Whitney, My Love

Chapter Ten

WHITNEY THREW OPEN THE WINDOWS AND INHALED THE wonderful fresh country air. While Clarissa helped her into a chic turquoise riding habit, Whitney's traitorous mind suggested again and again that she pay a morning call on Paul. Each time, she firmly thrust the notion aside. She would ride over and see Emily.

The stables where the horses were kept was situated down a path and off to the left, screened from view of the main house by a tall boxwood hedge. Twenty stalls ran the length of the building on both sides. A wide, overhanging roofline provided shade and protection to the building's equine occupants. Halfway there, Whitney stopped to let her gaze rove appreciatively over the lovely, familiar landscape.

In the distance a newly whitewashed fence stretched in a broad oval, marking the boundary of the timing track where her grandfather used to test the speed of his horses before deciding which to take to the races. Behind the track, hills rolled gently at first, dotted with oak and sycamore trees, then became steeper, ending in a densely wooded rise along the northeast boundary of the property.

As Whitney approached the stable, she was amazed to see that every stall along this side was occupied. A brass name-plate was bolted to each door, and Whitney stopped at the last stall on the corner, glancing at the name on the plate.

"YOU must be Passing Fancy," she said to the beautiful bay mare as she stroked her satiny neck. "What a pretty name you have."

"Still talking to horses, I see," chuckled a voice behind her.

Whitney swung around, beaming at the ramrod-straight figure of Thomas, her father's head groom. Thomas had been her girlhood confidant and a sympathetic witness to some of her most infamous outbursts of temper and unhappiness. "I can't believe how full the stable is," she said after they had "What on earth do we do with all these horses?"

"Exercise them mostly. But don't stand out here. I've something to show you." Wonderful smells of oil and leather welcomed Whitney as she stepped into the cool stable, bunking to adjust to the dim tight. At the end of the corridor, two men were attempting to soothe a magnificent Mack stallion who was crosstied, while a third tried to trim his hooves. The stallion was a flurry of movement, shaking and tossing his head, rearing the few inches off the ground that the slack in the ropes allowed. "Dangerous Crossing," announced Thomas proudly. "And a right fitting name for him, too."

Already Whitney could feel those splendid muscles flexing beneath her. "Is he broken to ride?"

"Sometimes," Thomas chuckled. "But most of the time he tries to break the rider. Moodiest animal in the world. One day you think he's ready to give in and start responding, the next he'll try to rub you off on the fences. Gets himself all worked up over something, and he'll charge like he's half bull." Thomas raised his crop to point to another stall and the frenzied horse tripled his efforts to break free.

"Whoa! Easy now. Easy," gasped one of the struggling stableboys. "Master Thomas, could you put that crop behind you?"

Quickly tucking the crop behind him with an apologetic look at the sweating stableboy, Thomas explained to Whitney, "This animal hates the sight of the crop. George there tried to back him off a fence with it last week and nearly

ended up making the acquaintance of his Creator. Never mind the stallion, I've got something else to show you." Thomas steered Whitney toward the opposite entrance to the stable where another stable boy was leading-or being led by-a magnificent chestnut gelding with four snowy white feet.

"Khan?" Whitney whispered. Before Thomas could answer, the chestnut nuzzled her at the hip, looking for the pocket where she used to hide his treats when he was a colt. "Why you beggar!" she laughed. She smiled over her shoulder at Thomas. "How does he go? He was much too little to saddle when I left."

"Why don't you try him out and see for yourself?"

Whitney needed no more encouragement. With her crop clenched between her teeth, she reached up to tighten the turquoise ribbon that held her hair at the nape. Dangerous Crossing lunged backward, kicking out at the men, creating a furor. "Hide the crop!" Thomas warned sharply, and Whitney quickly complied.

Khan pranced sideways with anticipation as he was ted outdoors. Thomas gave Whitney a leg up, and she landed gracefully in the sidesaddle. Turning Khan toward the open gate, she said, "I'm a little out of practice. If he comes back without me, I'll be between here and Lady Archibald's father's house."

As Khan trotted up the drive to Emily's house, a curtain shifted at a wide bow window. A moment later the front door opened, and Emily came flying outside. "Whitney!" she cried joyously, flinging her arms around her and returning Whitney's hug. "Oh Whitney, let me see you." Laughing, Emily backed up, still clasping both Whitney's hands in hers. "You're absolutely beautiful!"

"You're the one who looks wonderful," Whitney said, admiring Emily's tight brown hair cut fashionably short and threaded with a ribbon.

"That's because I'm happy, not because I'm beautiful," Emily argued.

Arm in arm the girls strolled into the drawing room. A slender, sandy-haired man in his late twenties stood up, his hazel eyes smiling as Emily breathlessly began the introduction. "Whitney, may I present my husband-"

"Michael Archibald," he finished before his wife put the barrier of his title in Whitney's way. It was a simple, unaffected gesture of open friendliness, and Whitney appreciated the subtle thoughtfulness, as did his beaming wife.

Shortly thereafter, he excused himself and left the girls to talk, an activity in which they engaged eagerly for two hours. "Paul was here this morning," Emily said as Whitney reluctantly rose to leave. "He came over to speak to my father about something." A guilty smile flitted over Emily's pretty features. "I… well. . . I didn't think it would hurt if I-very casually, you understand-repeated some of the things Monsieur DuVille had mentioned about how popular you are in France. Although," Emily added as her smile vanished, "I'm not sure Monsieur DuVille did you a favor talking about you like that in front of Margaret Merryton. He flayed her alive with tales of your conquests, and now she hates you even more than she ever did."

"Why?" Whitney asked as they walked down the front hall.

"Why has she always hated you? I suppose because you were the wealthiest of all of us. Although, now that she's preoccupied with your new neighbor, maybe she'll be nice for a change, instead of so hateful." At Whitney's puzzled look, Emily explained. "Mr. Westland, your new neighbor. From what Elizabeth was telling me yesterday, Margaret considers him her exclusive property."

"How is Elizabeth?" Whitney asked, forgetting about Margaret entirety at the mention of her rival for Paul's love.

"As pretty and sweet as ever. And you may as well know that Paul escorts her practically everywhere."

Whitney thought about that as she galloped diagonally across an implanted field belonging to Emily's father. Elizabeth Ashton had always been everything Whitney wanted to be-ladylike, demure, blond, petite, and sweet.

The wind tore at her hair, tugging it loose from the velvet ribbon, tossing it wildly about. Beneath her, Whitney could feel Khan gathering and flexing gracefully as he flew over the ground with amazing speed. Regretfully, she eased him back into a canter, slowing him to a walk as they entered the woods to follow a path that existed now only in Whitney's memory. Rabbits scampered in the underbrush, and squirrels darted up the trees as they wound their way through the dense growth. A few minutes later, they crested the hill, and Whitney guided Khan carefully down the steep slope where a small meadow was bordered by a wide brook that ran through the northern section of her father's property.

Dismounting, Whitney looped Khan's reins around a sturdy oak, waited a minute to be certain that he would stand quietly, then patted his sleek neck and struck out across the meadow toward the stream. As she walked, she stopped now and then to gaze around her with older, more appreciative eyes, and to savor the scent of late summer wildflowers and fresh clover. She did not, however, look up and over her shoulder, and so she didn't notice the solitary horseman who was motionless atop a great sorrel stallion, watching every step she took.

Clayton grinned when Whitney stripped off her turquoise jacket and slung it jauntily over her right shoulder. Free of all the restrictions of Parisian society, her walk was an easy, swinging gait that was both lively and seductive, sending her luxuriant mane of hair swaying to and fro as she strolled toward the stream. She sauntered up a gentle knoll that sloped toward the water's edge. Seating herself beneath an ancient, gnarled sycamore standing sentinel atop the knoll, she pulled off her riding boots, peeled her stockings down, and tossed them over by the boots.

His horse moved restlessly beneath him while Clayton debated whether or not to approach his quarry. When she hitched her skirts up and waded into the stream, he chuckled and made his decision. Angling his horse back into the trees, he descended through the woods toward the meadow below. Wading in this stream, Whitney quickly decided, was not quite as enjoyable as she remembered it. For one thing, the water was freezing cold, and beneath her feet the rocks were sharp and slippery. Gingerly, she waded back to the bank, then stretched out on the grass. Her hair tumbled to the sides, floating on the water's rippling surface as she lay propped up on her elbows, her chin cupped in her hands, lazily raising and lowering her wet calves, letting the breeze dry them. She was watching the minnows darting in the shallows and trying to imagine the moment when Paul would see her for the first time tonight, when a slight movement near the sycamore tree to her left drew her attention.

From the corner of her eye, Whitney glimpsed a pair of expensive brown riding boots polished to a mirror shine. She froze, then rolled over and quickly raised herself to a sitting position, drawing her knees up against her chest, hastily tugging her sodden skirts down around her bare ankles.

The man was standing with one shoulder negligently propped against the sycamore tree, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Fishing?" he inquired, as his gaze roamed over every warm curve of her body, lingered momentarily on her bare toes peeping out from beneath the wet hem of her riding skirts, then moved upward in a leisurely inspection of her feminine assets that left Whitney feeling as if she'd just been stripped of all her clothing. "Spying?" she countered coldly.

He didn't deign to reply, but looked at her in ill-concealed amusement. Whitney lifted her chin and haughtily returned his gaze. He was very tall, easily 6 feet 2 inches, lean and superbly fit. His jaw was firm and well carved, his nose straight. The breeze lightly ruffled his hair which was a thick, coffee-brown. Beneath dark brows, his gray eyes observed her with frank interest. His clean-shaven face was very handsome-Whitney allowed him that-but there was an aggressive virility in his bold gaze, and an uncompromising authority, an arrogance, in the set of his jaw, that was not at all to Whitney's liking.

His mouth quirked in a half smile. "Were you going for a swim?"

"No, I was trying to be alone, Mr. … ?" "Westland," he provided, his gaze dipping to touch the rounded fullness of her breasts where they pressed against her sheer white shirt. Whitney crossed her arms protectively over her bosom, and his smile widened knowingly. "Mr. Westland!" she snapped angrily, "your sense of direction must be nearly as poor as your manners!"

Her tart reprimand only seemed to push him nearer the brink of outright laughter. "Really, why is that, Ma'am?"

"Because you are trespassing," Whitney said. When he still showed no inclination to leave or apologize, Whitney knew she would have to be the one to go. Gritting her teeth, she glanced disgustedly toward her stockings and boots.

He straightened from his lounging position and stepped over to her, extending his hand. "May I help you?" he offered.

"You certainly may help me," Whitney replied, her smile deliberately cold and ungracious. "Get on your horse and go away."

Something flickered in his gray eyes, but his smile remained, and his hand was still outstretched. "Here is my hand, take it." Whitney ignored it and rose to her feet unassisted. It was impossible to put on her stockings without exposing her legs to the man who was leaning against the tree watching her, so she pulled on her boots and stuffed the stockings in her jacket pocket.

Walking quickly over to Khan, she picked up her crop and, stepping onto a fallen stump, hoisted herself into the saddle. His horse, a beautifully muscled sorrel, was tied beside her. She turned Khan in a tight circle, urging nun into a lunging gallop around the woods.

"A pleasure meeting you again, Miss Stone," Clayton chuckled aloud. "You little hellcat," he added appreciatively.

Once out of sight, Whitney slowed Khan to a loping canter. She could hardly believe Mr. Westland was the neighbor her father held in such high esteem. She grimaced, recalling that he was invited to her party tonight. Why, the man was insufferably rude, outrageously bold, and infuriatingly arrogant! How could her father like him?

She was still wondering about that when she wandered into the sewing room and sat down beside her aunt. "You will never guess who I have just met," she was telling her aunt when Sewell, the old family butter, circumspectly cleared his throat and announced, "Lady Amelia Eubank asks to see you."

Whitney blanched. "Me? Dear God, why?"

"Show Lady Eubank into the rose salon, Sewell," Lady Anne said, curiously studying Whitney, who was looking wildly around the room for a place to hide. "What on earth has you looking so alarmed, darling?"

"You just don't know her, Aunt Anne. When I was little she used to shout at me not to chomp my nails."

"Well, at least she cared enough about you to want to correct you, which is more than I can say of anyone else here."

"But we were in church," Whitney cried desperately.

Anne's smile was sympathetic but firm. "I'll admit she's a trifle deaf and very outspoken. But four years ago, when all your neighbors came to see me, Lady Eubank was the only person who had a kind word to say about you. She said you had spunk. And she has a great deal of influence with everyone else hereabouts."

"That's because they're all frightened to death of her." Whitney sighed.

When Lady Anne and Whitney walked into the salon, the dowager Lady Eubank was examining the workmanship of a porcelain pheasant. Grimacing to show her distaste, she replaced the object atop the mantle and said to Whitney, "That atrocity must be to your father's liking. Your mother wouldn't have had it in her house."

Whitney opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't think of a reply. Lady Eubank groped for the monocle dangling from a black ribbon over her ample bosom, raised it to her eye and scrutinized Whitney from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. "Well, miss, what have you to say for yourself?" she demanded.

Fighting down the childish urge to wring her hands, Whitney said formally, "I am delighted to see you again after so many years, my lady."

"Rubbish!" said the dowager. "Do you still chomp your nails?"

Whitney almost, but not quite, rolled her eyes. "No, actually, I don't."

"Good. You have a fine figure, nice face. Now, to get down to the reason for my visit. Do you still mean to get Sevarin?"

"Do I-I what?"

"Young woman, I am the one who's supposed to be deaf. Now do you, or do you not, mean to get Sevarin?"

Whitney frantically considered and cast aside half a dozen responses. She glanced beseechingly at her aunt, who gave her a helpless, laughing look. Finally, she clasped her hands behind her back and regarded her tormentor directly. "Yes. If

I can."

"Ha! Thought so!" said the dowager happily, then her eyes narrowed. "You aren't given to blushing and simpering, are you? Because if you are, you may as well go back to France. Miss Elizabeth has tried that for years, and she's yet to snare Sevarin. You take my advice, and give that young man some competition! Competition is what he needs-he's too sure of himself with the ladies and always has been." She turned to Lady Anne. "For fifteen years, I have listened to my tiresome neighbors foretelling a dire future for your niece, Madam, but I always believed there was hope for her. Now," she said with a complacent smirk, "I intend to sit back and laugh myself into fits watching her snap Sevarin up right in front of their eyes." Raising her monacle to her eye, she gave Whitney a final inspection, then nodded abruptly. "Do Not Fail Me, Miss."

In amazed disbelief Whitney stared at the empty doorway through which the dowager had just passed. "I think she's a little mad."

"I think she's as wily as a fox," Lady Anne replied with a fault smile. "And I think you'd be wise to take her advice to heart."

Trancelike, Whitney sat before her dressing table mirror, watching Clarissa deftly twist her heavy hair into elaborate curls entwined with a rope of diamonds-her last, and most extravagant purchase made with the money her father sent her to spend in Paris. As Clarissa teased soft tendrils over her ears, the night breeze wafted the curtains, raising bumps on Whitney's arms. Tonight was going to be unseasonably cool, which suited Whitney perfectly, for the gown she wanted to wear was of velvet.

As the gown was being fastened up the back, Whitney heard the sound of carriages making their way along the drive, the echo of muted laughter, distant but distinct, drifting through the open windows. Were they laughing as they recounted her old antics? Was that Margaret Merryton or one of the other girls, sniggering about the shameful way she used to behave?

Whitney didn't notice when Clarissa finished and quietly left the room. She felt cold all over, frightened, and more painfully unsure of herself than ever before in her life. Tonight was the night she had been practicing for and dreaming of all these years in France.

She wandered over to the windows, wondering distractedly what Elizabeth would wear tonight. Something pastel, no doubt. And demurely fetching. Parting the ivory and gold curtains, she stared down, watching the carriage lamps twinkling as they approached along the sweeping drive. One after another, in amazing numbers, they rolled to a stop at the steps. Her father must have invited half the countryside, she thought nervously. And of course, they had all accepted his invitation. They would all be eager to look her over, to search for some flaw, some sign of the unruly girl she'd been before.

Two steps into Whitney's room, Anne came to an abrupt halt, a slow, beaming smile working its way across her face. In profile, Whitney's finely sculpted features looked too lovely to be real. Anne took in everything, from the shadows of thick lashes on glowing magnolia skin, to the diamonds glittering amidst her shiny mahogany curls and peeping from beneath the soft tendrils at her ears. Her curvaceous form was draped in an emerald-green velvet gown with a high waist. The bodice was molded firmly to her breasts, exposing a daring amount of flesh above the square neckline. As if to atone for the gown's immodest display of bosom, the sleeves were fitted tubes of emerald velvet which did not allow so much as a glimpse of skin from shoulder to wrist, where they ended in deep points at the tops of her hands. Like the front, the back of the gown was elegant in its simplicity, falling in velvet folds.

A carriage drew up below, and Whitney watched a tall, blond man bound down and offer his hand to a beautiful blond girl. Paul had arrived. And he had come with Elizabeth. Jerking away from the window, Whitney saw her aunt and visibly jumped.

"You took positively breathtaking!" Lady Anne whispered. "Do you really like it-4he dress, I mean?" Whitney's voice was raspy and tight with mounting tension.

"Like it?" Anne laughed. "Darling, it's you! Daring and elegant and special." She extended her hand from which dangled a magnificent emerald pendant. "Your father asked me this morning what color your gown was, and he just brought me this to give to you. It was your mother's," Anne added when Whitney stated at the glittering jewel.

The emerald was easily an inch square, flanked by a row of glittering diamonds on all four sides. It was not her mother's; Whitney had spent hours, long ago, lovingly touching all the little treasures and trinkets in her mother's jewel case. But she was too nervous to argue the point. She stood rigidly still while her aunt fastened the pendant.

"Perfect!" Anne exclaimed with pleasure, studying the effect of the glowing jewel nestling in the hollow between Whitney's breasts. Linking her arm through Whitney's, Anne took a step forward. "Come, darling-it's time for your second official debut." Whitney wished with all her heart that Nicolas DuVille were here to help her through this debut, too.

Her father was pacing impatiently at the foot of the stairs, waiting to escort her into the ballroom. When he saw her coming down the steps toward him, he halted in mid-stride, and the stunned admiration on his face bolstered Whitney's faltering confidence.

Under the wide arched entrance to the ballroom, he stopped and nodded at the musicians in the far alcove, and the music ground to an abrupt hate. Whitney could feel the eyes swerving toward her, hear the roar of the crowd dying swiftly as the babble of voices trailed off in ominous silence. She drew a long, quivering breath, focused her eyes slightly above everyone's heads, and stepped down the three shallow steps, allowing her father to lead her toward the center of the room.

Staring, watchful silence followed her and, at that moment, had she been able to find the strength, Whitney would have picked up her skirts and fled. She clung to the memory of Nicolas DuVille, of his proud, laughing elegance, and the way he had escorted her everywhere. He would have leaned over and whispered in her ear, "They are nothing but provincials, cherie! Just keep your head high."

The crowd parted as a young, red-haired man shoved his way through-Peter Redfern, who had teased her unmercifully as a child, but had also been one of her few friends. At five and twenty, Peter's hairline had receded slightly, but the boyishness that was so much a part of him was still there. "Good God!" he exclaimed with unconcealed admiration when he was standing directly in front of her. "It is you, you little ruffian! What have you done with your freckles?!"

Whitney gulped back her horrified laughter at this undignified greeting and put her hand in his outstretched palm. "What," she countered, beaming at him, "have you done with your hair, Peter?"

Peter burst out laughing, and the silent spell was broken. Everyone started talking at once, closing in on her and exchanging greetings.

Anticipation and tension were building apace, but Whitney restrained the urge to turn and look for Paul as the minutes ticked past and she continued making the same mechanical responses, over and over again. Yes, she had enjoyed Paris. Yes, her Uncle Edward Gilbert was well. Yes, she would be pleased to attend this card party or that dinner party.

Peter was still beside her a quarter of an hour later while Whitney was speaking with the apothecary's wife. From her left, where all the local girls and their husbands were standing, Whitney heard Margaret Merryton's familiar, malicious laugh. "I heard she made a spectacle of herself in Paris and is all but shunned from polite society there," Margaret was telling them.

Peter heard her too, and he grinned at Whitney. "It's time to face Miss Merryton. You can't avoid her forever. And anyway, she's with someone you haven't met yet."

At Peter's urging, Whitney reluctantly turned to face her childhood foe.

Margaret Merryton was standing with her hand resting possessively on Clayton Westland's claret-colored sleeve. This afternoon, Whitney would have sworn that nothing, nothing could make her dislike Clayton Westland more than she did, but seeing him with Margaret, knowing he was listening to her vituperative comments, turned Whitney's initial dislike into genuine loathing.

"We were all so disappointed that you weren't able to find a husband in Prance, Whitney," Margaret said with silken malice.

Whitney looked at her with cool disdain. "Margaret, every time you open your mouth, I always expect to hear a rattle." Then she picked up her skirts, intending to turn and speak to Emily, but Peter caught her elbow. "Whitney," he said, "allow me to introduce Mr. Westland to you. He has leased the Hodges place and is just back from France."

Still stinging from Margaret's cruel remarks, Whitney jumped to the conclusion that if Clayton Westland had just returned from France, he must be the one who had provided Margaret with the lie that Whitney was an outcast there. "How do you like living in the country, Mr. Westland?" she inquired in a voice of bored indifference.

"Most of the people have been very friendly," he said meaningfully.

"I'm certain they have." Whitney could almost feel his eyes disrobing her as they had at the stream. "Perhaps one of them will even be 'friendly' enough to show you the boundary of your property, so that you don't embarrass yourself by trespassing on ours, as you did earlier today."

A stunned silence fell over the group; the amusement vanished from Clayton Westland's expression. "Miss Stone," he said in a voice of strained patience, "we seem to have gotten off on a rather bad foot." Inclining his head toward the dance floor, he said, "Perhaps if you will do me the honor of dancing…"

If he said anything more, Whitney didn't hear it, because directly behind her and very close to her ear an achingly familiar, deep voice said, "I beg your pardon, I was told Whitney Stone was to be here tonight, but I don't recognize her." His hand touched her elbow, and Whitney's pulse went wild as she let Paul slowly turn her around to face him.

She lifted her eyes and gazed up into the bluest ones this side of heaven. Unconsciously, she extended both her hands, feeling them clasped firmly in Paul's strong, warm ones. In the last four years, she had rehearsed dozens of clever things to say when this moment finally arrived; but looking up at his beloved, handsome face, all she could say was, "Hello, Paul." A slow, appreciative smile worked its way across his face as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. "Dance with me," he said simply.

Trembling inside, Whitney stepped into Paul's arms and felt his hand glide around her waist, gathering her closer. Beneath her fingertips, his beautiful dark blue jacket seemed to be a living thing that her fingers ached to slide over and caress. She knew that now was the time to be the poised, light-hearted female she'd been in Paris, but her thoughts were jumbled and erratic, as if part of her was fifteen years old again. All she wanted to say was, "I love you. I have always loved you. Now do you want me? Have I changed enough for you to want me?" "Did you miss me?" Paul asked.

Warning bells went off in Whitney's head as she heard the thread of confidence in his tone. Instinctively, she gave him a provocative sidewise smile. "I missed you desperately!" she declared with enough extra emphasis to make it seem a gross exaggeration.

"How 'desperately'?" Paul persisted, his grin widening.

"I was utterly desolate," Whitney teased, knowing full well that Emily had regaled him with stories of her popularity in Paris. "In fact, I nearly wasted away in loneliness for you."

"Liar." He chuckled, his hand on her waist tightening possessively. "That's not what I heard this morning. Did you, or did you not, tell some French nobleman that if you were as impressed with his title as you were with his conceit, you'd be tempted to accept his offer?"

Whitney nodded slowly, her tips twitching with laughter. "I did."

"May I ask what his offer was?" Paul said.

"No, you may not."

"Should I call him out?"

Whitney felt as if she was dancing on air. Should he call him out? Paul was flirting with her, actually fluting with her!

"How is Elizabeth?" Before the words were past her lips, she cursed herself in French and English. And when she saw the satisfied smile sweeping across Paul's face, she felt like stamping her foot in self-disgust.

"I'll find her and bring her over, so you can see for yourself," Paul offered, the knowing smile lingering in his eyes as the musk wound to a close.

Whitney was still trying to recover from the humiliation of her hideous blunder when she realized that Paul was guiding her directly toward Clayton Westland's group. Until that moment, she'd entirely forgotten that she'd turned her back on him when he was asking her to dance, and had strolled off with Paul.

"I believe I stole Miss Stone away when you were about to request a dance, Clayton," Paul said.

Considering her earlier rudeness, Whitney couldn't see any way to avoid dancing with her loathsome neighbor now. She waited for Clayton to repeat the invitation, but he did nothing of the sort. With everyone witnessing her chagrin, Clayton let her stand there until she flushed with angry embarrassment. Then he offered his arm and said in a bored, unenthusiastic voice, "Miss Stone?"

"No, thank you," Whitney said coldly. "I don't care to dance, Mr. Westland." Turning on her heel she walked off toward the opposite end of the room, putting as much space as possible between herself and that boorish clod, and joined a group of people that included Aunt Anne. She had been standing there for perhaps five minutes when her father appeared at her elbow and drew her away. "There is someone I want you to meet," he said with gruff determination.

Despite his tone, Whitney could tell that he was very proud of her tonight, and she accompanied him gladly as he skirted around the perimeter of the ballroom . . . until she realized where he was taking her. Directly ahead, Clayton Westland was engaged in laughing conversation with Emily and her husband. Margaret Merryton still clung to his arm.

"Father, please!" Whitney whispered urgently, drawing back. "I don't like him."

"Don't be absurd!" he snapped irritably, forcibly pulling her the rest of the way. "Here she is," he told Clayton Westland in a booming, jovial voice. He turned to Whitney and said, as if she were nine years old, "Make your curtsy and say 'how do' to our friend and neighbor, Mr. Clayton Westland."

"We've already met," Clayton said drily.

"We've met," Whitney echoed weakly. Her cheeks burned as she endured Clayton's mocking gaze. If he said or did anything to embarrass her in front of her father, Whitney thought she would murder him. For the first time in her life, her father was seeing her as an accepted, and acceptable, human being, and he was proud of her.

"Well good. Good," her father said, looking expectantly from Whitney to Clayton. "Then why don't you two dance? That's what this music is for-"

The reason they weren't going to dance, Whitney instantly realized, was because it was obvious from Clayton's aloof expression that he wouldn't ask her to dance again if someone held a gun to his head. Feeling lower than an insect, Whitney made herself look imploringly at him, and then at the dance floor, in an unmistakable invitation to him.

His brows arched in ironic amusement. For one hideous moment, Whitney thought he intended to ignore her invitation, but he shrugged instead and, without so much as offering her his arm, he strolled toward the dance floor, leaving her to follow or remain standing there.

Whitney followed him, but she loathed him every single step of the way for making her do it. Trailing along in his wake, she stared daggers at the back of his wine-colored jacket, but until he turned toward her, she didn't realize that he was laughing-actually laughing at her mortification!

Whitney stepped toward him, then right past him, fully intending to leave him standing there in the middle of the dancers.

His hand shot out and captured her elbow. "Don't you dare!" he growled, laughing as he drew her around to face him for the waltz.

"It was excessively kind of you to ask me to dance," Whitney remarked sarcastically as she stepped reluctantly into his arms.

"Wasn't that what you wanted me to do?" he asked with mock innocence, and before she could answer, he added, "If I had only realized that you prefer to do the asking, I'd not have wasted my other two attempts."

"Of all the conceited, rude-" Whitney caught her father's anxious stare and smiled brilliantly at him, to show what a marvellous time she was having. The moment he looked away, she glared murderously at her dancing partner and continued, "-unspeakable, insufferable-" Clayton West-land's shoulders began to rock with laughter, and Whitney choked on her ire.

"Go on," he urged with a broad grin. "I haven't had such a trimming since I was a small boy. Now, where were you? I am 'unspeakable, insufferable'-?"

"Outrageously bold," Whitney provided furiously, and then for want of anything better, "-and ungentlemanly!"

"Now that puts me in a very difficult position," he mocked lightly. "Because you've left me no alternative except to defend myself by pointing out that your behavior to me tonight has been anything but ladylike."

"Smile, please. My father is watching us," Whitney warned, forcing her mouth into a smile.

Clayton complied immediately. His teeth flashed white in a lazy grin, but his gaze dipped lingeringly to her soft tips.

The focal point of his gaze did not escape Whitney, who stiffened in his arms. "Mr. Westland, I think this brief, unpleasant encounter has gone on long enough!"

She jerked back, but his arm tightened sharply, preventing her from puffing free. "I haven't any intention of either of us becoming a spectacle, little one," he warned. Since Whitney had no choice except to move where he led her, she ignored his improper endearment, shrugged, and looked away. "Lovely evening, isn't it?" he drawled, and then in a stage whisper, he added. "Your father is watching us again."

"It was a lovely evening," Whitney retorted. She waited for Clayton's rejoinder and when, after several seconds, there was none, she glanced uncertainly at him. He was watching her intently, but without a trace of rancor over her jibe. Suddenly Whitney felt foolish and bad-tempered. True, he had behaved outrageously this afternoon at the stream but, considering the things she had done and said to him tonight, she had not behaved any better. A rueful smile tit her eyes to glowing jade as she looked at him. "I think it is your turn to be rude to me now," she offered fairly. "Or have I lost count?"

His eyes smiled his approval at her sudden change of attitude. "I think we're about even," he said quietly.

Something about his deep voice and gray eyes, about the effortless ease with which he danced the waltz, stirred the ashes of some vague memory. Forgetting that his eyes were locked to hers, Whitney gazed at him, trying to grasp what was niggling at the back of her mind. "Mr. Westland, have we ever met before?"

"If we had, I hate to think that you could forget it."

"I'm certain that if we had, I would remember," Whitney said politely, and dismissed the idea.

True to his promise, Paul brought Elizabeth over when Clayton and Whitney strolled off the dance floor. Elizabeth Ashton, Whitney thought despairingly, looked like a beautiful, fragile china doll. She was wrapped in a gown of ice-blue satin that complemented the pink of her cheeks and the shining gold of her curls, and her voice was soft with amazed admiration as she said, "1 can't believe it's you, Whitney."

There was the implication, of course, that Whitney had been so unpresentable before that Elizabeth couldn't believe the change, but watching her stroll away on Clayton's arm, Whitney didn't think Elizabeth had meant to be insulting.

Since Elizabeth was dancing with Clayton Westland, Whitney waited, hoping that Paul would ask her to dance again. Instead he frowned and said abruptly, "Is it the custom in Paris for a man and woman who have just been introduced to gaze into one another's eyes while they dance?"

Whitney looked at him in startled surprise. "I-I wasn't gazing into Mr. Westland's eyes. It was just that he seemed familiar to me, and yet, I don't know him at all. Hasn't that ever happened to you?"

"It happened to me tonight," Paul said curtly. "I thought you were someone I knew. Now I'm not certain I know you at all." He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Whitney staring after him. In the old days, Whitney would have run after him to reassure him that it was him she wanted, only nun, and not Clayton Westland. But these weren't the old days and she was much wiser, so she smiled to herself and turned in the opposite direction.

Even though Paul never approached her again, she was perfectly happy to dance the night away with the local swains. Given a choice between an overconfident Paul and an aloof, jealous one, Whitney definitely preferred the latter. Lady Eubank was right, Whitney decided. Competition was what Paul needed.

It was nearly noon when Whitney awoke the following day. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, positively certain that Paul would come to call.

Paul didn't come, but several of her other neighbors did, and she spent the afternoon trying to be charming and gay while her spirits sank along with the setting sun.

When she went to bed that night she told herself that Paul would surely come tomorrow. But tomorrow came and went without a sign of him.

It was not until the day after, that Whitney saw nun, and then it was purely by chance. She and Emily were riding back from the village, their horses kicking up little puffs of dust as they walked along the road. "Did you know that Mr. West-tend was called away to London the day after your party?" Emily asked.

"My father said something about it," Whitney said, her mind on Paul "I think he is expected back tomorrow. Why?"

"Because Margaret's mama told mine that Margaret has been counting the hours until he returns. Apparently, Margaret's affections are absolutely fixed on him and-" Emily stopped talking and squinted down the road. "Unless I mistake my eyes," she said with a teasing glance at Whitney, "we are about to encounter your prey."

Leaning forward, Whitney made out an elegant phaeton tearing along at a spanking pace in their direction. There was scarcely time for her to smooth the skirt of her riding habit before Paul was upon them. He pulled up, greeted Whitney politely, and then devoted his complete attention to Emily, flattering her with teasing gallantries until she laughingly ordered him to desist because she was now a married woman.

Khan had taken an instant aversion to Paul's showy black horse, and Whitney listened to their conversation while trying to keep Khan under control. "Are you going to Lady Eubank's affair tomorrow?" she heard him ask. When there was a lengthening moment of silence, she looked up to find Paul's attention on her.

"Are you going to Lady Eubank's affair tomorrow?" he repeated.

Whitney nodded, her heart doubling its tempo.

"Fine. I'll see you there." Without another word, he flicked the reins, and the phaeton bowled off down the road. Emily turned, watching the vehicle until it vanished from view. "If that wasn't the most extraordinary encounter I have ever had in my Me, I can't imagine what was!" she said. A slow smile dawned across her features as she looked at Whitney. "Paul Sevarin just went to great pains to completely ignore you. Whitney!" she said excitedly, "doesn't that strike you as rather odd?"

"Not at all," Whitney said with a disheartened sigh. "If you remember, Paul always used to ignore me."

"Yes, I know." Emily said, laughing softly. "But back then, he wasn't watching you the entire time he did it. The whole time he was talking to me just now, he was watching you. And at your party the other night, he watched you constantly when you weren't looking."

Whitney jerked Khan to a halt. "Did he truly? Are you certain?"

"Of course I'm certain, silly, I was watching him, watching you."

"Oh, Emily," Whitney laughed shakily. "I wish you didn't have to go back to London next week. When you're gone, who will tell me the things I want to hear?"