If she told him her decision in this manner, Instead of replying with mocking sarcasm, Clayton would probably take her in his arms and kiss her in that bold, sensuous way of his. Just thinking about it made Whitney feel giddy.
The devil with her pride! Whitney decided. She would take the latter course. As she walked back toward the carriage, anticipation and happiness began to pulse through her veins.
When she returned to Emily's house, Whitney was informed that Emily was in the salon with guests. Rather than intrude, Whitney went up to the luxurious guest room she was temporarily occupying.
Emily came in just as she was removing her bonnet. "Elizabeth, Peter, Margaret, and their mamas just left. Elizabeth asked me to be in her wedding." Apprehensively, Emily added, "I-I invited them to our party tonight. I couldn't possibly avoid it, with my whole household in an uproar, obviously preparing for a party."
Whitney pulled off her gloves, a puzzled smile on her lips as she studied Emily's worried expression. "Don't fret about it, we'll just make a few changes to the seating for dinner. It's as simple as that."
"No, it isn't," Emily said bleakly. "You see, while they were shopping, they encountered your friend, M. DuVille. He asked Margaret about you, and Elizabeth told him that you were staying here with me, and naturally he came here with them . . ."
Whitney felt a cloud of doom descending over her even before Emily said, "I had to invite him too. I knew it might make things awkward for you with the duke coming at your invitation, but I was absolutely certain M. DuVille would decline on such short notice."
Whitney sank down on the bed. "But Nicki didn't decline, did he?"
Emily shook her head. "I could cheerfully have strangled Margaret. He was obviously interested only in you, but she was hanging on his arm like a … a leech, imploring him to come. I wish her parents would marry her off to someone before she disgraces herself and them. She is the most clinging, indiscriminate, vicious female alive, and Elizabeth is so sweet, she lets Margaret trample all over her."
Unwilling to let anyone or anything dampen her joyous anticipation of the night to come, Whitney gave Emily a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about Margaret or Nicki. Everything's going to be fine."
Chapter Twenty-four
CLAYTON TOSSED THE REPORTS HIS BROTHER HAD ASKED HIM TO read onto the opposite seat of his coach and leaned his head back, impatient with himself for returning to the village a day ahead of schedule.
The horses slowed as they neared the cobbled street of the village, and he leaned sideways, glancing out the window. Heavy clouds roiled overhead, nearly obliterating the struggling sunlight of the early Saturday afternoon. The road through the village was temporarily rendered impassable by an overturned wagon and several abandoned vehicles whose owners were trying to right the wagon and catch the fleeing sheep. "McRea!" he called irritably, "when we get close to that snarl, stop and lend a hand. Otherwise we'll be here all day."
"Aye, your grace," McRea called from his perch atop the coach.
Clayton glanced at his watch and his mouth twisted with wry derision. He was behaving like a besotted idiot, racing back here a day early. Driven by a ridiculous eagerness to see Whitney, he had left his brother's house at six o'clock this morning and headed straight here, instead of spending the day in London as he'd originally planned. For seven hours, he'd been travelling as if his life depended upon reaching her, stopping only to change horses. He should never have given her this week by herself, he told himself for the hundredth time. Instead of offering her solitude, he should have offered her firm but gentle moral support. By now she had probably worked herself into a fresh fit of rebellion because he had forced her to turn down Sevarin. What a stubborn little fool she was to persist in believing she loved that weakling. A beautiful, spirited, magnificent little fool. If she cared a snap for Sevarin, she could never respond to his own caresses the way she did.
Clayton's loins tightened as he recalled the way she had j kissed him and pressed herself against him after the Rutherfords' ball when he took her back to the Archibalds'. The champagne had loosened her maidenly inhibitions, but the sweet desire she felt for him had been there for many weeks. She wanted him, and if she weren't so damned stubborn, and so young, she would have known it long ago. She wanted him all right-and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his Me. He wanted to fill her days with joy and her nights with pleasure, until she loved him as much as he loved her.
Loved her? Clayton scowled darkly at the thought, and then with a long, derisive sigh, he admitted the truth to himself. He was in love with Whitney. At four and thirty years of age, after more women and more affairs than he wanted to count, he had fallen victim to an outrageously impertinent, gorgeous girl-woman who blithely incurred his displeasure, mocked his title, and flatly refused to yield to his authority. Her smile warmed his heart and her touch heated his blood; she could enchant, amuse and infuriate him as no other woman had ever been able to do. He couldn't imagine his future without her at his side.
Having admitted all that to himself, Clayton was even more eager to reach her, to feast his eyes on her again and hold her in his arms, to hear her musical voice and to know the exquisite sensation of her slender, voluptuous body curved against his.
McRea pulled the coach to a stop in front of the apothecary's shop and climbed down to help capture the last of the loose sheep and put them in the righted wagon. Unable to endure the confinement of the coach any longer, Clayton climbed down and joined the knot of spectators who were watching the men scrambling after the loose sheep. A smile touched his lips as the baker made a frantic lunge for one of the woolly beasts, missed his target, and plowed into another villager who had just captured one.
"Quite a comic spectacle, isn't it?" Mr. Oldenberry said, coming out of his shop to stand beside Clayton and the other onlookers. "You've missed the real excitement though," he added with a sly poke in the ribs. "Whole town is buzzing with the news. Betrothals," he added.
"Really," Clayton said indifferently, his attention on the wagon which was finally being pulled from the street.
"Yes, indeed," Mr. Oldenberry said. "You won't be able to felicitate the brides-to-be, though; they're both in London." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Personally, I thought the Stone girl would choose you, but she's wanted Mr. Sevarin forever and now she got him. They're betrothed. No sooner did I hear that than Miss Ashton announced her betrothal to Mr. Redfern. Amazing how nothing seems to happen and then-"
Clayton's head jerked toward the speaker, and Mr. Olden-berry's voice froze at the murderous look in those gray eyes. In a low, deadly voice, Clayton said, "What did you say?"
"I-I said Miss Stone and Miss Ashton both got themselves betrothed while you were gone."
"You're lying or you're mistaken."
Mr. Oldenberry stepped back from the furious blast of those gray eyes and hastily shook his head. "No-no, I'm not. Ask anyone in the village, and they'll tell you it's true. Miss Stone and Miss Ashton both left here yesterday morning within an hour of each other. On their way to shop for wedding finery in London-Mrs. Ashton told me so herself," Mr. Oldenberry reassured a little desperately. "Miss Stone is staying with Lady Archibald and Miss Ashton with her grandparents," he added to prove how fully informed he was.
Without a word, Clayton turned on his heel and headed toward the coach.