Her father claimed her for the next dance, and Clayton danced with his mother, and so it went for hours. It was long after midnight when Whitney and he left the dance floor to stroll together, arm in arm, laughing and talking with their guests.
Whitney was obviously enjoying herself and Clayton was certainly in no hurry to take her away from her party. After all, be had nothing to look forward to tonight except sleeping alone in his bed. As the clock neared the hour of one, however, Clayton began to have the uneasy feeling that the guests were expecting them to retire-a suspicion which was confirmed when Lord Marcus Rutherford remarked to him in a tow, laughter-tinged voice, "My God, man, if you're wondering when you can leave without causing talk, it was about two hours ago."
Clayton went to Whitney. "I'm sorry to put an end to your evening, little one, but if we don't leave soon, people will begin to talk. Let's say good night to your aunt and uncle," he urged, but he wasn't particularly eager to leave either, and it irked him to be evicted from his own damned party in his own damned house by his own damned guests . . . which, he instantly realized, was an entirely hilarious way for a bridegroom to be thinking on his wedding night, particularly when that bridegroom was himself. Grinning, he shook his head at the irony of it.
Unfortunately, Clayton was still grinning when Whitney bade her uncle good night, and that gentleman, mistaking Clayton's grin as a leer, felt it incumbent upon himself to give the bridegroom a dark, reproving frown. Clayton stiffened under the silent reprimand and, feeling unfairly villified, said flatly, "We shall see you at breakfast," when he had intended but a moment before to bid Lord Gilbert a friendly good night.
In silence, Clayton led Whitney down the long hall from the west wing. Tension twisted within her as they crossed the balcony, and at the staircase, her steps began to lag. Clayton, however, was grappling with a new problem and did not notice: Should he take Whitney to his chambers, or should he take her to hers? There were servants swarming all over the damned place and he didn't want their lack of marital intimacy on their wedding night to be common knowledge among the staff.
He had just decided to take her to her chambers when two footmen came up the stairs and, feeling guilty as a thief in his own house, Clayton quickly changed direction, stepped back, and opened the door to his rooms instead of hers. He had started into his suite before he realized that Whitney had stopped in the doorway and was staring in stricken paralysis at the familiar room where he had savagely torn her clothes off.
"Come, sweet," he said, casting a quick look down the hall and forcibly drawing her within. "There is nothing to fear in here, no madman to ravish you."
With a toss of her head, she seemed to shake off the memories that were haunting her, and she stepped inside. Sighing with relief, Clayton closed the door behind them and guided Whitney over to the long green sofa at right angles to the fireplace, across from the chair he had sat in that fateful night. He started to sit down beside her on the sofa, took one look at her enticing profile, and thought it would be wiser if he sat in the chair across from her instead.
Whitney couldn't possibly sleep in her rooms tonight and he in his, he decided, because the servants would think it odd if both beds were slept in. She would have to sleep in his bed and he would sleep on the sofa.
He looked at her. Her dark head was turned toward the blazing fire on the hearth, away from the large bed on the dais. It dawned on him then that she must be wondering why, if he meant to keep his promise, he hadn't taken her to her chambers instead of his. "You will have to sleep in here, little one-otherwise the servants will gossip. I'll sleep on the sofa."
She looked up at him and smiled, as if her thoughts had been far away.
After an awkward moment, he suggested, "Would you like to talk?"
"Yes," she agreed readily.
"What would you like to talk about?"
"Oh-anything."
Clayton racked his brain for something interesting to discuss, but his mind and his body were both riveted on her exciting presence in his bedroom. "The weather was extremely fine today," he announced finally. He could have sworn that laughter flickered across her features, or was it only a trick of the firelight? "It didn't rain," he added, beginning to feel utterly ridiculous.
"It wouldn't have mattered if it did rain. It still would have been a beautiful, wonderful day."
God! he wished she wouldn't look at him with those glowing green eyes and smile at him in that entrancing way. Not tonight. There was a discreet knocking upon his door, and also hers. "Who in the hell would-?"
"I imagine it's Clarissa," Whitney said, already rising and looking about her for the connecting door which would lead into her bedchambers. Clayton went to the door that led into the hall, pulled it open and stared irritably at his valet, who said blandly, "Good evening, your grace," and automatically came in. Damn! He'd forgotten about his valet and Whitney's maid. For his part, Clayton thought it would be less trying on his aroused senses if they both slept in their clothes. Mentally cursing all servants in general, Clayton showed Whitney to the connecting door, then turned on his heel and strode into the study adjoining his bedchambers, already having forgotten his valet's presence somewhere in his suite.
Staring at the shelves of books lining the study walls, he tried to decide what to read. What to read, for God's sake! On his wedding night! After eight weeks of the barely restrained passion they had shared, why was she still so frightened? And what insanity had possessed him to make her that promise?
As he reached for a book, Armstrong padded silently into the study behind him. "May I assist you, your grace?" Jerking his hand self-consciously away from the bookshelf, Clayton rounded on his hapless valet. "I'll ring if I need you!" he said curtly, trying to keep his annoyance hidden. The servants would say he was as nervous as a boy on his wedding night, if he snapped and growled. "That will be all, Armstrong. Good night," he added, then he personally escorted the surprised valet to the door of the suite, thrust him out into the hallway, and locked the door behind him.
Clayton strode back to his study, stripped off his jacket and neckcloth, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Pulling the stopper out of the decanter on his desk, he poured a liberal amount of brandy in a glass, then he took a book off one of the shelves, sat down, and stretched out his long legs. Intending to relax, he sipped his brandy and read the same paragraph four times before he finally gave up and slammed the book shut.
He was genuinely annoyed with himself, and a little surprised, at being so unnerved by what was, after all, only one more night of celibacy. After eight weeks of celibacy, why did this one extra night matter so much? It mattered, he realized ruefully, because he couldn't shake the conviction that a wedding night automatically, irrevocably, meant lovemaking-because that was the way it was supposed to be. Considering that in his entire adult life, he'd never paid much heed to the way things were "supposed to be," Clayton couldn't imagine why he should be doing so tonight. Unless it was because his wife's (he liked the sound of that-his wife's) intoxicating body was his now, by marital right. And it was also tantalizingly near his own starved body.
He allowed Whitney twice the amount of time she could possibly need before he finally got up and reentered his bedroom. She wasn't there. The connecting door was ajar, and he went through her dressing room into her bedroom. She wasn't there either. His heart began to hammer even though he told himself she could not have, would not have, actually fled from him. Surely she had more faith in his word than that!