WHTTNEY SLOWLY OPENED HER EYES, BLINKING IN CONFUSION AT the late morning sunlight filtering through the draperies. Her head ached dully, and she felt strangely, unaccountably melancholy. Her benumbed mind refused to function, preferring instead the anesthesia of watching the shadows creeping across the gold carpet as the sun was slowly obliterated by a heap of dark clouds rolling past. She frowned, trying to understand the bitter desolation that seemed to be weighting her down, and in that instant, the scene in the study last night penetrated her sleep-fogged consciousness.

In a panic, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the reality of the Cheltenham Tragedy that had been enacted, with all its macabre plots and twisted subplots, but it was too painfully sinister to be ignored.

Dragging herself up into a sitting position, she twisted around and arranged the pillows behind her, then fell back against them. She knew she had to think, to plan, and with grim determination she set about systematically reviewing what facts she had. First, the man who occupied the Hodges' place was Clayton Westmoreland, the "missing" Duke of Claymore. Which, she thought listlessly, finally explained his expensive clothes and those monstrously aloof servants of his.

He was also the man she'd met at the Armands' masquerade, the same arrogant, lecherous... With an effort, Whitney set aside her boiling animosity and made herself return to the facts at hand. After they met at the masquerade, Clayton Westmoreland must have come directly to her father to purchase her for his wife. Her father said last night that everything was "arranged," which undoubtedly meant that a preliminary marriage contract was already signed.

Once Clayton had accomplished that, the unspeakable cad had evidently installed himself and his servants in his lair, not two miles from her front door.

"Unbelievable!" Whitney whispered aloud. It was more than that, it was ridiculous, absurd! But, whether it was or not, it was also true. She was technically... obscenely.. unwillingly betrothed to the Duke of Claymore. Betrothed to a notorious libertine, a profligate rake!

Why, he was as hateful as her father! Her father... The agonizing recollection of her father's heartless treachery was more than Whitney could bear. She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs in a sort of protective cocoon, and rested her forehead on her knees. "Oh, Papa," she whispered brokenly, "how could you have done that to me?" The lump in her throat grew and grew until it was suffocating her; unshed tears burned her eyes and made her throat ache unbearably. But she didn't let go, would not break down.

She had to be strong. Her opponents outnumbered her two to one-three to one, if Aunt Anne were a party to this monstrous scheme. The thought that her beloved aunt might have betrayed her too, very nearly broke the dam of her control. Swallowing convulsively, Whitney stared out the window across the room. She might be outnumbered now but when Paul returned, he would stand against them too.

In the meantime, she reminded herself sternly, she would have to rely on her own courage and determination, but she had plenty of both, and a stubborn nature that Clayton Westmoreland heretofore had only glimpsed! Yes, she could manage perfectly well on her own until Paul returned.

Almost gleefully, Whitney began planning ways to thwart and foil and exasperate the duke. By the time she was finished with him, his grace would know that if he wished to have either peace or joy in his remaining years, she was not the wife for him! Perhaps if she was clever enough, she might even maneuver him into crying off and, by the time Paul returned, this vile betrothal could be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

There was a light tap on the door, and Aunt Anne walked in, her features composed into a sympathetic, encouraging smile. Friend or foe? Whitney wondered, watching her warily. Forcing herself to sound calmly unemotional, Whitney said, "When were you informed of this, Aunt Anne?"

Her aunt settled herself on the bed. "On the same day yon saw me send letters to your uncle in four different countries and cancel my trip to London."

"Oh," Whitney whispered hoarsely. Aunt Anne had been trying to locate Uncle Edward to come to their aid; she hadn't betrayed her. A piercing sweetness flooded through Whitney, washing away her defenses until her chin quivered. Her shoulders began to shake with relief and misery and, as Aunt Anne's arms went around her, Whitney surrendered to the harsh, racking sobs that had been screaming for release since the moment she'd awakened.

"Everything is going to be fine," her aunt soothed, smoothing the soft tangles from Whitney's hair.

When the last rush of tears subsided, Whitney found she felt immensely better. She dried her eyes and smiled ruefully. "Isn't this the most wretched coil, Aunt Anne?"

Her aunt fervently agreed that it was, then disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a soft cloth wrung out in cold water. "Here, darling, press this against your eyes so they won't be swollen."

"I am going to marry Paul," Whitney said in a muffled voice, obediently holding the damp cloth to her face. "I have planned to since I was a child! But even if I hadn't, I wouldn't wed that... that degenerate lecher!" Whitney pulled the cloth away in time to see her aunt quickly smother a frown. "You are on Paul's side, aren't you, Aunt Anne?" she questioned anxiously, scrutinizing her aunt's noncommittal face.

"I'm on your side, darling. Only yours. I want what's best for you." Anne started for the door. "I'll send Clarissa in to you. It's nearly noon, and his grace sent word he would arrive at one o'clock."

'"His grace!'" Whitney repeated, infuriated by this reminder of Clayton's lofty rank. All other noblemen were referred to merely as "his lordship" and addressed as "my lord," but not a duke. Because a duke outranked all other noblemen, he must be addressed much more respectfully-as "your grace."

"Whitney, shall I have your new challis pressed?" Anne persisted.

Whitney glanced bleakly out the window. Half the sky promised a bright, sunny day, while the other half was dark and overcast. The wind was up and the trees were swaying fitfully. She didn't think this was the time to look her best; in fact, since she didn't want Clayton Westmoreland's admiration, she ought to look her worst! She would wear something drab and, more important, something he hadn't paid for. "No, not the challis. I'll think of something else."

By the time Clarissa came in, Whitney had decided what to wear, and the idea filled her with grim, perverse satisfaction. "Clarissa, do you remember the black dress Haversham used to wear when she scrubbed the stairs? Will you see if you can find it."

Clarissa's kindly face was furrowed with bewildered sympathy. "Lady Gilbert told me what happened last night, child," she said. "But if you mean to antagonize the man, you may be making a terrible mistake."

The compassion Whitney saw in her faithful maid's plump face almost reduced her to tears again. "Oh, Clarissa, please don't argue with me," Whitney begged. "Just say you'll help me. If I look ugly enough, and if I'm very strong and very clever, I may be able to make him decide to give up and go away."

Clarissa nodded, her voice gruff with repressed tears. "I've never failed to stand by you, and I have the white hairs to prove it. I'll not abandon you now."

"Thank you, Clarissa," she whispered humbly. "Now I know I have at least two friends to stand by me. Three with Paul."

An hour and fifteen minutes later, bathed and seated at her dressing table, Whitney flashed an approving smile in the mirror as Clarissa twisted her heavy hair into a thick knot and secured it with a slender black ribbon. The severe hairdo accented Whitney's classically sculpted features and high cheekbones. Her wide green eyes, with their heavy fringe of sooty lashes, seemed enormous in her pale face and added to the overall effect of fragile, ethereal beauty. Whitney, however, thought she looked ghastly. "That's perfect!" she said. "And you needn't rush so-his grace can cool his heels and wait for me. That's part of my plan. I intend to teach him some distasteful lessons about me, and the first one is that I'm not the least impressed by his illustrious name and title, nor have I any intention of leaping to his commands."

At one-thirty, Whitney went down to the small salon where she had deliberately instructed the butler to install Mr. Westland when he arrived. Pausing with her hand on the brass door handle, she lifted her chin and swept silently inside.

Clayton was standing with his back partially to her, impatiently slapping his tan gloves against his muscular thigh, while be gazed out the windows overlooking the front lawns. His broad shoulders were squared, his jaw set with implacable determination, and even in this pensive pose, he seemed to emanate the restrained power and unyielding authority she had always sensed-and feared-in him.

Drop by precious drop, Whitney felt her confidence draining away. How could she have deluded herself into believing she could sway him from his purpose? He was no foppish, romantic young gallant to be put off with a cool smile or polite indifference. Not once since she'd met him had she ever emerged the victor in any conflict with him. Bracingly, Whitney reminded herself that she only had to cope with him alone until Paul came back.

She dosed the door behind her, and the latch clicked into place. "You sent for me?" she said in a flat, emotionless voice.

For the past twenty minutes, Clayton had been struggling with his mounting annoyance at being made to wait in a small stuffy room like a beggar hoping for a handout. He had told himself a dozen times that Whitney had been hurt and humiliated last night, and that today she would undoubtedly demonstrate her rebellion against him by doing whatever she could to defy and provoke him.

As he turned at the sound of her voice, he reminded himself that no matter what she said or did, he would be patient and understanding. But when he looked at her, it was all he could do to bridle his temper. Her chin held defiantly high, she stood before him, decked out like a servant in a long, shapeless, threadbare black dress. A white apron was tied around her slender waist, and her lustrous, hair was hidden beneath a mob cap. "You've made your point, Whitney," he told her curtly. "Now I'll make mine. I will not have you dressed like that ever again!"

Whitney bristled at his tone. "We are all your servants in this house. And I am the lowliest servant of all, for I'm nothing but a bondservant whom you purchased from the debtor's block."

"Don't use that tone of voice with me," he warned. "I'm not your father."

"Of course you aren't," she mocked. "You're my owner."

In three long strides, Clayton closed the distance separating them. Furious that her anger was ricocheting off her stupid father onto him, he grasped her hard by the upper arms, longing to shake her until her teeth rattled. Beneath the harsh grip of his hands, he could feel her body tense, bracing for violence.

She lifted her head, and his anger slowly drained away. Although her glorious green eyes were glaring defiance at him, they were sparkling with suppressed tears, shining with pain that he had caused. The translucent skin beneath them was smudged with dark shadows, and her normally glowing complexion was drained of color. Gazing down at her lovely, rebellious face, he asked quietly, "Does the mere thought of being my wife bring you such misery, little one?"

Whitney was shocked by his unexpected gentleness and, worse, completely at a loss as to how to answer. She wanted to appear haughty, coldly remote-anything but "miserable," tot that was tantamount to "weak" and "helpless." On the other hand, she could scarcely say No, the idea doesn't make me miserable.

A discordant note of laughter echoed through the hall, followed by footsteps and chattering voices as three of the Stones' houseguests passed the salon on their way to the dining room. "I want you to come outside with me," Clayton said.

He didn't ask, he stated, Whitney noted angrily. Outside, they crossed the drive and walked across the sloping front lawn toward the pond in the center. Beneath a graceful old elm near the edge of the pond, Clayton stopped. "At least we can hope for some privacy out here," he said.

It was on the tip of Whitney's tongue to retort that the last thing in the world she wanted was privacy with him, but she was in such an emotional turmoil that she couldn't trust herself to speak.

Stripping off his jacket, he placed it on the grass beneath the tree. "I think we could discuss this better if we sat down," he said, inclining his head toward the jacket. "I prefer to stand," Whitney said with cold hauteur. "Sit!"

Infuriated by Us imperious tone, Whitney sat-but not on his jacket. Instead, she dropped to the grass, curled her legs beneath her, and stared straight ahead at the pond.

"You're quite right," Clayton observed drily. "The damage to those rags you're wearing is much less important than soiling one of my favorite jackets." So saying, he picked up his jacket and put it around her stiff shoulders, then settled himself beside her.

"I'm not cold," Whitney informed him, trying to shrug his jacket off.

"Excellent. Then we can dispense with this absurd cap you're wearing." He reached up and snatched the little mob cap from her hair, and Whitney's temper ignited, sending a rush of hot color to the soft curve of her cheek. "You rude overbearing..." She clamped her mouth closed in frustrated rage at the glint of laughter in his gray eyes.

"Do go on," Clayton encouraged. "I believe you left off at 'overbearing.'"

Whitney's palm positively itched to slap that mocking grin from his face. She drew a long, rasping breath. "I wish I could find the right words to tell you just how much I loathe you, and everything you represent."

"I'm sure you'll go on trying until you do," he remarked agreeably.

"Do you know," Whitney said, staring fixedly at the pond, "I hated you from the first moment I met you at the masquerade, and the feeling has intensified with every encounter since then."

Pulling his knee up, Clayton rested his wrist on it and studied her impassively for a long, silent moment. "I'm very sorry to hear that," he said softly. "Because I thought that you were the loveliest, most enchanting creature God ever created."

Whitney was so startled by the gentle caress in his voice that she snapped her head around and searched his face for signs of sarcasm.

Reaching out, he traced his forefinger along the curve of her cheek. "And there have been times, when you were in my arms, that you gave no sign of this hatred you insist you've always felt. In fact, you seemed to enjoy being there."

"I have never enjoyed your attentions! In fact I've always found them..." Whitney groped desperately for the right word, hampered by the knowledge that they both knew her traitorous body had responded to his caresses. "I've always found them-most disturbing!"

He slowly brushed his knuckles along her chin, up to her earlobe, sending shivers down her spine. "Those times were 'disturbing' for me as well, little one," he murmured quietly.

"Yet you persisted in doing it, although I told you not to!" she blazed. "Even now, this very minute, I can tell you're just waiting for another opportunity to-to pounce on me!"

"True," he admitted with a throaty chuckle. "I'm drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Just as you are to me."

Whitney thought she was going to explode. "Why you conceited bas-"

His forefinger pressed against her trembling lips, silencing her. Grinning, he shook his head. "It grieves me to deprive you of one of your epithets, but I have it on the best authority that there is no question of my legitimacy."

Her life was in tatters and he was laughing! Flinging off his restraining hand, Whitney scrambled to her feet and said woodenly, "If you don't mind, I'm tired. And I'm going inside. I can't share your humor in all of this. I have been sold by my own father to a stranger, an arrogant, cold-hearted, selfish fiend, who, without a care for my feelings-"

Panther-quick, Clayton rolled to his feet, his hands locking like slave manacles on her arms as he pulled her around to face him. "Allow me to help you itemize my crimes against you, Whitney," he said with cool calm. "I am so cold-hearted that I saved your father from debtor's prison by paying all his debts. I am so selfish that I've stood by, watching you flirt with Sevarin, so arrogant that I let you sit next to him at that goddamned picnic and snipe at me, when the taste of your mouth was still warm on mine. And why have I done this? Because in my cruel, fiendish way, I want to give you the protection of my name, an unassailable position at the pinnacle of society, and a pampered life replete with every luxury within my power to grant you." He looked at her levelly. "For this, do you honestly think I deserve your bitterness and animosity?"

Whitney's shoulders drooped. She swallowed and looked away, her spirit shattered. She felt confused and miserable, no longer entirely right-yet not completely wrong either. "I-I don't know what you deserve."

He tipped her chin up. "Then I'll tell you," he said quietly. "I deserve nothing-except to be spared the hatred and blame for your father's drunken blundering last night. That's all I ask of you for now."

To Whitney's mortification, tears welled up in her eyes.

Brushing them away with her fingertips, she shook her head, declining his proffered handkerchief. "It's only that I'm tired. I didn'tt sleep very well last night."

"Nor did I," he said feelingly, escorting her back to the house. Sewell opened the front door, and from the salon came peals of laughter and loud, jesting remarks on the progress of the whist games apparently in progress. "We'll ride tomorrow morning. But if we aren't going to provide the main topic of conversation for your houseguests, I think it would be best if I met you down at the stables. At ten o'clock."

In her room, Whitney untied the white apron and pulled off the ugly black dress. Even though it was not yet two, she felt limp and exhausted. She knew she should put in an appearance downstairs, but she recoiled from the thought of the false smile she would have to wear and the gay chatter she would have to listen to; besides, if just one person said so much as a word about the Duke of Claymore, she was positive she would have hysterics!

The gold coverlet had been neatly turned down, and the bed beckoned to her, A nap might restore her spirits and enable her to think more clearly, she decided. She slid between the cool covers, and, with a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes.

When next she awoke, the moon was riding high in a black velvet sky. She rolled over onto her stomach, seeking the peace of slumber before she lost it to wakefulness and the torturous thoughts that would surely come.