Whitney's interview with Emily late that afternoon was even more humiliating. Emily simply sat there, listening attentively to Whitney's lame tale of how the duke had escorted her to another party across town and when the hour had grown too late to return, her unnamed hostess had insisted that Whitney spend the night. At the end of the explanation, Emily nodded her complete, unqualified understanding, but her pretty, honest face reflected a stunned shock that was worse than any accusation she could have made.
Emily went directly to her husband's study and repeated the story to him. "So you see," she said in a determinedly confident voice while anxiously scanning Michael's face, "it was all perfectly innocent and not in the least scandalous. You do believe her explanation, don't you, Michael?" she pleaded.
Michael leaned back in his chair and regarded his young wife levelly. "No," he said quietly, "I don't." He reached out and drew Emily down onto his lap. For a long moment he studied her distraught features, then he said gentry, "But I do believe in you. If you tell me she's innocent, I will believe that."
"I love you, Michael," Emily said simply, her body sagging with relief. Whitney would never do anything indecent, I know it!"
Whitney had dreaded the evening meal, but Emily and her husband seemed perfectly relaxed and natural. In fact, Michael even urged her to remain with them until after Elizabeth's wedding, which was slightly more than a month away. He seemed so sincere, and Emily so eager for her to stay, that Whitney gratefully and happily accepted their invitation. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to go home to her father and face the rumors of her betrothal to Paul.
But that night, as she lay in bed, loneliness and despair washed over her in a tidal wave. She wished her aunt were here to tell her what to do, but she knew in her heart there was nothing Anne or anyone else could do to help her. She was going to have to bear this alone.
From this day forward, she would always be alone. She could never have a husband or children because no decent man would want her. She was soiled, dirtied, used by another. She had always wanted to have children, but now she couldn't. A painful lump of desolation swelled in her throat.
She didn't want a husband though, she told herself bitterly. She could never care for another man or bear to be touched by his hands. In her whole life, there had been only two men she had wanted to marry: Paul, who was shallow and weak, and Clayton who was-an animal. Paul had only disappointed her, but Clayton had destroyed her, He had insinuated his way into her heart, and then he had used her and thrown her away, sent her home without even an apology!
Tears trickled down Whitney's cheeks and she furiously brushed them away. Clayton Westmoreland had made her cry for the last time! When next they met, she would be hardened and calm. She was through thinking about him; she would never think about last night again.
Despite her resolve, the following days were the most harrowing of Whitney's life. Every time the butler appeared to announce a caller, Whitney's heart leapt with terror that the "caller" was the Duke of Claymore. She longed to tell Emily that she would not be at home to him when he called.
But how could she, when he was an acquaintance of Michael's, and she was a guest in Michael's home? Besides, Emily would want to know why, and that would reopen the topic of Clayton, a topic which Emily had already tried to reopen several times. Which left Whitney with no choice but to cringe and try to steady her nerves every time a visitor arrived at the Archibald residence.
She rarely accompanied Emily out of the house because she was obsessed with the morbid certainty that she could come face to face with Clayton if she did. With each passing day her tension steadily mounted until she felt as if she would go mad with the helpless waiting, the fear and dread.
But she kept the promises she had made to herself almost a week ago. She meticulously refused to think of that hideous, fateful night. And she did not cry.
Chapter Twenty-five
TWO SLEEK, WELL-SPRUNG TRAVELLING CHAISES WAITED IN front of Claymore, the vast three-story stone structure that was Clayton's principal residence. The grandeur of the house and grounds was the result of loving restoration and extensive additions which had been carried out by Clayton, his father, his grandfather, and all of the Dukes of Claymore who had preceded them.
To visitors and guests, Claymore was a place in which to wander admiringly, from domed-glass rooms where one could see the sky, to rooms of breathtaking splendor where vaulted ceilings rose three stories in height, supported by graceful Gothic pillars. Looking up, one could behold the master genius of Rubens, who had lavishly embellished the ceilings with rich, exuberant scenes.
To Clayton, however, his house was a place of haunting memories where he could not sleep, and when he did, could not escape the recurring nightmare of what had happened there seven endless agonizing nights ago. It was a place from which he had to escape.
Seated at his desk in the spacious oak-panelled library, he listened impatiently to the solicitor who was repeating the instructions Clayton had just given him.
"Do I understand you correctly, your grace? You wish to withdraw your offer of marriage to Miss Stone? But make no attempt to recover any of the monies you expended to secure the agreement?"
"That is precisely what I just said," Clayton replied shortly. "I am leaving for Grand Oak today, and will return in a fortnight. Have the papers here for my signature the day after my return." With that he stood up, abruptly concluding the distasteful interview.
The dowager Duchess of Claymore glanced up eagerly as the butler appeared in the doorway. "His grace's coach is just pulling up the drive," the old family retainer announced, his dignified countenance lit with unabashed pleasure.
Smiling, the duchess walked over to the windows of the lovely manor which her husband had years ago set aside as her dower house. In comparison to the vastness of Claymore, Grand Oak was small, but she entertained frequently and lavishly in the spacious house which stood before five guest pavilions and was surrounded by glorious gardens and arbors.
She watched the two sleek travelling chaises draw up smartly before the front steps, then turned aside to check her appearance in the mirror. At five and fifty, Alicia, Dowager Duchess of Claymore, was still slim and gracefully erect. Her dark hair was threaded with silver strands, but they only added dignity to her abiding beauty. A worried shadow darkened her gray eyes as she patted her elegantly coiffed hair into place and thought about Clayton's strangely uninformative note which had arrived only three days ago, announcing his intention to pay her a two-week visit. Clayton's visits were infrequent and usually disappointingly brief; it seemed odd somehow that he had decided to come for such an extended time and on such short notice.
A controlled commotion in the entrance hall heralded Clayton's arrival, and with her face wreathed in a delighted smile, Lady Westmoreland turned to greet her eldest son.
Clayton strode swiftly across the pale blue carpet and, ignoring her outstretched hands, he caught her in a brief embrace and pressed an affectionate kiss on her smooth forehead. "You are more beautiful than ever," he said.
His mother leaned back, anxiously studying the deeply etched lines of strain and fatigue at his eyes and mouth. "Have you been ill, darling? You look terrible."
"Thank you, Mother," he said drily. "I am delighted to see you, too."
"Well, of course, I'm delighted to see you," she protested with a sighing laugh. "But I would like to see you looking better, which is what I meant." Dismissing the subject with a cheerful wave of her hand, she drew him down to sit beside her on the sofa, but her eyes still worriedly scanned his drawn face. "Stephen is in transports over being able to spend an entire fortnight here with you," she said. "He has planned parties and is even now en route here with a large group of people. I doubt you'll have a moment's peace and quiet, so if that's why you've come, I'm afraid you're in for a rude surprise."