Smiling in the summer moonlight, Marie extended both her hands to be clasped in his strong, warm ones. "It is wonderful to see you, Clayton. Esterbrook must bear you great malice to have deliberately manipulated our brief encounter in there."
Clayton grinned down at her. "Esterbrook is a stupid son of a bitch, as you have already surmised on your own, Marie." He watched the way the moonlight turned her hair to shining silver, white he relished her lush beauty and the keen intelligence in her violet-blue eyes. She took no missish offense at his blunt summation of Esterbrook; she was as astute a judge of character as was he, and they both knew it.
"Marriage does not agree with you, my lord?" She said it as a question, but it was more a quiet observation.
Clayton stiffened slightly. He reminded himself that nothing would rock the foundations of London society so violently as his taking Marie St. Allermain as his mistress again. They were both so well known that the gossip created by a renewed liaison between the two of them would be endless, and the humiliation Whitney would suffer as a result of it would be immeasurable. And Marie was a passionate bed partner who suited him perfectly. And even while he told himself all this, he could almost feel Whitney's cold, trembling hand on his arm, the way her fingers had clutched his for support while Marie was singing.
Damn her! How dare she take off her betrothal ring! She was a schemer, a liar, and a fraud. But she was also his wife. And right now, she was young and afraid and pregnant with his child. To Clayton's intense disgust, he realized that he could not bring himself to make the overture which he knew would be welcome to Marie. He would take another woman as his mistress, someone who would create less notoriety.
"Marriage does not seem to agree with your wife either," Marie was observing quietly. "She is very beautiful-and very unhappy."
"Marriage agrees with both of us," Clayton said grimly.
A slow, provocative smile trembled on her lips. "If you say so, Clayton."
"I say so," he said irritably. If Marie had noticed that Whitney was unhappy and distressed, others in the ballroom may have noticed that as well. He didn't want Whitney shamed in front of their friends. It was one thing for him to hate her and humiliate her in private, another entirely for society to be taking notice of it. And he was thoroughly incensed to discover that he even gave a damn.
"In that case," Marie mused, displaying the perspicacity that Clayton had always enjoyed in her, "it might be wise if you now went back into the ballroom. Because I am of the opinion that Esterbrook's intent in bringing us together in front of your wife, was to make himself available to console her later." She saw Clayton's shoulders stiffen and the dangerous glitter in his eyes. A winsome smile touched her lips. "I've never seen you look like this before. You are terrifying-and devastating attractive-when you're angry. And jealous."
"Leave it at angry," Clayton replied in a clipped voice which be softened as he bid his former mistress farewell.
When he strode back into the ballroom, he looked first for Esterbrook, then for Whitney. Esterbrook was there, Whitney was not. With a feeling of relief, Clayton noted that no one seemed to have observed his absence with Marie, and judging by the boisterous level of conversation in the room, whatever gossip had begun at their public meeting had died a polite death. Clayton was glad of that because these people were Whitney's friends as well as his, and she would need to know that she didn't have to cringe from seeing them the next time.
Except that Whitney wouldn't know that. Because the duchess, as the butler solemnly explained, had already left. Damned little fool! Clayton thought savagely. What was she thinking of, walking out on him like this? Now there would be hell to pay! He couldn't go back in there without her, or everyone would immediately realize that she had left in distress or anger, and that would cause gossip. Personally, he couldn't have cared less about the talk, but Whitney would be the one who had to face it, and who had left because she couldn't. And he couldn't leave either, dammit-because she had taken the carriage.
Emily and Michael Archibald solved that problem within seconds by walking into the entryway and asking to have their carriage brought round so that they could leave. Without question or comment, they provided him with a ride to his London townhouse, where Clayton spent a very angry, uncomfortable night. He kept seeing Whitney in that glittering golden gown that displayed her ripe breasts to such glorious advantage. She'd worn it deliberately to provoke him and, by God, she'd succeeded! Hadn't he had to stand beside her all night, watching men's gazes lingering lustfully on the tantalizing display of her creamy flesh?
If she hadn't worn that damned gown and taken off her betrothal ring, if her hair weren't so thick and lustrous with that shining gold chain entwined in it, if she hadn't looked so heart-breakingly beautiful and desirable, he'd never have accepted Marie's silent invitation to join her on the terrace in the first place.
Chapter Thirty-five
CIAYTON DID NOT RETURN TO CLAYMORE THE NEXT DAY OK THE day after, or the day after that. Nor did he spend the three days entwined in naked splendor with Marie St. Allermain as Whitney's feverish, tortured imaginings told her. He spent the three days in London, in alternating states of righteous fury and quiet thoughtfulness. He spent the nights at his club with his friends.
Very late on the third night, as he sat staring out the window of his bedroom overlooking a fog-shrouded courtyard, Clayton arrived at a few conclusions. In the first place, he did not see why the hell he should have to go to the inconvenience of choosing a mistress and setting her up in a discreet home of her own, which he would have to do now that he was married. He was married to a shit, but she had a ripe, tantalizing body that intoxicated his mind and fitted his own body to perfection. So why should he take a mistress when he had Whitney? And he was not going to continue living like a damned monk, nor was he going to remain living like a guest in the east wing of his own house, either.
He was going home and he was moving back into his own bedroom. And when his body had need of her, Whitney would service him. She would be a servant, nothing more, a well-dressed servant whose duties were to act as his hostess on the occasions when he required one, and as his unpaid whore when he needed one. It was almost what she was anyway, he thought with a fresh surge of boiling wrath. Except that her price had been very high-a fortune in money, and his name, to boot! But he owned her. Permanently.
With those tender thoughts and several more of a similar nature, Clayton ordered his town carriage around on the morning of the fourth day and impatiently endured the hour and a half drive through an English countryside decked out in all its lush, summer glory. He scarcely noticed the passing landscape as he contemplated the scene that was going to take place as soon as he arrived at Claymore. First he was going to explain to Whitney her future status and duties in the crudest possible terms. Then he intended to tell her what he thought of her treachery and deceit, her outrageous temper, and her rebellion against his authority. And when he was done with that, he was going to cram that note down her lovely throat-figuratively speaking.
The carriage had scarcely pulled to a stop in the drive in front of the house before Clayton was striding swiftly up the steps, through the front doors and up the staircase to Whitney's rooms. He flung the door to her bedchambers open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall and brought Mary flying around in surprised alarm. Without a word to the staring servant, he strode quickly through the adjoining dressing room into his old chambers. But Whitney wasn't there. Because the duchess, as Mary tearfully explained, had left. Yesterday.