Whitney opened her mouth to argue, but he nodded toward the deck. "Cut the cards."

Gambling, Whitney thought two hours later as she stacked the chips away, made one feel deliriously wicked and decadent. Despite her unfamiliarity with the games, she had played very well and lost only a little money. She sensed that Clayton was proud of how quickly she learned, yet any other gentleman of her acquaintance, even Nicki, would have been horrified that she seemed to possess such a penchant for gaming. Why, she wondered absently, watching Clayton button his waistcoat and pull on his jacket, did he admire in her the very things that would shock or intimidate her other suitors? When she was with Paul, she had to be very careful to stay well within the bounds of feminine propriety, yet Clayton seemed to tike her best when she was being her most outrageously impertinent self. If Paul knew she had gambled at cards, he would be shocked and displeased, yet Clayton had taught her to play and grinned at her in open admiration when she did it well.

Her thoughts scattered as Clayton leaned over her chair and pressed a light kiss on her upturned forehead. "We'll go for a drive tomorrow at 11 o'clock if the weather permits," he said. And he left.

Dr. Hugh Whitticomb was seated before the fire enjoying a glass of his host's excellent brandy when Clayton returned. "How did you find my young patient?" he asked with pretended casualness as Clayton poured himself a nightcap.

Sitting down, Clayton propped his feet on the low table between them, and gazed dispassionately at the physician. "I found her much the same as you probably did this afternoon -standing on her own two feet."

"You don't sound very pleased about it," Dr. Whitticomb remarked evasively.

"I found her," Clayton clarified with a grim smile, "receiving a proposal of marriage from one of her cousins."

Dr. Whitticomb made an impressive show of choking upon his brandy while he struggled to keep his face straight. "I can understand how that might have surprised you."

"I have long passed the point where anything Whitney does surprises me," he said, but his irritated tone completely denied his philosophical words.

After a moment's hesitation, Dr. Whitticomb said, "I am a detached observer and not inexperienced in dealing with the female mind. If you will pardon the presumption of an old family friend, perhaps I might be able to offer some advice?" Taking the duke's silence for consent, Dr. Whitticomb continued, "I have already gathered that Miss Stone wants something you aren't wilting to give her. What is it that she wants?"

"What she wants," Clayton replied sardonically, "is to be released from the betrothal contract."

Dr. Whitticomb gave a bark of horrified laughter. "My God! No wonder she glowered at me when I offered subtle suggestions on how she ought to comport herself in order to keep you." Conflicting thoughts chased across his mind- amazement that the young lady could find fault with an offer from England's most eligible, most sought after bachelor; admiration for Clayton's patience in dealing with her rebellion; and bewilderment over why the most eagerly awaited betrothal announcement in a decade was being kept hushed. "What objection does the lovely widgeon have to your offer?" he said finally.

Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Clayton closed his eyes and sighed. "That I neglected to consult her first."

"I can't see why she should fault you for that. But then, knowing her independent temperament as you must have done, why didn't you consult with her first?"

Clayton opened his eyes. "Since she didn't even know my name at the time, I felt that it might be awkward to discuss marriage with her."

"She didn't know your . . . You can't mean to tell me that with half the females in Europe throwing themselves at you, you offered for a young woman you didn't even know!"

"I knew her. She did not know me."

"And you automatically assumed that once she learned of your wealth and title, she would naturally consent," Dr. Whitticomb speculated, his eyes dancing with amusement. The duke's quelling frown temporarily silenced him. "Who," he asked as a sudden, unsettling recollection struck him, "is Paul Sevarin?"

Clayton scowled. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I stopped in the village this afternoon after seeing Miss Stone, and spoke with the apothecary. He's a chatty fellow-the sort who tells you everything you didn't ask before he answers a simple question, and follows that with half a dozen questions of his own. Eventually he discovered the name of my patient, and he said some things which at the time I dismissed as nonsense."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that this Sevarin has been dangling after Miss Stone in earnest, and the village seems to be hanging on tenterhooks in expectation of a betrothal announcement. They seem to think the betrothal has already been arranged, and is entirety pleasing to Sevarin and your future wife."

"Frankly," Clayton drawled, "I don't give a blessed damn."

"About the gossip?" Hugh Whitticomb persisted carefully. "Or about Sevarin? Or about the girl?" When Clayton didn't answer, Hugh leaned forward and asked bluntly. "Are you, or are you not, in love with that young woman?"

"I am going to marry her," Clayton said stonily. "What else is there to say?" With that, he bid his guest good night and in four long strides, quit the room, leaving Hugh Whitticomb gazing at the fire in amazed alarm. After a moment, however, the physician's expression cleared. He began to chuckle and then he laughed aloud. "God help him." He chortled. "He doesn't realize he loves her. And even if he did, he wouldn't admit it."

In his small bedroom, Clayton jerked off his jacket, flinging it onto a chair. His waistcoat followed. Loosening the top buttons of his shirt, he stalked over to the window and jammed his hands into his pockets.

He was furious that the villagers believed a betrothal had already been arranged. True, he had wanted Whitney to have the satisfaction of showing them that she could make Sevarin pursue her, but he had never dreamed things would go this far. Whitney had never been betrothed to any man but him, and he would not allow anyone to think otherwise. She didn't love Sevarin, regardless of what she thought. She simply had some idiotic notion, some girlish dream, of winning him away from the Ashton girl.

She didn't love him either, but Clayton wasn't concerned about that. "Love" and all the obsessive behavior associated with it, was an absurd emotion. He was amazed that Hugh

Whitticomb had mentioned the word to him tonight. No one in his set ever professed to feeling anything stronger than a "tendre" or a lasting attachment even for their spouses. Love was a silly, romantic notion that had no place in his life.

Much of his anger evaporated as he considered the last few hours with Whitney. He could sense that she was slowly yielding to him. She had sought the comfort of his embrace of her own accord, and she had even admitted to a fondness for him. All that really stood between them now was her fading absorption with Paul Sevarin, and her understandable resentment over the way her stupid father had told her of her betrothal to Clayton. Just thinking of that night infuriated Clayton. Because of Stone's callous insensitivity, Clayton had been deprived of the pleasure of courting and winning Whitney. Despite its turbulent ups and downs, he had been enjoying his bizarre courtship, including Whitney's haughty rejections. She made him work to gain an inch, but each gain was a heady victory, more meaningful because it was so hard-won.

Yet there were times lately when his patience almost lost out in the battle against his desire. When she sniped at him and sparred with him, it took his last ounce of restraint not to snatch her into his arms and subdue her rebellion with his hands and mouth. He was neglecting his estates and his business interests, yet just when he decided that she would have to accustom herself to their betrothal after they were married, she'd look at him with those unbelievably green eyes of hers, and he could not quite bring himself to exert the power he held over her by forcing her to marry him.

Sighing, Clayton turned away from the window. Not for a moment did he ever doubt that Whitney would marry him. She would marry him either willingly, or unwillingly. In the latter case, the balance of their courtship and combat would have to take place in his bed.

Chapter Twenty

FRESH, COOL BREEZES SCENTED WITH THE INVIGORATING AROMA of burning leaves floated into Whitney's room, and she sniffed appreciatively as she stepped from her bath. Wrapped in a dressing robe, she went over to the open window and perched her hip upon the sill. Autumn, that most glorious of all the seasons, greeted her with a golden morning. She gazed out across the topaz and ruby landscape splashed with yellow and amber, and she tingled with the exuberant optimism she always felt at this time of year.

Reluctantly, she left the window and deliberated over the matter of clothing, finally choosing a high-waisted gown of dusky pink wool with a square neckline, long narrow sleeves, and a wide flounce at the hem. Clarissa pulled her hair straight back and up, then wound it into curls entwined with velvet ribbons of the same muted pink as her dress.

Thoughts of Paul and her unwanted betrothal to Clayton hovered uneasily at the back of her mind, but Whitney refused to dwell on them. Tonight she could agonize over her confused status, but for now, she was eager to be out in the sunshine. Nothing was going to spoil the perfection of such a gorgeous day.

At five minutes past eleven, a servant tapped at the door and announced that Mr. Westland was waiting downstairs. Snatching up the printed shawl which matched her dress,

Whitney hurried downstairs. "Good morning," she said gaily. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Clayton took her hands in his and gazed down at her glowing features. Quietly and without emphasis, he said, "You have a smile that could light up a room."

It was the first time he had ever remarked on her appearance, and although his compliment was much milder than the lavish ones the Frenchmen had heaped on her, it made Whitney feel unaccountably shy. "You are late," she admonished him with laughing severity, unable to think of anything else to say, "and I have been pacing the length of my bedchamber these past five minutes, waiting for you."

He said nothing, and for a moment Whitney fell under the spell of those boldly seductive gray eyes. His hands tightened on hers, drawing her closer. She held her breath, excited and alarmed at the realization that he was going to kiss her.

"I'm early," he stated unequivocally.

Whitney swallowed back a gurgle of relieved laughter, and he added, "However, now that I know how eager you are to see me, I shall make it a point to be early all the time." The great hall clock began to chime the hour of eleven as they left the house, and Clayton shot her an I-told-you-so look.

She climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the moss-green velvet squabs, gazing up at the puffy white clouds skittering across an azure sky. She felt his weight settle into the seat beside her, and her sidewise gaze wandered admiringly over his shiny brown boots, his long, muscular legs clad in biscuit superfine, his rust-colored jacket, and cream-silk shirt.

"If what I'm wearing doesn't please you," he drawled, "we can go to my humble abode and you can decide which of my clothes you approve."

Whitney's head jerked up. Her first impulse was to retort that it didn't matter in the least to her what he wore. Instead she surprised them both by shyly admitting the truth: "I was thinking that you look splendid."

She caught his startled look of pleasure before he gave the spirited grays the office to start, sending them trotting away.

Trees marched along both sides of the country lane, their branches meeting overhead like Lines of partners in a country dance, forming an arch for the carriage which rocked along beneath. Leaves swirled and drifted down in slow motion, and Whitney reached up, lazily trying to catch a bright yellow one.

When Clayton guided the pair south at the fork in the road, however, she sat bolt upright, turning on him in bewilderment and panic. "Where are we going?"

"To the village, for a start."

"I-I don't need anything from the village," Whitney insisted urgently.

"But I do," he said flatly.

Falling back against her seat, Whitney closed her eyes in bleak despair. They would be seen together and, in that sleepy little village where nothing ever happened, much would be made of it. She knew that everyone, with the exception of the man beside her, was expecting the announcement that she and Paul were soon to be married. She felt ill just thinking of Paul stopping in the village on his way home and hearing an exaggerated version of today's outing.