Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  Whitney realized he was withdrawing his invitation, and she instantly decided the man was as arrogant and perverse as she'd first thought. "None of my dances are bespoken," she floored him by candidly admitting. "You see, you are the first gentleman I've met in Paris."

  Her deliberate emphasis on the word "gentleman" did not escape Nicki, who suddenly threw back his head and laughed.

  "Here is the bracelet," Lady Gilbert said, hurrying into the room. "And Nicolas, please remind Therese that the clasp is broken."

  Nicki took the bracelet and left. He climbed into his carriage, instructed his groom to drive him round to his mother's, then relaxed back against the leather cushions. They drove past a park whose winding paths bloomed extravagantly with spring flowers. Two pretty females of his acquaintance lifted pastel-gloved hands at him in greeting, but Nicki scarcely glanced at the Gainsborough-like scene. His thoughts were occupied with the young English girl he had just met.

  Try as he might, he couldn't understand how Whitney Stone and his addlepated chatterbox of a sister had become such boon companions, for they were as dissimilar as lemonade and heady French wine. Therese was a pretty thing, sweet as lemonade, but she had no hidden depths to interest a man.

  Whitney Stone, on the other hand, was a veritable treasure of contrasts, sparkling like rich, red burgundy with the promise of hidden and tantalizing things to come. For a seventeen-year-old, she had borne his mocking disdain with remarkable composure. Given a few years, Nicolas decided, she would be fascinating. A chuckle welled up in his chest as he recalled how adroitly she'd retaliated for his remark about the etiquette book, by offering to tend it to him.

  It would be a pity, he decided, for such a rare jewel as she to be relegated to obscurity at the crowded debutante ball tomorrow night, merely because she was a stranger to France.

  Gorgeous tapestries adorned one side of the gigantic ballroom, and the opposite wall was mirrored to reflect the light from the thousands of candles in the glittering chandeliers overhead. Catching sight of her reflection in one of the mirrors, Whitney nervously studied her appearance. Her white silken ball gown was trimmed with broad scallops caught up and held in place with pink silk roses which matched the ones entwined in the heavy curls at her crown. She looked, she decided, a great deal calmer than she felt.

  "Everything is going to be wonderful, you'll see," whispered Aunt Anne.

  Whitney did not think everything was going to be wonderful at all. She knew she couldn't possibly hope to compete with the dazzling blondes and redheads, the demure little brunettes, who were laughing and talking easily with smiling young men garbed in black, but with brightly colored waistcoats of silks and satin. Whitney told herself she didn't care a pin about anything as foolish as a silly ball, but she knew it wasn't true. She cared very much.

  Therese and her mama arrived only seconds before the musicians raised their instruments for the first dance. "I have the most splendid news," Therese whispered breathlessly, looking like a confection in her white lace gown with her cheeks pink and her shining blond hair elegantly curled atop her head. "My maid is cousin to Nicki's valet and he told her that Nicki is coming tonight. And he is bringing three of his friends as well-he bet them five-hundred francs against two hours of their time tonight on a roll of the dice, and they lost, so they have to come and dance with you . . ." She broke off with an apologetic shrug to Whitney and bestowed a charming curtsy upon the young man who had come to ask her for a dance.

  Whitney's mind was still reeling with embarrassment over this news when the musicians struck the first note of music, and the debutantes were escorted onto the dance floor by their respective partners. Not all the debutantes-Whitney felt her color deepen as she looked helplessly at Aunt Anne. She had known when she came tonight that she might not be asked to dance at first, but she hadn't expected to feel so wretchedly conspicuous at being left standing there with her aunt and Madame DuVille. The feeling was painfully familiar -it was as if she were back home in England where invitations to neighborhood functions were infrequent and, if she went, she was either treated with derision or ignored.

  Therese danced the second and third dances, but Whitney was not asked for either. When it was time for the fourth one, the humiliation of being passed over again was more than she could bear. Leaning toward Aunt Anne, Whitney started to ask if she could go somewhere to freshen up, but there was a commotion at the entrance and she curiously followed the gazes of the other guests.

  Nicolas DuVille and three other gentlemen were standing beneath the arched portico at the entrance to the ballroom. Carelessly at ease in their elegant dark formal wear, and serenely indifferent to the wild attention they were receiving, they surveyed the crowd. In frozen apprehension, Whitney watched as Nicolas DuVille's gaze swept the staring masses of giggling debutantes and young dandies. When at last he saw Whitney, he inclined his head slightly in greeting, and the foursome started forward.

  Whitney pressed back against the wall, childishly tempted to try to squeeze herself between it and Aunt Anne. She didn't want to risk another confrontation with Nicolas DuVille. Yesterday she'd been too surprised to feel intimidated by him; tonight what pride and self-confidence she possessed were already in tatters, and to add to her discomfort, she was acutely aware of how elegantly urbane and handsome Nicolas looked in his Mack evening attire.

  She watched the men threading their way through the watchful crowd, coming right toward her, and even in her state of paralyzed horror, Whitney recognized the sharp contrast between Nicolas DuVille's group and the other gentlemen in the room. He and his party were not only several years older than most of the young men paving lavish court to even younger girls, there was also an aura of smooth sophistication about them that further set them apart.

  Madame DuVille laughed with delighted surprise as her son greeted her. "Nicki, I could not be more astonished if the devil himself strolled in!"

  "Why thank you, Mama," he murmured drily, making her a brief bow. Abruptly, he turned to Whitney and grinned as he took her cold hand in his. Raising it to his lips for a formal kiss, he said with an infuriating chuckle, "Stop looking so astounded to find yourself the object of my attention, Mademoiselle. You should act as if this is nothing more than you expect."

  Whitney stared at him wide-eyed, not certain whether she was insulted or grateful for his unsolicited advice.

  He raised an ironic eyebrow, as if he knew what she was thinking, then he turned and introduced his three companions to her.

  The musk began and without asking, Nicki simply took her hand, placed it on his arm, and escorted her onto the dance floor. He guided her effortlessly through the swirling waltz, while Whitney concentrated on following the steps she had learned from her dancing instructor.

  "Mademoiselle." Nicki's deep voice vibrated with humor. "If you will look up at me, you will find that I am gazing down at you in what our bewildered audience sees as a warm and admiring manner. However, if you continue to memorize the folds in my neckcloth, I am going to stop looking besotted and begin looking quite weary and bored. If I do, instead of being launched into society tonight, you will remain a wallflower. Now, look up at me and smile."

  "A wallflower!" Whitney burst out, her gaze flying to his. She saw the humor in his eyes, and her indignation dissolved. "I feel so conspicuous," she admitted. "Everyone in this room seems to be watching us and …"

  "They are not watching us," he contradicted with a tolerant chuckle. "They are watching me, and trying to decide if you are what has lured me to this dull assembly of virtuous innocents-"

  "-And away from your usual pursuit of vice and depravity?" Whitney teased, while a slow, unconsciously provocative smile dawned across her vivid features.

  "Exactly," Nicki agreed with a grin.

  "In that case," she mused in a laughter-tinged voice, "won't this waltz ruin my reputation before I even have one?"

  "No, but it may ruin mine." Nicki saw her shocked look and said lightly, "It is not at all i
n my style to appear at debutante balls, Mademoiselle, And for me to be seen like this, actually enjoying myself dancing with an impertinent chit of your tender years, is unheard of."

  Whitney pulled her gaze from Nicolas DuVille's ruggedly chiseled face and glanced around at the young dandies in their bright satin waistcoats. They were staring at Nicki in open irritation, and no wonder! Nicki's impeccably tailored midnight Mack attire, his air of smooth urbanity, made them all seem somewhat overdressed and rather callow.

  "Are they still staring?" Nicki teased.

  Whitney bit her lip, trying to hold back the laughter that was already sparkling in her eyes as she looked up into Us handsome face. "Yes, but I can't really blame them-you an rather like a hawk in a room full of canaries."

  A slow, admiring smile swept across his features. "I am indeed," he breathed softly. And then he said, "You have an enchanting smile, cherie."

  Whitney was thinking that he was the one possessed of a wonderful smile, when it vanished behind a dark frown. "Is-is something wrong?" she asked.

  "Yes," he replied bluntly. "Do not let a man you aren't betrothed to call you 'cherie.'"

  "I will stare them out of countenance if they dare!" Whitney promptly promised.

  "Much better," he applauded, and then boldly, "… cherie."

  At the conclusion of the waltz, he guided her back to her aunt, keeping his head bent toward her as if he were positively hanging on her every word. He waited there, rarely taking his eyes off of her as she danced in turn with each of his three friends.

  Whitney felt a little giddy and reckless and wonderful. Already there were a gratifying number of gentlemen asking for introductions to her. She knew it was because of the extravagant and unprecedented attention she was receiving from Nicolas DuVille and his friends, but she was too relieved and grateful to care.

  Claude Delacroix, a handsome, fair-haired man who had come with Nicolas, instantly discovered that Whitney loved horses, and the two of them had a thoroughly enjoyable disagreement about the merits of one breed over another. He even asked if she would care to go for a drive with him one day soon, which was certainly not at Nicki's prompting.

  Whitney felt very pleased and flattered, and she was smiling as he returned her to her aunt.

  Nicki, however, was not pleased, nor was he smiling, when he immediately claimed her for the next dance. "Claude Delacroix," he informed her curtly as his arm encircled her, "is from a fine old family. He is an outstanding whip, an excellent gambler, and a good friend. He is not, however, a suitable companion for you, nor should you think of him as a possible suitor. In matters of the heart, Claude is an expert, but he loses interest very quickly, and then …"

  "He breaks the lady's heart?" Whitney guessed with mock solemnity.

  "Exactly," Nick said severely.

  Whitney knew her heart already belonged to Paul, and so it was not in any danger. With a soft smile, she said, "I shall guard my heart with great care."

  Nicki's gaze lingered on her soft, inviting lips, then lifted to her glowing jade eyes. "Perhaps," he breathed with a tinge of self-mockery that Whitney couldn't understand, "I ought to warn Claude to guard his heart. If you were older, Mademoiselle, I think I would."

  When Nicki returned her to her aunt, there were more than a dozen gentlemen, all eager for a dance with her and waiting to claim it. Nicki detained her with a hand on her arm, and nodded toward the young man at the end of the line. "Andre Rousseau," he said, "would make an excellent husband for you."

  Whitney gave him a look of laughing exasperation. "You really shouldn't say things like that."

  "I know." He grinned. "Now, am I forgiven for my rudeness yesterday?"

  Whitney nodded happily. "I would say that I have just been 'launched' as beautifully as one of England's ships."

  Nicki's smile was filled with warmth as he raised her fingers to his lips. "Bon voyage, cherie," he said.

  And then he was gone.

  Whitney was still thinking about the night before and smiling softly to herself as she descended the stairs the following morning, intending to ride her uncle's spirited mare. Masculine voices drifted into the hallway from the drawing room, and as Whitney started to walk past, Aunt Anne appeared in the doorway, her face wreathed in a smile. "I was just coming up to get you," she whispered. "You have callers."

  "Callers?" Whitney repeated, panicking. It was one thing to mouth the usual prescribed platitudes during the dancing last night, another thing entirely to charm and interest these gentlemen who had now exerted themselves to pay a morning call on her. "Whatever shall I say to them?" Whitney begged. "What shall I do?"

  "Do?" Anne smiled, stepping aside and firmly placing her hand against the small of Whitney's back. "Why, be yourself, darling."

  Hesitantly, Whitney entered the room. "I was about to ride-in the park," she explained to her callers-three of the gentlemen she had danced with last night. The three young men leapt to their feet, each one thrusting a bouquet of flowers toward her. Whitney's gaze slid to the bouquets they were holding, and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "It appears that the three of you have just come from there."

  They blinked at her as it registered on each of them that she was teasing them about having purloined the flowers from the park beds. And then-surprise of surprises-they were smiling at her and arguing good-naturedly over who was to have the honor of accompanying her to the park.

  In the true spirit of fairness, Whitney happily permitted all of them to accompany her.

  That year Miss Stone was proclaimed "an Original." At a time when young ladies were models of dainty fragility and blushing coquetry, Whitney was impulsive and gay. While other young ladies her age were demure, Whitney was clever and direct.

  During the following year, Anne watched as nature collaborated with time, and Whitney's youthful face fulfilled all its former promise of vivid beauty. Sooty black lashes fringed incredibly expressive eyes which changed from sea-green to deep jade beneath the graceful arch of her dark brows. Burnished mahogany tresses framed an exquisitely sculpted face with a softly generous mouth and skin as smooth as cream satin. Her figure was still slim, but ripened now, with tantalizing carves and graceful hollows. That was the year she was proclaimed "an Incomparable."

  Gentlemen told her that she was "ravishingly beautiful" and "enchantingly lovely" and that she haunted their dreams. Whitney listened to their lavish compliments and passionate pledges of undying devotion with a smile that was part amused disbelief and part genuine gratitude for their kindness.

  She reminded Anne of an elusive tropical bird, surprised , and delighted by her own appeal, who landed tentatively and then, when one of her suitors reached out to capture her, flew away.

  She was beautiful, but gentlemen left the sides of equally beautiful young women to cluster around her, beckoned by the gaiety that seemed to surround her and the easy playfulness of her manners.

  By the beginning of her third year "out" in society, Whitney had become a challenge to more worldly, sophisticated men who sought to win her merely to prove that they could succeed where others had failed-only to find themselves rather unexpectedly in love with a young woman who hadn't the slightest inclination to reciprocate their feelings. Everyone knew she would soon have to marry; after all, she was already nineteen years old. Even Lord Gilbert was becoming concerned, but when he observed to his wife that Whitney was being excessively fussy, Anne only smiled.

  Because it seemed to her that Whitney had lately developed a decided partiality for Nicolas DuVille.

  Chapter Five

  FOR THE THIRD TIME IN TEN MINUTES, WHTTNEY REALIZED THAT she had again lost track of the conversation, and she glanced guiltily at the girls who were paying a morning call on her. Fortunately, they were all enraptured with Therese's enthusiastic description of her new life as a married woman and seemed not to notice Whitney's wandering attention.

  Nervously, Whitney fingered the letter from Emily which had just been handed to her, won
dering as she always did, if this was going to be the letter that brought the dreaded news that Paul had chosen a wife. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she opened it, and her heart doubled its already rapid pace as she began to read:

  "Dearest Whitney," Emily wrote in her neat, precise hand, "henceforth, I shall expect you to address me as 'Lady Emily, Baroness Archibald, the Happiest Woman Alive.' I shall expect you to bow and scrape and mince about when next we meet, so that I will truly believe this has happened." The next two pages were filled with wondrous praise of Emily's new husband and details of the marriage which had been performed by special license. "What you said about France is also true of England," Emily said. "No matter how grotesque he is, if a gentleman has a tide, he is considered a great matrimonial prize, but I promise when you meet him, you will agree that my husband would be wonderful without any title."

  Whitney smiled, knowing that Emily would never have married her baron unless she loved him. "Enough about me," she continued, "I have something else to tell you which I forgot to mention in my last letter. Six of us from home were all at a rout party in London, where our hostess introduced a gentleman who at once took the ladies' fancy. And no wonder, for he was very handsome and tall, and from a distinguished French family. Whitney, it was M. Nicolas DuVille! I was quite certain he was the same gentleman you mention in your letters, and I asked M. DuVille if he was acquainted with you. When he said that he was, Margaret Merryton and the other girls flocked around him to try to offer their 'sympathy.'

  "How you would have laughed, for after giving them a look that should have turned them to stone, M. DuVille quite flayed them alive with tales of all your suitors and conquests in Paris. He even implied that he was rather taken with you himself, which made the girls absolutely livid with jealousy. Is what he said true? And why haven't you told me that 'Paris is in the palm of your hand'?"

  Whitney smiled. Although Nicki had mentioned meeting Emily in London, he had never mentioned meeting Whitney's childhood arch foe, Margaret Merryton, or the other girls. The pleasure she felt at his defense of her vanished, however, when she considered the possibility that Nicki might truly want to be something more than just her friend. For nearly three years, he had merely been a handsome vision who appeared without warning at her side to claim her for a dance or tease her about one of her many suitors. Then he would vanish with some dazzling female clinging possessively to his arm.