"Of course they were!" Edward defended stoutly. "What possible objection could you have to a match with Claymore?" Suddenly, a look of amused understanding crossed his face. "So you were worried about his reputation, were you? Lord, Madam," he chuckled tolerantly, momentarily oblivious to the presence of the Westmoreland family in the room, "haven't you ever heard the saying that 'reformed rakes often make the best husbands'?"

"Why, thank you, Lord Gilbert," Clayton said wryly.

Lord Gilbert cast a puzzled look at Stephen who was suddenly seized with a fit of strangled laughter, then continued speaking to his wife. "I thought they would make an excellent match the night I saw them together at the masquerade, and I knew something was in the wind when I was informed the Westmoreland solicitors were making inquiries about Whitney in Paris. Then I thought Martin had spoiled everything by sending for her, but when I got your letter and you said Claymore was in residence not three miles away from Stone's doorstep, I knew exactly what was happening."

"Oh no you didn't!" Lady Anne exclaimed heatedly. "I'll tell you what happened. From the moment Whitney clapped eyes on his grace in England, she was at daggers-drawn with him. And . . ."

Lord Gilbert turned his head and peered sternly at Whitney over the top of his spectacles. "Oh, so Whitney was the problem, was she?" He transferred his gaze to Clayton and said, "Whitney needs a husband who'll keep a firm hand on the reins. That's why I was in favor of your suit from the very beginning."

"Why, thank you, Uncle Edward," Whitney said ungratefully.

"It's the truth and you know it, m'dear." To Lady Anne, he added, "She's much like you in that respect."

"How very kind of you to say so, Edward," Anne said tartly.

Edward glanced from his wife's indignant face to Whitney's rebellious one, and then toward Clayton, who was regarding him with a dark brow arched in sardonic amusement. He looked at Stephen Westmoreland, whose shoulders were rocking with silent laughter, and then at the duchess who was much too polite to show any emotion at all. "Well," said he to the duchess with a sigh, "I can see that I've now offended everyone. Amazing, is it not, that I am purported to be a competent diplomat?"

The duchess broke into a smile. "I am not in the least offended, Lord Gilbert. I have a decided partiality for rakes. After all, I was married to one, and I have raised"-she looked meaningfully at Stephen-"two."

Chapter Thirty-two

THE ANNOUNCEMENT IN THE PAPERS OF THE BETROTHAL OF THE Duke of Claymore to Miss Whitney Allison Stone struck London with the force of a hurricane, and Whitney was caught in its backlash.

Invitations to every conceivable social function arrived daily at the Archibalds' house in staggering numbers. Between the parties in their honor, which Whitney and Clayton had to attend, and the extensive wedding preparations which required every available minute of her time, Whitney was feverishly busy and almost limp with exhaustion. Added to that was the anxiety which increased as her wedding day- ergo, her wedding night-approached.

Often she lay awake in Emily's guest room, telling herself sternly that if other women could endure the sexual act, she could too. Besides, she repeatedly reminded herself, the act itself, and the awful pain that accompanied it, didn't last all that long. And she adored Clayton, so if he wished to do that to her, then she would bear the pain to make him happy, and hope that it happened with minimal frequency. Yet she hated knowing not only the day, but practically the hour, when he was going to do it to her again.

In one of her more philosophical moments, she decided that the reason virginity was so prized for a bride was because early man must have realized that a bride who knew what was in store for her on her wedding night, would not be smiling quite so radiantly when she walked down that aisle!

Unfortunately, by the time the wedding was a week away her philosophical attitude had deserted her entirely, and her dread was steadily mounting. To make matters worse, as their wedding day approached, Clayton's attentions became decidedly more ardent-and therefore, more frightening.

Even her ivory wedding gown, which was hanging in her dressing room, sent a trill of fear up her spine when she looked at it, because it reminded her of the ivory satin gown that Clayton had torn from her body. Not that she was idiotic enough to think that the gentle, understanding man she worshiped was going to tear her clothes from her on their wedding night-but neither did she think Clayton was likely to allow her to keep them on for very long either.

Surreptitiously, she began watching Emily when Michael asked her if she were ready to retire. Emily didn't seem to dread going to their bedroom. Neither, Whitney recalled, had Aunt Anne tried to evade retiring with Uncle Edward. Why then, was Whitney the only woman who winced at the thought of the pain which came with the marital act? The more Whitney considered it, the more horrifyingly convinced she became that there was a physical defect within her which made the act hurt her, and only her, so dreadfully.

To add to her misery, as her wedding day bore down 01 her, her agitated mind began tormenting her with constant visions of that terrible night when Clayton had cruelly and deliberately shamed her with his hands and mouth and body. The humiliation of that night came back to haunt her, magnifying her remembered physical pain until she was a mass of fear and trepidation.

Five days before the wedding, she was simply too worn down to attend the ball being given by one of Clayton's friends. The next day she sent Clayton a note, asking him to excuse her from an afternoon party at the Rutherfords'.

Clayton, who had removed to his townhouse in Upper Brook Street to be near Whitney during the weeks preceding the wedding, read her brief note declining the Rutherfords' party with a faint frown of bewilderment. After a moment's thought, he ordered his carriage brought round and went directly to the Archibald townhouse where he was informed that Miss Stone was in the Blue -Salon, and that Lord and Lady Archibald were out for the day.

Whitney picked up a fresh piece of stationery, dipped her quill into the ink pot, and continued with the exhausting task of writing notes of appreciation for the awesome number of wedding gifts which had been arriving in droves for weeks. In the doorway of the salon, Clayton stopped and gazed at her. She was seated at a desk, her dark chestnut hair twisted into thick curls bound with narrow green ribbons. Her head was bent slightly as she wrote, her flawless profile turned to him. With the sun streaming in the window beside her, Clayton thought she looked so fragile and lovely that she seemed ethereal. "Problems?" he said after a long moment, closing the doors behind him. He crossed to her, took her by the hand and pulled her gently, but firmly, out of her chair and over toward the sofa. "Young lady, is it your intention to treat me as a bystander in all of this, and only remember my existence when you walk down the aisle?"

Whitney sank down beside him. "I'm sorry about the Rutherfords' affair," she said with a tired smile that made Clayton instantly regret his mild reprimand. "It's just that I'm so busy with everything, that even I feel like a bystander at times." Turning her face into the comforting curve of his shoulder and neck, she said, "I missed you terribly last night-did you have a pleasant time at the ball?"

Clayton tilted her chin up. "Not without you," he murmured as his mouth covered hers. "Now, show me how much you missed me . . ."

Within moments, Whitney's tension and exhaustion had melted away in the heat of Clayton's passionate kiss*. In a kind of sensual haze, she was dimly aware that he was inexorably drawing her down to lie beside him on the silk sofa, but with his lips moving persuasively against hers, and his tongue teasing and exploring, the shift in her position scarcely seemed to matter.

Her senses swam dizzily, assaulted by his deep kisses and the gentle, arousing things he whispered against her parted lips as he kissed her. "I can't get enough of you," he murmured, leaning over her. "I'll never get enough of you." His hand roamed possessively over the sensitive skin above her bodice, his fingers nimbly unfastening the row of tiny buttons at the front of her lime-wool dress. Before Whitney could react, her chemise was down and his mouth was moving leisurely toward her naked, exposed breasts. "The servants!" she gasped.

"They're scared to death of me," Clayton said. "They wouldn't come in here to warn us of a fire."

His tongue touched a rosy nipple, and Whitney struggled in genuine, frantic earnest. "Don't! Please!" she said hoarsely, lurching into a sitting position and clutching her open bodice, clumsily refastening it.

Clayton started to reach for her, but she leapt off the sofa. Amazed, he sat up and stared at her. She looked slightly flushed, very beautiful-and frightened half to death! "Whitney?" he said cautiously.

She jumped, took three steps backward, then sank onto the sofa across from him, her expression tortured and embarrassed. As Clayton watched, she started to speak, changed her mind, then ran her hand over her forehead. Finally, she raised pleading green eyes to his and drew a long, unsteady breath. "There's something I've wanted to ask you-a favor. But it's dreadful and embarrassing. It's about our wedding. Night."

Frowning with worry over the tension and anxiety he saw on her face, Clayton leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. "What favor do you want to ask of me?" he said quietly.

"Promise me you won't be angry when you hear it?"

"You have my word," Clayton assured her calmly.

"Well, you see," she began hesitantly, "I-I would like to be able to really look forward to our wedding. But I can't, because I keep thinking about what is going to happen-you know-later that night. Other brides don't understand, not exactly, but I do now and I-" She was as pink as roses when she trailed off into pathetic silence.

"What is it that you wanted to ask of me?" Clayton said, but he already knew-God help him, he already knew.

"I was wondering if you might agree to wait," she explained miserably. "I mean, agree not to do that to me on our wedding night." Unable to meet his steady gaze any longer, Whitney looked away in sheer embarrassment. Uninformed she might be about some things, but she knew full well that wives made no such bargains with husbands, and that marriages were consummated on the wedding night. Why, in days gone by, a marriage was consummated with observers in the room, in the old-and thank heavens, antiquated-custom of "bedding" the newly wedded couple. A wife's duty, her vows, required that she submit to her husband in all things, and that included satisfying his passion.

"Are you absolutely certain this is the way you want it?" Clayton asked after a long silence.

"Positive," Whitney whispered, her eyes downcast.

"What if I refuse to agree?"

Staring at her hands, Whitney swallowed. "Then I'll submit to you."

"Submit to me?" Clayton repeated, stunned and a little irritated by her choice of words. He could hardly believe that after eight weeks, Whitney still thought of the final culmination of their desires as some form of punishment to which she must "submit." She always came eagerly into his arms, returning his kisses with a fervor and hunger that almost matched his. And whenever he held her, she instinctively fitted her voluptuous body to the contours of his. What in the living hell did she imagine he was going to do on their wedding night-turn into a crazed animal and tear her clothes off again? "Is it me you're afraid of, little one?" he asked quietly.

Her gaze flew to his and her response was emphatic. "No! I couldn't bear it if you thought that. I know you aren't going to-to treat me the way you did before. It's just that I feel embarrassed, because I know exactly what you are going to do to me. And there's something else too-something terrible that I should have told you weeks ago. Clayton, I think I am malformed in some way. You see, it-what you did to me that night-hurt dreadfully. And I don't think other females feel such pain or . . ."

"Don't!" Clayton interrupted harshly, unable to bear hearing how badly he had hurt her. With an inward sigh, he accepted this as the penalty he was going to have to pay for his callous cruelty that night. And in view of what he had actually done to her, it seemed a small price, at that. "I will give you my word to wait, on two conditions," he told her quietly. "The first is that, after our wedding night, the option of choosing the time is mine."