Bitterly, he cursed himself for having denied himself the pleasure of her body because he was waiting and hoping she would admit she wanted to marry him. The hell with what she wanted! From now on things were going to be the way he wanted them. Henceforth, Whitney could either bend to his will or he'd break her to it-and he didn't give a damn which way she chose to have it.

Precisely ten minutes later, after changing his clothes, he bounded out of the house and hurled himself back into the coach. Clayton endured the long trip back to the city in alternate states of deadly calm and barely leashed fury. It was after midnight when the horses drew to a stop in front of the brightly lit Archibald house where a party was obviously in progress.

"Wait here. I'll be right out," he snapped at the coachman, and as Clayton stalked swiftly up the steps to the front door, the rage boiling inside of him turned to cold, hard resolve. He had been cuckolded by a spiteful, willful brat! Brat? She was worse, much worse than that. She was a scheming, lying bitch! He thought murderously as he strode past the astonished butler toward the music and laughter.

The chilly night air cooled Whitney's heated face as she turned a dazzling, artificial smile on the gentlemen who had followed her out onto Emily's terrace where she had fled to escape the overcrowded ballroom. Despite her bright smile, her green eyes were somber as they scanned the milling crowd indoors, searching hopelessly for Clayton, even though she knew it was too late now for him to arrive. Perhaps he hadn't gotten her invitation; perhaps he had gone directly to her home without stopping in London. Whitney shivered, wishing she hadn't written to Aunt Anne and suggested that she make her postponed visit to her relatives, since Whitney had everything under control in London. She should have waited until Clayton had acknowledged receiving her note.

No, she decided miserably, Clayton's secretary had been very positive about his employer's travel plans. There was no point in deceiving herself; Clayton had cavalierly ignored her invitation. Her indignation gave way to deep hurt.

She had worn her hair loose about her shoulders because Clayton had said he liked it best that way. She had even dressed especially to please him in an alluring ivory satin gown heavily embellished with pearls. She had done everything to please him, and he hadn't even bothered to come or to decline her invitation.

Perilously close to tears, Whitney tried to convince herself that this aching disappointment she felt was merely because she had finally gathered the courage to tell Clayton that she would willingly marry him whenever he wished, but her lonely dejection sprang from something much deepen she had missed him. She had been longing to see his smile, to be able to teU him she was surrendering in this battle of wills that had raged between them, and then to have him take her in his arms and kiss her. She had hoped tonight would be a beginning for them. Whitney blinked back her tears and determined to enjoy what was left of her ravaged evening.

Clayton nodded curtly to those few guests with whom he was acquainted, while he waited like a panther, watching for a glimpse of his prey. He saw DuVille going toward the terrace doors, carrying two glasses of champagne. Clayton's eyes tracked him across the room, his jaw clenching into a tight line of rage when he saw Whitney standing outside on the terrace, surrounded by at least half a dozen men.

With deceptive casualness, Clayton strolled toward them. His eyes turned icy with contempt when he realized that the men were pretending to play musical instruments while his "betrothed" was giving a charming little imitation of leading them with her invisible baton. The role, Clayton thought scathingly, was eminently suited to her-leading men on. He was about to let himself out the doors beside the ones through which DuVille had just gone, when a detaining hand was laid on his arm,

"What a pleasant surprise to find you here," Margaret Merryton said.

All Clayton's attention was riveted on Whitney. He started to pull his arm away, but Margaret's fingers tightened. "Disgraceful, isn't she?" she remarked, following the direction of his gaze.

Thirty-four years of strict adherence to certain rules of etiquette could not be completely disregarded, and Clayton turned, albeit angrily, to acknowledge the woman who was addressing him-except he was so furious that it took several moments for nun even to identify her. Too angry to attempt to hide his insulting lack of recognition, Clayton stared blankly into her worshipful hazel eyes while their expression changed from adoration to insulted hatred. Laughter burst from the terrace and Clayton's head jerked in the direction of the sound.

Margaret's hand tightened convulsively on his arm as she looked toward Whitney Stone, and wounded pride hoarsened her voice. "If you're so eager to have her, go and get her. You needn't worry about DuVille or Paul Sevarin. Neither of them will ever actually marry her."

"Why is that?" Clayton demanded, pulling his arm away.

"Because Paul has just discovered what M. DuVille has known for years-neither of them was her first!" She saw Clayton's face blanche and the muscle leaping in his, clenched jaw. Turning on her heel, she hissed brokenly over her shoulder, "In case you're interested, a stableboy was the first! That's why she was seat to France."

Something shattered inside of Clayton, splintering his emotions from all rational control. At another time, he would have shrugged off Margaret's words, for he was well enough acquainted with female jealousy to recognize it when he saw it. But this wasn't another time. This was the day he had realized that Whitney had been playing me for a fool, that she was a treacherous liar.

He paused, waiting while DuVille departed, then he reached down, grasped the handle of the door and jerked it open. He stepped onto the terrace directly behind Whitney just as one of her drunken admirers dropped to one knee.

"Miss Stone," the young man joked, his words slightly slurred. "It occurs to me that two talented 'musicians' such as you and I ought. . . ought to form a permanent duet. May I have the honor of your arm . . . no, your hand in…" Suddenly he stopped and swallowed audibly, his alarmed gaze fixed on something behind Whitney.

Dissolving with laughter at the young man's comic antics, Whitney glanced over her shoulder, then half turned toward Clayton. Happiness soared through her and she smiled joyously at him, but Clayton's attention was frozen on poor Carlisle, who was still kneeling on one leg.

"Get up!" Clayton snarled. With withering sarcasm he added, "If you intend to request Miss Stone's hand in marriage, you will have to wait until she grows another. At present, she has only two, and she has already pledged them both." With that he caught Whitney's wrist in a vice-like grip and turned on his heel, dragging her with him.

Whitney ran, trying to keep up with him as he strode around the wide balcony and down the front steps to his coach waiting below a street lamp.

"Stop this, you're hurting me!" she panted, stumbling on the hem of her gown and falling halfway to her knees. Clayton jerked her up with such cruel force that a pain shot from her wrist to her shoulder blade, then he snapped a command at his driver, grabbed her by the waist and flung her into the coach.

"How dare you!" Whitney hissed, angry and embarrassed at being so ignominiously hauled from Emily's house, and then manhandled to boot. "Who do you think you are?" The horses bolted from the curb and the coach lurched violently, sending Whitney reeling against the back of her seat

"Who do I think I am?" Clayton jeered. "Why, 1 am your owner. By your own words, your father sold you, and ' bought you."

Whitney stared at him, her mind in a complete turmoil. She couldn't imagine why Clayton was so angry over Carlisle's mock proposal when he'd interrupted her cousin, Cuthbert, in the midst of a serious one, and had been laughingly good-natured about it. She had believed that tonight would be a time for sweet reconciliation between them, and it was harshly disconcerting to now find herself the target of Clay-ton's fury instead of his ardor.

Even so, she was absurdly happy that he hadn't ignored her invitation, and she couldn't really blame him for losing his temper when he discovered yet another gentleman offering marriage to her. Very gently, she said, "Mr. Carlisle was quite foxed, you see, and his proposal was only a joke. He-"

"Shut up!" Clayton snapped. His head twisted toward her, and for the first time, in the flickering light of the coach lamp, Whitney actually saw the savage, scorching fury that was emanating from the man beside her. His handsome jaw was taut with rage, his mouth was drawn into a ruthless, forbidding line, and his expression was filled with cold loathing. His contemptuous eyes raked over her . . . and then he turned his head away, as if he couldn't stomach the sight of her.

Never in her life had Whitney witnessed such controlled, menacing fury, nor had anyone ever looked at her with such scathing contempt, not even her father. She had hoped so much to see laughter, or warmth, or affection in those penetrating, soul-searching gray eyes of his tonight; she had never imagined he could look at her with this alarming, malicious hatred. Her shock faded to hurt, and very slowly, the first glimmerings of fear were born in her heart. Silently, she stared out the window until the lights of the city began to glimmer less frequently and the long stretches of lonely darkness lengthened. "Where are you taking me?" she asked unsteadily. He was coldly silent. "Clayton?" she almost begged. "Where are we going?"

Clayton turned and stared down at her beautiful, frightened face. He wanted to put his hands around her slender white throat and strangle her for defiling her body with other men, for betraying his own love and trust, and for finally calling him "Clayton" now, when he knew her for what she was-a "lying, deceiving liitle bitch who had freely shared her lush, ripe body with any rutting pig who asked her to. He tore his mind from thoughts of her coupling with other men and, without answering her question, pointedly looked away.

Whitney tried to combat her mounting alarm by concentrating on where they were and in which direction they were travelling. North! she realized as they turned off the main road. They were heading north. Now she was frantic. Drawing a quick breath, she swallowed what was left of her pride and said, "I was going to tell you that I'm willing to marry you. It isn't necessary to take me to Scotland to marry me. I'll-"

"Not necessary to marry you?" Clayton interrupted with a short, bitter laugh. "So I have heard. However, I have no desire to elope, nor have I any intention of pushing my horses much further. They've already chased across half of England today in pursuit of you."

Abruptly, the coach turned west onto a smooth, but less traveled road, at the same moment the full import of his words slammed into her. If he'd been on the road all day "in pursuit" of her, then he must have returned to the village today and heard the gossip about her betrothal to Paul. Pleadingly, Whitney laid her hand on his arm. "I can explain about Paul. You see-"

His fingers clamped down on her slim hand, wringing a gasp of pain from her. "I'm delighted that you're so eager to touch me," he drawled sarcastically, "because in a short while, you are going to have an opportunity to do exactly that." Distastefully he removed her hand from his arm and dropped it into her lap. "However, since this is not the place for you to demonstrate your affection, you will have to control your passions until then."

"Control my-?" Whitney gasped, and then hopefully she blurted, "Are you foxed?"

His lips twisted with cynical amusement "I am not drunk, so you needn't worry that I will be unable to perform …" He emphasized the last word, making it sound ominous. Then almost pleasantly he added, "You should sleep now. You've a long and exhausting night ahead of you."

Frightened by his taunting and hurt by the disgusted revulsion in his eyes whenever he looked at her, Whitney tore her gaze from his. She had no idea what he was talking about. She was on the verge of hysterical terror, and he was sitting here telling her to control her passions, assuring her that he would be able to "perform." In the darkness of the coach, the vulgar crudity of his remark finally penetrated the turbulent agitation of her mind, and her eyes grew huge with fear. Now she understood his plans!

Whitney searched the starlit night for sign of a village, a house, anywhere she could seek refuge. There were a few lights up ahead on her side of the road-a posting house or an inn, she thought. She didn't know what kind of injury she would sustain by jumping from the coach and she didn't care, so long as she would be able to get up and run . . . run to the lights beside the road.