He felt the emotional impact his words had on her because she went rigid in his arms, but when she lifted her beautiful face the laughter in her expression almost made him stumble.
“I am not in the least surprised to hear it,” she teased breezily. “I seem to be all the rage this season—particularly with tall men.” She tipped her head to the side, considering the possible reasons for such a thing. “I believe it is probably because I am rather tall for a woman. It must be quite awkward for tall men to be forever bent over, trying to speak to tiny women. Or,” she added jokingly, “it could be because I have very good teeth. I take excellent care of them and—”
“Don’t!” Clayton commanded, trying to stop her banter.
“I shall never brush them again,” Whitney agreed with sham solemnity.
Clayton gazed down at her entrancing cream and roses face and wondered how in the hell he had started to speak of love and ended up in an inane discussion of personal hygiene. If his emotions weren’t in such a turmoil, if he weren’t trying so desperately to make things right between them, he would have noticed that her overbright eyes were sparkling with suppressed tears, not laughter, and that the muscles in her slim throat were constricting spasmodically. But he was in a turmoil, and he didn’t notice. “Elizabeth is a beautiful bride,” he said, trying to guide their discussion around to marriage.
Whitney laughed. “All brides are beautiful. It was decreed centuries ago—by a duke, no doubt—that all brides must be beautiful. And blush.”
“Will you blush?” he asked tenderly.
“Certainly not,” she said, managing to smile despite the catch in her voice. “I have nothing left to blush about. Not that I mind, you see, because I’ve always harbored a secret contempt for females who blush and swoon at the slightest provocation.”
Clayton’s frustrated confusion reduced his voice to a tense whisper. “What’s wrong? You weren’t like this when you were in my arms outside the church—”
Whitney’s jade green eyes widened in apparent bewilderment. “Was that you?”
Ignoring the wild curiosity they were generating among the wedding guests, Clayton jerked her hard against his chest. “Who in the living hell did you think it was?”
Whitney felt as if her heart was breaking. “Actually, I couldn’t be absolutely certain who it was. It might have been . . .” She inclined her head toward the two groomsmen who’d been dancing attendance on her all night. “John Clifford or Lord Gilmore. They say they ‘adore’ me. Or it might have been Paul. He ‘adores’ me. Or it could have been—”
In one swift motion, Clayton whirled her off the dance floor and thrust her away. He stared down at her with cold savage contempt, his voice dangerously low, hissing with fury. “I thought you were a woman with a heart, but you’re nothing but a common flirt!”
Whitney lifted her chin in scornful amusement. “I’d hardly say I was common; after all, I’ve fleeced you out of £110,000, and even so, all I have to do is smile, and you still come straight to heel, just as you did today. We are neither of us common, my lord,” she taunted. “I am an accomplished flirt and you are a sublime fool.”
For a split second, Whitney thought he was going to strike her. Instead he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away. She watched him stalk past the staring guests, past the servants stationed at the doors and knew that he had just left her life forever. Forcing back her dammed-up tears, she searched the crowd for Emily. “Emily,” she mumbled brokenly, keeping her face down, “please explain to Elizabeth that I—I felt quite violently ill. I’ll—I’ll send your driver back with your carriage as soon as he leaves me at your house.”
“I’ll come with you,” Emily said quickly.
“No, I prefer to be alone. I have to be alone.”
Later that night Emily and Michael both paused outside Whitney’s door, listening to the wrenching sound of grief being poured into a pillow. “Let her be,” Michael advised compassionately. “She’ll cry it all out of her system.”
However, when Whitney failed to appear for breakfast the next morning, Emily went up to her room and found her sitting in bed, her knees drawn up to her chest as if she were trying to curl into a cocoon. She looked pale and fragile but when she saw Emily, she managed a wan smile. “How do you feel?” Emily asked softly.
“I—I’m much better today.”
“Whitney, what happened last—”
“Don’t!” Whitney implored tightly. “Please don’t.” When Emily nodded, the tension in Whitney’s face gave way to gratitude and she relaxed against the pillows. “I’ve decided to begin enjoying the remainder of my time in London. Would you object if I had callers in occasionally?”
“Of course not. In fact, Lord Gilmore and the other groomsmen are downstairs right now, hoping to see you.” Despite Emily’s determined cheerfulness, her voice wavered and she sat down beside Whitney, putting her arm around her. “Michael and I both want you to stay with us as long as you can. He understands that you’re more like my sister than my friend.”
Whitney gave her a hard hug and tried to laugh. “Sisters argue abominably. Friends are better.”
28
* * *
That day began a month of frenetic social activity for Whitney. With courage and determination, she purposely kept herself too busy to think. Each night she fell into bed exhausted, and slept until it was time to dress for the nex
t day’s engagements. Nicki was her favorite and most frequent escort, but two of the groomsmen and the other eligible gentlemen she’d met at Emily’s party and Elizabeth’s wedding were frequently at her side, as well. With Emily normally acting as chaperone, she was escorted to rout parties, to musicales, the opera, the theatre, and balls. And she met more eligible men at those places, who then appeared with gratifying predictability at the Archibald townhouse to invite her to more parties and more balls.
If Paris had welcomed her, London embraced her with outstretched arms, for her charm and her wit were even more rare here. Whispers began and heads turned when she walked into a room. Her humor was softer now, and shy men who would have been terrified to approach her before, flocked around her.
She was courted and sought after. And she was unhappy beyond words.
She was never alone. And she was never at peace.
Occasionally at one of these functions, Whitney would hear Clayton’s name mentioned, and she would die a little inside. But no one who saw her dazzling smile brighten even more would have guessed she cared.
Only once during that first month did Whitney even come close to encountering Clayton. The young viscount who was her escort for that particular evening handed her into his closed carriage and announced with obvious pride that tonight he was going to escort her to “the ball of the year,” then he had turned to his coachman and instructed, “Number 10 Upper Brook Street.”
The address struck Whitney like a pitcher of ice water in her face. Number 10 Upper Brook Street was Clayton’s London address, the address he’d given her long ago, in case she wanted to reach him. “I detest large parties,” she desperately informed him. “They give me the vapors!”