Dragging air into her constricted lungs, she stared blindly ahead. He was here! He had finally come to see her, she thought wildly. He couldn't be here to attend the wedding because he hadn't been invited to it. He was here! Here, looking at her in a way that he had never, ever looked at her before-it was as if he were offering himself to her! Standing very straight and very tall, he was humbly offering himself to her. She knew it, she could feel it.
Whitney wanted to scream, to drop to her knees and weep, to hurt him as he'd hurt her. Fury, humiliation, and wild uncertainty all collided into one another. This was her opportunity to repay him, she thought hysterically, to show him with a single contemptuous glance that she despised him. She might never have another chance. He hadn't tried to see her before this, and he would leave after the wedding; he couldn't attend the banquet without an invitation. Emily said he couldn't possibly approach her without some sign from her, and he was asking her for that sign now.
Oh God! He was silently asking for her forgiveness, standing there and offering himself to her. If her answer was no, he would walk out of this church when the wedding was over. And out of her life.
Whitney closed her eyes in an agony of indecision, not caring that Clayton would see her doing it and know the struggle raging within her. He had abused her body and ravaged her soul and he knew it! Her pride demanded that she look up at him and show him that she felt only contempt for him. But her heart screamed not to let him walk out of this church.
"Don't cry, darling," he whispered in her memory. "Please don't cry anymore."
Whitney couldn't breathe; she couldn't move. "Help me!" she prayed to someone. "Please, please, help me!" And then she realized that the "someone" she was praying to was Clayton. And she loved him.
The moment Whitney stirred, Clayton knew that she was going to face him, that his answer would be there. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bench in front of him, bracing himself. Her eyes lifted to his and the gentle yielding in their melting green depths nearly sent nun to his knees. He wanted to drown himself in her eyes, to pull her into his shaking arms, to carry her from the church and beg her to say aloud the same three words she had just spoken in silence.
Everyone rushed down the aisle behind the bridal procession, pushing and jostling gaily for position on the broad crowded steps outside. Clayton was the last to leave. He strolled slowly along beneath the high vaulted ceiling, his footsteps echoing hollowly in his ears. Outside the massive doors of the church, he stopped, watching Whitney smiling and nodding, her hair shining in the late afternoon sunlight. He hesitated, knowing that if he went to her now, they'd not be able to exchange more than a few words, yet he couldn't bring himself to wait until the banquet. Meeting as few eyes as possible to avoid being waylaid by any of his former "neighbors," he stepped into the crowd, wending his way toward Whitney until he was standing only an inch behind her.
Whitney instantly sensed his presence as if it were a tangible force, something powerful and magnetic. She even recognized the elusive, tangy scent of his cologne. But she scarcely recognized his voice; it was raw with emotion, a hoarse, aching whisper. "Miss Stone-I adore you."
The shattering tenderness of the words sent a jolting tremor up Whitney's spine, a reaction which was not lost on Clayton. He saw her stiffen, and for one chilling second he thought he'd only imagined what had passed between them in the church, but then she took an imperceptible step backward. Very lightly, he felt her lean against him. His breath froze at the exquisite sensation of her body pressing against him. He dropped his hand to her waist, gently sliding it around in front of her, drawing her nearer and tighter to him. And she made no resistance at all… but stood quietly in his embrace. Clayton's mind flew to the cleric in the church. If he led Whitney inside now, would she stand beside him like some gorgeous greenhouse flower and repeat the same words Elizabeth had just said? Would he need a special license?
With a sublime effort, he thrust the idea of marrying her now, today, out of his mind. Whitney would be a breathtaking bride and he'd not attempt to cheat her of her day of glory-he'd already cheated her of so much!
Emily turned to Whitney without seeming to notice that Clayton was standing shockingly close behind her friend, with his arm around her waist. "They're signalling us to go now," she said.
Whitney nodded but Clayton sensed her reluctance to leave him and he had to fight down the impulse to tighten his hand. Finally she stepped away, and without a backward glance, she melted swiftly into a flurry of bridesmaids.
Emily hesitated before climbing into the carriage behind Whitney. Turning, she looked for the duke and found his inscrutable gray eyes levelled on her. She smiled with shy uncertainty. He returned her hesitant greeting with a deep, formal bow, then he grinned at her, a broad, devastating grin filled with boyish gratitude.
"He was there!" Whitney blurted, twisting around in the carriage, her gaze fastened on the waning vision of Clayton who was still standing on the church steps, watching the Archibalds' carriage pull into traffic. "Did you see him?"
Laughter trembled on Emily's lips. "Indeed I did. He was standing right behind you with his arm around your waist."
"Please don't hate him for what he did," Whitney whispered. "I couldn't bear it if you hated him. Emily, I love him so much."
"I know you do," Emily said gently.
Clayton watched her carriage until it had disappeared from view, his heart filled to bursting. He knew why Whitney had never turned to face him. It was for the same reason he'd not told her that he loved her just now. Neither of them wanted to begin again, surrounded by a group of strangers.
Although some of the guests weren't strangers at all, Clayton finally noted, glancing around nun. There were several people here whom he knew from London. Simultaneously, it dawned on him that the murmurings of the crowd were rising to a fever-pitch. He walked down the steps, past women who were beginning to curtsy to him and men who were respectfully murmuring, "Your grace . . ."
Clayton stopped in his tracks, staring at his coach which was pulled up smartly at the curb. The coach! In his agitated preoccupation with seeing Whitney again, he'd forgotten to tell McRea to use the plain black one which he'd purchased to use as Whitney's "neighbor."
Clayton turned to face his gaping former neighbors who had known him as "Mr. Westland." He looked at them ruefully, with a faint smile of wry apology for his deception. Then he climbed into a magnificent midnight-blue coach with his ducal seal emblazoned in shining silver on the door panel.
Whitney had arranged to spend the time between the wedding and the banquet with her aunt at the Archibalds' so that she could tell her aunt of the permanent estrangement between Clayton and herself. She had dreaded this meeting for weeks, but now she could scarcely wait to see her aunt. |
"You are positively glowing!" Aunt Anne smiled, coming into the salon and hugging Whitney tightly. She stripped off her gloves and pulled Whitney down on the settee beside her. "Really, darling," she said with laughing severity, "I began to wonder if the two of you were going to be able to tear your eyes from one another in that church."
Whitney beamed. "I could never hide anything from you, could I?"