Lady Gilbert was not to be so easily pacified. With a brief glance of apology to Clayton, she burst out, "They most certainly were not 'ideally suited!'"

"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."

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 . . ."