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?"

"Darling, you didn't manage to hide it from anyone. Half the people there were craning their necks to watch the two of you outside, after the wedding." Whitney looked so horrified that her aunt burst out laughing. "And you may as well know that there were at least two dozen people from London at the wedding who recognized him. The crowd started buzzing with his name the moment he walked into church. By the tune I left, everybody knew who he was, including all your neighbors from home. I'm afraid 'Mr. Westland' has been unmasked."

Whitney heard that with an inward burst of pride. She wanted everybody to know who he was, and she wanted all of them to know she was betrothed to him. She wanted to shout it to the world!

They chatted gaily for an hour and a half before Whitney remembered to inquire about Uncle Edward.

"He's in Spain," her aunt said with a tolerant smile. "His two letters were almost as uninformative as yours are, but I gathered that there was some calamity brewing there, and he was dispatched with haste and secrecy to try to smooth matters before they got out of hand. He promised to be here in six weeks. Apparently none of my letters ever reached him."

After a moment, she said, "Would you mind very much if I didn't attend the banquet tonight? I only came to the wedding because you never mentioned Claymore in your letters, and I wanted to see for myself how the two of you were getting on. Since it's obvious that you're both in perfect accord, I would like to start back to Lincolnshire at once. My cousin is a sweet, helpless creature, and she's become quite dependent on me for company. As soon as you and his grace decide to put London out of its suspense and announce your betrothal, I'll return and we can start preparing for your wedding."

The day fled so quickly that Whitney could hardly believe it when it was time to hug her aunt goodbye. "By the way," Aunt Anne said, lingering at the front door. "Your father brought two more trunks of your clothes. I sent them upstairs and Clarissa is unpacking them. Oh-and your father said there's some mail for you, too."

Whitney flew upstairs and slid into the chair at the dressing table. While Clarissa fussed with the roses in her hair, Whitney joyously imagined her reunion with Clayton tomorrow. He would come to see her early, of course, and they . . . She noticed the thick packet propped against her mirror. She picked it up and opened it, dreamily extracting some official-looking documents. At first glance they were filled with so many "parties of the first part" and "parties of the second part," and "whereas's" and "wherefore's," that Whitney thought the packet must have been intended for Lord Archibald and put in her room by mistake. She flipped to the last page and a signature leapt out at her: Clayton Robert Westmoreland, Ninth Duke of Claymore. Dismissing Clarissa, she slowly began to read the documents.

They set out in cold legal terms that she was no longer betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, that his offer of marriage was herewith withdrawn, and that whatever "monies, jewels, considerations, tokens, etc.," the Stone family had received from the duke were to be retained by them and considered as gifts.

Whitney's hand shook violently as she unfolded a note in Clayton's bold handwriting enclosed with the documents: "Please accept my sincere wishes for your happiness and convey them to Paul. The enclosed bank draft is intended as a present." A bank draft for Ј10,000 slid from Whitney's numb fingers onto the floor white nausea surged in her throat. Clayton had used her to satisfy his vengeance and lust. Now he was paying her off with a generous check as if she were a common trollop or one of his mistresses, and suggesting that she give her soiled body to Paul in marriage. "Oh my God!" Whitney whispered. "Oh my God!"

Emily tapped on her door and asked if she were ready to leave.

"I'll be down in a few minutes," Whitney called hoarsely. "Emily," she added, dragging her voice through the constricted pain in her chest. "Do … do you know how the duke came to be at the wedding? I mean, did Elizabeth decide to invite him, after all?"

Emily sounded both guilty and gay. "Yes. And aren't you glad now that she did?"

The room reeled and tilted. Whitney started to lurch from her chair, thinking that she was going to be ill, but her legs refused to move. Gulping long uneven breaths of air, she stayed where she was. The tumultuous upheaval settled slowly, leaving a dull, throbbing ache that was intensified with every moment.

Clayton hadn't come to the wedding to see her, he'd been invited! Whitney realized with a blinding streak of suffocating humiliation. Since his note and documents were dated weeks ago, he would naturally think she'd known about them today, when she saw him. Wild, hysterical laughter welled up within her. He had simply been attending the wedding-and how gratified he must have been when she had smiled adoringly at him!

She hadn't merely smiled at him, Whitney remembered with a fresh streak of mortified fury-she had leaned against him! She had let him put his arm around her and hold her! And that vile, conceited, arrogant lecher probably thought she was inviting him to use her body again! He was probably planning to take her home with him after the banquet and, considering the way she had acted, he would be confident she was willing to go.

The banquet. Whitney put her face in her hands and moaned aloud. Clayton was going to be at the banquet. She would have to face him there.

When she joined Emily and her husband downstairs, Whitney was a little pale and there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, but her head was high and her delicate chin was stubbornly set. Outwardly she was composed and very calm -but it was the deadly calm that precedes a hurricane white it gathers force, preparing to strike.

The first thing she did when she arrived at the huge home of Elizabeth's paternal grandparents, was to smile her very best smile at the two handsomest groomsmen. Clayton had accused her once of trying to collect as many fawning admirers as she could squeeze around her skirts, and for a beginning, that was exactly what she intended to do.

As she stood between both groomsmen in the receiving line, she spoke to each guest as they made their way past-but if the guest happened to be a bachelor, Whitney was her most dazzlingly vivacious self. Within fifteen minutes, she had caused a tie-up in the proceedings, and she was surrounded by six gentlemen all of whom were vying for her attention. Only once did her composure slip a notch, and that was when Paul bent over her hand. Her bright smile faded uncertainly as she gazed into his handsome face, but he looked so sheepish and so contrite, that she immediately decided to add him to her entourage. Tightening her fingers a little on his, she drew Paul into the circle of men surrounding her.

Now she was fortified, surrounded. Insulated from Clay-ton. For the moment, this was ail she needed.

Clayton arrived just as the receiving line disbanded. He paused in the doorway, his tall, commanding frame clad in an elegantly tailored black suit and waistcoat. Whitney watched his glance slide over the guests, then instantly halt when it reached her. A rosy peach tint suffused her high cheekbones as she shifted her gaze from Clayton to the men around her. "We are quite ignoring the bride," she teased with a gorgeous smile, and without a backward glance she led her entourage toward Elizabeth.

Clayton was positive she had seen him, and his eyes darkened with surprise and puzzlement as he watched her walk away. After a moment, he realized that Whitney had an obligation to attend the bride, and he felt slightly better, but as he watched her laughing gaily with the men who trailed after her, no dammit, flirting with them, his patience began to fray.

A footman appeared beside him bearing a tray, and Clayton took a glass of champagne, his hungry gaze following Whitney. She knew he was here, and she was obviously waiting for the appropriate moment to come to him. He ached to touch her, longed to hear the soft music of her voice, had been driven half out of his mind these past two hours just thinking of being near her again.

Dinner was announced, but Clayton hung back, hoping that Whitney might come to him before she went in to the banquet. "Ah-Claymore! Good to see you again," a jovial masculine voice said at his elbow.

Clayton glanced briefly at the short, elderly man beside him, recognizing him as Lord Anthony, an old friend of his father's.

"How's your lovely mother?" Lord Anthony asked, sipping from his champagne.

Clayton watched Whitney walk into the banquet room; she was not going to come to him. "She's well," he answered absently. "And yours?"

"I imagine she's about the same," Lord Anthony replied. "She's been dead for thirty years."

"Good," Clayton said. "Glad to hear it." He put his glass down and strolled off to take his assigned place at one of the banquet tables.

In the true spirit of a matchmaker, Elizabeth had contrived to place Clayton at the table facing the bridal party's, directly across from Whitney. Clayton ate little of his meal, and what he did eat, he couldn't taste. He was too preoccupied with an elusive and beautiful young woman who owned his heart, but who seemed either afraid, or unwilling, to meet his gaze. He watched her chatting playfully with the groomsmen on either side of her, winding them around her slender fingers, and jealousy pulsed through his veins.