"I love you," she answered instead, but Clayton felt her intoxicating body straining automatically to be closer to his. A deep, knowing laugh sounded in his chest as he drew back. "I know you love me, little one," he said, tipping her chin up. "But yon want me, too."

Whitney conveniently remembered, then, that her aunt and the seamstresses were waiting for her in the other room. Only half reluctantly, she stepped away. "Win that be all, your grace?" she smiled, bobbing another servant's curtsy.

Clayton's tone was politely impersonal. "For now, thank you," he said, out when she turned, he gave her an affectionate smack that landed squarely on her derriere.

Whitney halted. Over her shoulder she regarded him with an expression of exaggerated severity, and warned, "If I were you, I'd not forget what happened when you did that to me after the Rutherfords' party."

"At the Archibalds' house?" he clarified. "When I brought you home?"

Her lips twitched with laughter, but she managed a slow, haughty nod. "Precisely."

"Am I to understand," Clayton mocked, trying unsuccessfully to keep his face straight, "that you're threatening to knock these paintings off the wall?"

Puzzled, Whitney glanced at the portraits in heavy carved frames hanging along the wall, and then at Clayton's laughing face. "I thought I slapped you."

"You missed."

"I did?"

"I'm afraid so," he confirmed gravely.

Whitney muffled a giggle. "How provoking."

"Undoubtedly," he agreed.

Bemused, Whitney turned and started to walk away. His second smack landed with a little more force upon her derriere than the first, and although she managed to look quite disapproving, she couldn't stifle her laughter.

That night after dinner, the family all retired to the drawing room. The duchess and Aunt Anne were deeply engrossed in gossip, white Stephen was regaling Whitney with hilarious versions of Clayton's most infamous boyhood transgressions, to which Clayton was listening with alternating expressions of extreme discomfort and bored disgust.

"Then there was the time when Clay was twelve and he didn't come down to breakfast. When he wasn't in his room either, Bather and the servants began combing the grounds. Late in the afternoon, Clay's shut was found on the bank of the stream where the water is fast and deep. His boat was still there, because Father had forbidden him to take it out for one month…"

Breathless with laughter from the last story, Whitney turned to her betrothed and gasped, "Why-why weren't you allowed to take your boat out?"

Clayton glowered his displeasure at Stephen, then gazed down into Whitney's vivid, laughing face and grinned in spite of himself. "As I recall, I had not come down properly attired for dinner the night before."

"Not properly attired?" Stephen hooted. "You appeared a half hour late, in riding boots and hacking clothes positively reeking of horse sweat and leather, with gunpowder on your face from sneaking out and practicing with Father's old dueling pistols."

Clayton hurled a look of excruciating disgust at Stephen, and Whitney dissolved with laughter. "Go on, Stephen," she gasped merrily. "Tell me the rest about finding Clayton's shirt by the stream."

"Well, everyone thought Clay had drowned and they came rushing to the scene, with Mother in tears and Father as white as a sheet, when, around the bend came Gay on the most rickety, makeshift raft you have ever seen. Everyone held their breath, expecting the raft to swamp when he tried to bank it, but Clay guided it right in. With his fishing pole in one hand and a stringer of prime fish in the other, he got off and looked around at us as if he thought we were all odd for standing there, gaping at him. Then he strolled up to Father and Mother, still carrying that huge stringer of fish.

"Mother promptly burst into tears and Father finally recovered his voice. He was in the middle of delivering a thundering tirade about Clay's irresponsible behavior, his recklessness, and even his lack of a shirt, when your future husband said very patiently that he did not think it was seemly for Father to be dressing him down in front of the servants."

"Oh, you didn't!" Whitney whispered hoarsely, stomping lower in her seat. "Then what happened?"

Clayton chuckled. "Father obliged me by sending the servants away," he said, "and then he boxed my ears."

Into this utterly congenial atmosphere of charming conviviality intruded the black-coated figure of the butler who intoned magisterially, "Lord Edward Gilbert has arrived." This announcement was immediately followed by the appearance of Lord Edward Gilbert himself, who strode into the drawing room, glanced around, and beamed his general approbation on all the occupants.

"Good heavens! It's Edward!" gasped Lady Anne, coming to her feet and staring at her beloved husband. Afraid that her letters had finally caught up with him and that he had hastened here to rescue Whitney from an unwanted match with the duke, she thought madly for some concise explanation to give him for the momentous events which had led to this gathering at Claymore.

Whitney also lurched to her feet, her thoughts identical to her aunt's. "Uncle Edward!" she burst out.

"Glad that everyone recognizes me," Lord Edward Gilbert drily remarked, looking from Anne to Whitney in obvious expectation of some more sentimental greeting than he had thus for received.

Unnoticed, Clayton rose and strolled over to the fireplace, where he leaned an elbow upon the mantel, and with visible amusement watched the unfolding scene.

Edward waited for someone to introduce him to the duchess and Stephen, but when neither his wife nor his niece seemed capable of speech, he shrugged and strode directly over to the duke. "Well Claymore," he said, warmly returning Clayton's handclasp, "I see the betrothal has come off without a hitch."

"Without a hitch?!" Lady Gilbert whispered in a strangled voice.

"Without a hitch?" Whitney echoed as she slowly crumpled to the sofa.

"Almost without a hitch," Clayton corrected mildly, ignoring the gaping stares of the other occupants of the room.

"Good, good. Knew it would," said Lord Gilbert. Clayton introduced him to his mother and Stephen, and when the civilities had been exchanged, Edward finally turned again to his rigid wife. "Anne?" said he as he advanced upon her and she retreated, step for step. "After months apart, Madam, it strikes me that your greeting thus far has been less than enthusiastic."

"Edward," Lady Gilbert breathed, "you clothhead!" "Can't say that's much of an improvement over, 'Good heavens, it's Edward," he pointed out with asperity.

"You knew about this betrothal from the very beginning," she accused, transferring her dark frown from Edward to a grinning Clayton, who immediately smoothed his face into more suitably grave lines. "I have been subjected to enough suspense to drive anyone to raving lunacy, and the two of you have been in communication all along, haven't you?! I can't think which of you I should more like to murder."

"Do you want your hartshorn, my dear?"

"No, I do not want my hartshorn," his lady replied, "I want an explanation!"

"An explanation for what?" Edward asked, bewildered.

"For why you have not answered my letters, for why you did not tell me you were aware of this betrothal, for why you didn't advise me what to do …"

"I only got one of your letters," he defended a trifle brusquely, "and an you said was that Claymore was in residence near Stone's place. And I can't imagine why you needed me to tell you what to do, when it was perfectly obvious that all you had to do was chaperone two people whom anyone could see were ideally suited to each other. And I did not tell you I was aware of the betrothal because I was not aware of it until Claymore's letter was brought to me in Spam a month and a half ago."