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!

With quickened pace, Clayton retraced his footsteps, drawing to a relieved halt in the doorway of his bedroom. Whitney was at the opposite end of it, standing near the dais, staring at the huge four-poster bed upon it. In the glow of candlelight, he could see the memories, the fear in her expression. He moved into the room and his shadow lengthened down the long wall.

Whitney looked up at him, and Clayton saw her quickly hide her fear behind an enchanting smile. "Who are you- really?" she asked in the same conspiratorial tone she'd used at the Armands' masquerade so long ago.

"A duke," he offered, smiling as he remembered the way they had bantered that night. "Also your husband. Who are you?"

"A duchess!" she exclaimed with a mixture of joy and disbelief.

"Also my wife?"

She nodded, slowly, her smile widening delightfully. In his mind, Clayton saw the provocative goddess she had been that night with yellow and purple flowers entwined in her hair. At the same time, he beheld her standing there near his bed, and suddenly it didn't matter that he couldn't make love to her tonight. All that mattered was that he had finally made her his! He had done it-she really was his wife! He felt exhilarated and triumphant. "My 'obedient1 wife?" he teased, emphasizing the word obedient.

Whitney nodded again and he could almost see the laughter in her eyes.

"Then come here, my obedient wife," he commanded huskily.

A shadow of apprehension crossed her vivid features, but she turned fully toward him and began walking to him with that natural, fluid motion of hers. That was when Clayton realized what she was wearing, and he almost groaned aloud. Her dressing robe was made entirely of fragile white lace, revealing glimpses of skin along her arms, her breasts, and even her long legs; and there was enough soft flesh swelling above her bodice to send him into fresh agonies of desire and regret.

She stopped a few steps away from him, gazing at him in fear and confusion, as if she wanted to come the rest of the way but couldn't make herself. "About. . . about your promise," she said in a hesitant voice. "Remember?"

Did he remember his promise! "I remember it, little one," Clayton said quietly. He went to her and gently enfolded her in his arms, trying to ignore the incredible feel of her almost naked breasts softly crushed against his thin shirt. He wanted to kiss her but she was trembling so violently that he was afraid to, so he just held her with her face cradled against his chest and slowly stroked her long, lustrous hair.

"When I was a little girl," she whispered unsteadily against his heart, "lying in bed at night, I used to imagine that there were things-in the closets."

She fell silent and Clayton urged her, "There were toy soldiers in my closets. What were in yours?"

"Monsters!" she whispered. "Huge, ugly ones with claws for feet and enormous, bulging eyes." She drew a shaky breath and said, "There are monsters in this room too- hideous memories lurking in the shadows and coiners."

Clayton flinched with pained remorse. "I know there are. But you've nothing to be afraid of; I'll not ask anything of you tonight. I gave you my word."

She leaned back a little and looked up at him, her face so lovely and vulnerable that Clayton wondered for the thousandth time how he ever, ever could have hurt her that night. She tried to say something and couldn't; instead she rested her cheek against his chest, sliding her arms around his waist.

After a moment, she began again, "I used to lie in bed at night, afraid of what was in the closet. And then, when I couldn't endure it any longer, I would run across the room and snatch the door open and make myself look inside."

Clayton smiled inwardly. It was like her to grow weary of cowering under the blankets and confront the darkness- monsters or no monsters. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear it.

"The closet was always empty. No monsters . . . nothing to fear." She drew a shuddering breath. "Clayton, I don't want to spend our wedding night lying alone in your bed, afraid of what is in the shadows."

Clayton's hand froze in mid-air, then he made himself continue the soothing motion, giving her time to reconsider. "You're certain?" he asked quietly.

Whitney nodded and whispered, "Yes."

Leaning down, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the big four-poster where he had taught her how degrading the act could be, promising himself, every step of the way, that this time would be so perfect for her that the other time would be banished from her memory. He slipped his hand from beneath her knees, and the gliding feel of her legs sliding down his thighs made his hands tremble as he untied the ribbons at her breasts and tenderly shoved the lacy gown aside.

Her ivory shoulders and full, rosy-tipped breasts gleamed in the light from the fire across the room. "My God, you are beautiful," he breathed, and felt her body quiver sharply when his hands slid down her arms, sending the fragile lace gown spilling onto the floor. He took her dewy lips in a long, sweet kiss, then swept the satin coverlet back and lifted her gently, laying her on the cool sheets.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away, and Clayton saw the flush that swept up her long shapely legs, her slender curves, staining the glowing ivory skin right up to her hairline. Out of consideration for her obvious embarrassment, he reluctantly extinguished the candles burning on the bedside table. Afraid to leave her alone with the memories she was ready to confront, he undressed there beside the bed, then stretched out alongside her and carefully pulled her into his arms. Whitney stiffened. He ran his hand soothingly over her naked back, and she stiffened even more. Clayton stopped caressing her and lay back against the pillows with her head on his chest.