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."

She nodded so eagerly and looked so relieved that Clayton almost smiled.

"The second condition is that you promise that during the next few days you will seriously consider what I am about to say."

Again she nodded.

"Whitney, what occurred between us before was nothing more than an act of outrage on my part; it was not 'making love,' it was an act of selfish revenge."

She was listening, and Clayton realized she was trying to understand, but to her at this point, an act was an act, and if it was painful and humiliating before, it would be again. "Come here," he said gently. "I can explain better with a small demonstration."

Apprehension flitted across her face, but she obediently crossed to sit beside him. Clayton tipped her chin up and kissed her deeply and tenderly. Her response was longer than usual in coming, but when it did, it was exquisitely warm and filled with love. "Do you remember the first time I ever kissed you, on the balcony at Lady Eubank's house?" he asked, drawing back and searching her eyes. "I was punishing you for trying to use me to make Sevarin jealous-remember?"

She nodded. "I slapped you," she recalled with a smile

"Do you feel like slapping me now? Do you feel in any way the same about this kiss as you did that first one?"

"No."

"Then believe me when I tell you that what will happen between us the next time I take you to my bed will be as different from before, as this kiss is from that first one."

"Thank you," she said with a beaming smile of relief.

She didn't believe him for a minute, Clayton knew. But she was overjoyed with her "wedding night reprieve."

AT THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN, WHITNEY CLIMBED FROM BENEATH the cool sheets, groped for her dressing robe in the dark, then settled into a chair at the windows to watch the sun rise over London on her wedding day. She bent her head and tried to pray. But all her prayers began with "Thank you" instead of "Please."

She heard the house slowly stirring to life, the sound of servants moving about the halls, of footsteps passing her door. The wedding was not to begin until three o'clock, and that seemed tike an eternity from now.

For hours, time scarcely seemed to move, and then, just after noon, time leapt forward, picking up extraordinary speed. People scurried in and out of her bedroom, while Aunt Anne sat perched upon the bed, watching Clarissa brush Whitney's thick mahogany tresses until they shone. Emily came into the room wearing a dressing robe, ready to slip into her gown, and Elizabeth was right on her heels. "Hello," Whitney said in a quiet, joyous voice.

"Nervous or just not talkative?" Emily teased gaily.