support herself. Alarmed, Emily pushed back her chair, but the duke was already out of his and striding swiftly across the room.
A knowing smile touched Clayton's eyes as he studied her pale face. "How do you feel, little one?" he asked.
"How do you think I feel?" she whispered, focusing an anguished, accusing look on him.
"You'll feel better after you've had some breakfast," he promised, taking her arm to lead her toward the table.
"No," Whitney rasped. "I am going to the."
Chapter Twenty-two
SHE WAS STILL HALF CONVINCED OF IT WHEN THEIR COACH DREW away from Emily's London townhouse. "Do you know," she whispered miserably, "I never liked champagne."
With a throaty laugh Clayton put his arm around her and drew her throbbing head against his shoulder. "I'm rather surprised to hear that," he teased.
Sighing, Whitney closed her eyes and slept until they were almost at her home, occasionally clutching Clayton's arm when their coach gave a particularly sharp lurch
She awakened feeling entirely restored and very sheepish. "I haven't been very good company," she apologized, smiling ruefully at Clayton. "If you would like to come for supper. I-"
"I have to start back to London tonight," he interrupted.
"Tonight?" Whitney repeated, sitting bolt upright. "How long will you be gone?"
"A week."
Elation began to pulse through Whitney's veins and she quickly turned her face from him. If Clayton was in London, Paul and she could elope to Scotland without having to fear that he would learn of their elopement in time to come after them. His going to London now was a stroke of luck beyond any she could have hoped for. It was a boon! It was a blessing!
It was a calamity.
The relief she'd been feeling turned to panic, and Whitney's head began to pound with renewed vigor. Dear God, Clayton was going back to London. As gentlemen did, he would probably spend his evenings at his clubs, dining or gambling with his friends and acquaintances. In those clubs there were bound to be men who had attended the Ruther-fords' ball and heard the rumor of his betrothal In the club's atmosphere of easy camaraderie, his friends would naturally press him to confirm or deny the rumor. And Whitney could almost imagine Clayton grinning and telling them that it was true. And if he did, he would look like an utter fool when she eloped with Paul instead.
Awash with misery, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed. As much as she feared Clayton's vengeance, which would now be far more awesome because he would feel publicly humiliated, she dreaded even more being the cause of that public humiliation. She couldn't bear the thought of this proud man becoming the object of derision and pity. He had done nothing to deserve that. Last night she had seen how respected and admired he was by everyone. Now, because of her, he would be humbled before them.