Whitney, My Love

"Let's get the hell out of here!" the duke growled, flinging himself into the open carriage and slamming the door behind him.

Something's amiss with the lass, McRae concluded with a chuckle, sending the magnificent grays bowling down the drive. So delighted was he, that not even the persistent throbbing of his abscessed wisdom tooth could dull his spirits. Mentally visualizing a variety of pleasant ways to spend the proceeds from his wager, McRae began to hum a lilting Irish melody. After a few bars, the duke leaned forward and demanded furiously, "Are you in pain, McRae?!"

"No, your grace," McRae hurriedly replied over his shoulder.

"In mourning?" the duke snapped.

"No, your grace."

"Then cease that goddamn moaning!"

"Aye, your grace," McRae said, carefully concealing his happy expression from his infuriated master.

Chapter Seventeen

WHTTNEY SLOWLY OPENED HER EYES, BLINKING IN CONFUSION AT the late morning sunlight filtering through the draperies. Her head ached dully, and she felt strangely, unaccountably melancholy. Her benumbed mind refused to function, preferring instead the anesthesia of watching the shadows creeping across the gold carpet as the sun was slowly obliterated by a heap of dark clouds rolling past. She frowned, trying to understand the bitter desolation that seemed to be weighting her down, and in that instant, the scene in the study last night penetrated her sleep-fogged consciousness.

In a panic, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the reality of the Cheltenham Tragedy that had been enacted, with all its macabre plots and twisted subplots, but it was too painfully sinister to be ignored.

Dragging herself up into a sitting position, she twisted around and arranged the pillows behind her, then fell back against them. She knew she had to think, to plan, and with grim determination she set about systematically reviewing what facts she had. First, the man who occupied the Hodges' place was Clayton Westmoreland, the "missing" Duke of Claymore. Which, she thought listlessly, finally explained his expensive clothes and those monstrously aloof servants of his.

He was also the man she'd met at the Armands' masquerade, the same arrogant, lecherous . . . With an effort, Whitney set aside her boiling animosity and made herself return to the facts at hand. After they met at the masquerade, Clayton Westmoreland must have come directly to her father to purchase her for his wife. Her father said last night that everything was "arranged," which undoubtedly meant that a preliminary marriage contract was already signed.

Once Clayton had accomplished that, the unspeakable cad had evidently installed himself and his servants in his lair, not two miles from her front door.

"Unbelievable!" Whitney whispered aloud. It was more than that, it was ridiculous, absurd! But, whether it was or not, it was also true. She was technically . . . obscenely . . unwillingly betrothed to the Duke of Claymore. Betrothed to a notorious libertine, a profligate rake!

Why, he was as hateful as her father! Her father . . . The agonizing recollection of her father's heartless treachery was more than Whitney could bear. She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs in a sort of protective cocoon, and rested her forehead on her knees. "Oh, Papa," she whispered brokenly, "how could you have done that to me?" The lump in her throat grew and grew until it was suffocating her; unshed tears burned her eyes and made her throat ache unbearably. But she didn't let go, would not break down.

She had to be strong. Her opponents outnumbered her two to one-three to one, if Aunt A

In the meantime, she reminded herself sternly, she would have to rely on her own courage and determination, but she had plenty of both, and a stubborn nature that Clayton Westmoreland heretofore had only glimpsed! Yes, she could manage perfectly well on her own until Paul returned.

Almost gleefully, Whitney began pla

There was a light tap on the door, and Aunt A

Her aunt settled herself on the bed. "On the same day yon saw me send letters to your uncle in four different countries and cancel my trip to London."

"Oh," Whitney whispered hoarsely. Aunt A

"Everything is going to be fine," her aunt soothed, smoothing the soft tangles from Whitney's hair.

When the last rush of tears subsided, Whitney found she felt immensely better. She dried her eyes and smiled ruefully. "Isn't this the most wretched coil, Aunt A

Her aunt fervently agreed that it was, then disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a soft cloth wrung out in cold water. "Here, darling, press this against your eyes so they won't be swollen."

"I am going to marry Paul," Whitney said in a muffled voice, obediently holding the damp cloth to her face. "I have pla

"I'm on your side, darling. Only yours. I want what's best for you." A

'"His grace!'" Whitney repeated, infuriated by this reminder of Clayton's lofty rank. All other noblemen were referred to merely as "his lordship" and addressed as "my lord," but not a duke. Because a duke outranked all other noblemen, he must be addressed much more respectfully-as "your grace."

"Whitney, shall I have your new challis pressed?" A

Whitney glanced bleakly out the window. Half the sky promised a bright, su

By the time Clarissa came in, Whitney had decided what to wear, and the idea filled her with grim, perverse satisfaction. "Clarissa, do you remember the black dress Haversham used to wear when she scrubbed the stairs? Will you see if you can find it."

Clarissa's kindly face was furrowed with bewildered sympathy. "Lady Gilbert told me what happened last night, child," she said. "But if you mean to antagonize the man, you may be making a terrible mistake."