But a few months ago that had suddenly changed. They had met each other at the theatre and Nicki had unexpectedly invited her to an opera. Now he escorted her everywhere, to balls and routs, musicales and plays. Of all the men she knew,
Nicolas DuVille was the one Whitney most enjoyed being with, but she couldn't bear the thought that he might actually have serious intentions toward her.
Whitney stared blindly at the letter, her eyes cloudy and sad. If Nicki were to offer for her, and she were to decline (which she would), she would be jeopardizing her friendship with Therese, her aunt and uncle's friendship with the senior DuVilles, and her own friendship with Nicki, which meant a great deal to her.
She forced her attention back to Emily's letter. At the end of it was news of Paul. "Elizabeth is in London for the season, and when she returns home, everyone is expecting Paul to offer for her, since her parents now feel it is past time for her to marry."
Whitney, who had been bursting with joy for Emily's wonderful news, now felt like crying her heart out. After all her practicing, all of her planning, she was at last ready to win Paul's love, but her father was keeping her in France, ignoring her pleas to come home.
As soon as she had ushered her friends from the house, Whitney went to her room to write to him. This time, she would send her father a letter he couldn't just ignore as he had her others. She wanted to go home-had to go home- and she had to do it at once. After considerable thought, she composed a letter to him, this time appealing to his wounded pride and dignity, by telling him how she longed to come home and prove to him that he could be proud of her now. She finished by telling him how dreadfully she missed him. Then she wrote to Emily.
When she brought the letters downstairs to have them sent off, she was informed by a footman that Monsieur DuVille had just arrived and wished to see her immediately. Puzzled by this imperative command from Nicki, Whitney went down the hall to her uncle's study. "Hello, Nicki. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"
He turned. "Is it?" he replied tersely, and there was no mistaking the rigid set of his shoulders or the taut line of his jaw.
"Well, yes. Sunny and warm, I mean."
"Just exactly what possessed you to engage in a public horse race?" he snapped, ignoring the polite amenities.
"It was not a public horse race," Whitney said, amazed by his vehemence.
"No? Then perhaps you will explain how it appeared in the paper today."
"I don't know," Whitney sighed. "I imagine that someone told someone who told someone else. That's the way it usually happens. Anyway," she finished with a pretty toss of her head, "I won, you know. I actually beat Baron Von Ault."
Nicki's voice rang with authority. "I will not permit you to do a thing like that again!" He saw her stiffen in angry confusion and drew a long breath. "I apologize for my tone, cherie. I will see you at the Armands' masquerade this evening, unless you will change your mind and permit me to escort you?"
Whitney smiled her acceptance of his apology, but shook her head at the suggestion of his escorting her to the Armands'. "I think it's best if I go with my aunt and uncle and meet you there. The other ladies already resent me for monopolizing so much of your attention lately, Nicki."
Momentarily, Nicki cursed himself for allowing her to get under his skin, when for nearly three years his own good judgment had warned him away. And then, four months ago, after an exceedingly disagreeable evening with a lady who had once amused him and now bored him with her clinging ways, Nicki had encountered Whitney at the theatre and impulsively asked her to accompany him to an opera.
By the end of the evening, he was utterly captivated by her. She was an intoxicating combination of beauty and humor, of exhilarating intelligence and disarming common sense. And she was as elusive as hell!
He looked at her now. Her sensuous mouth was curved into an affectionate smile of the sort one bestows on a loved brother, not one's future husband, and it irritated Nicki into action.
Before Whitney could guess his intent, his hands caught her upper arms, pulling her against the length of his hard frame as his mouth began a purposeful descent. "Nicki, don't! I-" Instantly his mouth silenced her startled protest, his lips moving sensuously, tasting and courting hers. In the past, only clumsy, overzealous suitors had tried to kiss her, and Whitney had easily put them off, but Nicki's arousing kiss was awakening a response in her that amazed and alarmed her. She managed to remain perfectly still and unresponsive, but the moment his arms loosened, she stepped back quickly. "I suppose," she said with false calm, "that I ought to slap your face for that."
She looked so coolly unaffected that Nicki, who had been unexpectedly shaken by the feel of her soft mouth beneath his, and the pressure of her breasts against his chest, was furious. "Slap my face?" he repeated sarcastically. "Why should you? I can't believe that I'm the first, or even the hundredth, man to steal a kiss from you."
"Really?" Whitney flung back, stung to the quick by his intimation that she would play fast and loose. "Well, I've obviously just had the honor of being your first!" The words weren't past her lips before Whitney saw the rigid anger in his expression and realized that she'd made a serious tactical error in insulting his masculinity. "Nicki-" she whispered in warning, cautiously stepping backward and out of his reach. Nicki advanced on her. She scooted behind her uncle's desk, facing him across it, her hands braced on the top. Each time Whitney moved one way, Nicki countered. They stood, two combatants separated by Uncle Edward's desk, each waiting for the other to make a move. Suddenly, the childish absurdity of the situation struck Whitney, and she began to laugh. "'Nicki, have you the faintest idea what you're going to do if you catch me?"
Nicki had an excellent idea what he would like to do if he caught her, but he also appreciated the foolishness of the scene. He straightened, and the mask of anger fell away.
"Come out from behind the desk," he chuckled. "I give you my word I shall behave as a gentleman."
Scanning his face, Whitney assured herself that he meant ft, then obediently did as he bade her. Linking her hand through his arm, she escorted him to the door. "I'll see you tonight at the masquerade," she promised.
Chapter Six
LORD EDWARD GILBERT STOOD BEFORE THE DRAWING ROOM minor, his eyes wide with shock and repugnance as he stared at himself in the scaly green crocodile costume his wife had chosen for him to wear to the Armands' masquerade.
His revolted gaze slid from the top of his grotesque head with its fierce jaws open wide, ready to snap, down to his claw-like reptilian feet, then along the thick tail dragging the floor behind him. Precisely at the center of what should have been the crocodile's sleek green body, Edward's stomach swelled majestically. Turning his back to the mirror, he looked over his shoulder and experimentally rotated his hips, watching in morbid fascination as his tail undulated behind him. "Obscene!" he snorted in disgust.
Lady Anne and Whitney came into the room at that moment, and Edward turned on his wife. "God's armpits!" he exploded, jerking off his headpiece and waving it angrily at her as he waddled across the room, his tail dragging behind him. "How am I ever going to have a cigar wearing this, may I ask?"
Lady Anne smiled unperturbably as she surveyed him in the costume she had chosen without consulting him. "I couldn't get your favorite Henry the Eighth costume, and I was perfectly sure you wouldn't care for the elephant costume-"
"Elephant!" Edward repeated bitterly, glowering at her. "I'm surprised you didn't purchase that getup for me. You could have had me crawling about on all fours, waving my trunk and stabbing people in the rump with my tusks! Madam, I have a reputation to maintain, a dignity-"
"Hush, dear," she remonstrated affectionately. "What will Whitney think-"
"I'll tell you what she'll think-she'll think I look like an ass. Everyone will think I look like an ass!" He turned his head toward Whitney. "Go ahead, my dear, tell your aunt I look like an ass!"
Whitney regarded him with laughing fondness. "Your costume is very cl
ever and original, Uncle Edward," she said diplomatically, then she sidetracked him completely by mentioning the name of a lifelong rival. "I did hear, though, that Herbert Granville is coming as a horse."
"No, really?" Lord Gilbert said, instantly amused. "Which end?"
Her eyes twinkled at him. "I forgot to ask."
He chuckled, then said, "Let me guess who you are supposed to be." Whitney twirled around for his inspection. Her Grecian gown of filmy white silk was fastened at the left shoulder with an amethyst broach, leaving the other creamy shoulder tantalizingly bare. Its gossamer folds clung provocatively to her full breasts and narrow waist, then fell gracefully to the floor. The thick clusters of her shining hair were bound with vibrant buttercups and violets. "Venus," he decided.
Whitney shook her head. "Here-this clue will help." She swirled a purple satin mantle over her shoulders and waited expectantly.
"Venus," he declared again, more emphatically.
"No," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Actually, the dressmaker tried to improve on mythology. I'm supposed to be Prosperina, but she is always depicted in a simpler, girlish gown."
"Who?" Edward echoed.
"Prosperina, the goddess of spring," Whitney said. "Re-member, Uncle Edward? She is always shown with violets and buttercups in her hair, and wearing a purple mantle like this one?" When her uncle still looked confused, Whitney added, "Pluto carried her off to live in the underworld as his wife."
"Rotten thing for him to have done," Edward replied absently, "but I like your costume, my dear. Everyone will be so busy trying to figure out who you're supposed to be, they won't have time to wonder who the obese crocodile is." With that he offered his arm to Whitney, and the other to Anne, who was gowned as a medieval queen, complete with tall conical headdress and veil.
Waves of laughter surged across the Armands' overcrowded ballroom, drowning out the efforts of the musicians, then receding, leaving behind the persistent undertow of conversation. On the congested dance floor, extravagantly costumed guests struggled for space to dance to musk they could scarcely hear.
Standing on the sidelines, surrounded by her personal entourage of admirers, Whitney smiled serenely. She watched Nicki arrive, nod briefly to his mother, then begin making his way unerringly toward her, recognizing her despite her white demi-mask. He was coming from another party and was not wearing a costume. Whitney studied him with an inward smile; she admired everything about him, from the easy way he wore his elegant clothes to his sophisticated charm. For a fleeting moment, the memory of the way his mouth had felt as it moved over hers tingled through her.
When he was near, he flicked a level, impassive glance over the men standing around her, and they parted to make a place for him as if he had ordered them aside. Grinning wolfishly, he surveyed her Grecian gown, purple mantle, and the violets and buttercups twined in her glossy hair. He lifted her fingers to his lips and raised his voice in order to be heard over the din of conversation. "You are ravishing tonight, Venus."
"Amen!" agreed an enormous banana who was struggling to fight his way past Whitney's group.
"Ravissante!" declared a knight in armor, raising his visor and fixing Whitney with an appreciative leer.
Nicki passed a cold look over the two, and Whitney demurely raised her fan. But behind the silken slats, she was smiling widely. This was her world now, and she warmed with a feeling of security. In France, when she said something unusual, there were no snorts of disapproval or gasps of outrage. Instead, people said she was "witty" and "lively" and even quoted her. Surely when she went home to England it would be the same. She had made dreadful mistakes there as a girl. She knew better now, and she would not disgrace herself again.
Beside her, she felt Nicki's admiring gaze moving over her silk dress, but she did not bother to tell him that she wasn't costumed as Venus. No one at the entire ball seemed to have heard of any female from Greek mythology other than Venus, and the clue of her purple mantle and the violets and buttercups in her hair meant nothing to them. Long ago, she'd given up explaining.
She was in the process of deciding on whom to bestow the honor of fetching her more punch when Andre Rousseau, one of her most enduring admirers, noticed that her glass was empty. "But this cannot be permitted, Mademoiselle," he said dramatically. "I did not realize that your glass required attention. May I?" he said, extending his hand toward the offending glass.
Whitney surrendered it to him, and he bowed. "An honor, Mademoiselle." With a triumphant look at the other gentlemen, he departed in the direction of the gigantic crystal fountain which gurgled forth a ceaseless supply of punch.
Would Paul think it was an honor to fetch punch for her now? Whitney wondered dreamily. The idea of Paul Sevarin flushing with gratitude over being allowed to do an errand for her was so ludicrous that Whitney smiled. If only he could see her here, surrounded by suitors, courted and sought after.
Abruptly, Whitney jerked her thoughts from Paul back to reality as she realized that she had been inadvertently staring at a man across the room who was costumed entirely in black. Below his black half mask, the man's mouth lifted in a slow, amused smile, and he inclined his head to her in the merest mockery of a bow.
Hot with embarrassment over being caught staring, Whitney turned away so quickly that she nearly knocked the glass from Andres outstretched hand. "Your punch, Mademoiselle," he said, offering the glass to her as if he were presenting her with a handful of diamonds. As Whitney thanked him and took the glass, he glanced ruefully at his plum-colored satin waistcoat which was now stained with wet spots.
In answer to Whitney's sympathetic inquiry as to how he had gotten wet, Andre gravely recounted the dangers he'd faced in the quest for her punch. "It is most treacherous to make one's way through the crowd, Mademoiselle. In the short time I was away from your side, I was trod upon by an inebriated lion, shoved by the same banana who addressed you earlier, and tripped by the tail of a crocodile who cursed at me when I stumbled."
"I-I'm so sorry, Andre," Whitney commiserated, choking on a horrified giggle at the mention of the crocodile. "It must have been dreadful for you."
"It was nothing!" Andre contradicted dramatically, making it sound as if it had been something very great indeed. "For you, I would do anything. For you, no task could be too difficult. For you, I would cross the Channel on a raft, tear the heart from my chest. . ."
"Perhaps even attempt another trip to the punch fountain?" Whitney teased.
Solemnly, Andre declared that he would even do that.
Nicki regarded the younger man with a mixture of pity, amusement, and disgust. "Cherie," he said to Whitney, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and leading her toward the French doors that opened out onto the patio. "Either marry Andre, or else cut the poor devil's line. If you do not, he is bound to try something truly dangerous for you, like crossing the street."
"I suppose I ought to marry him," Whitney said with an audacious sidewise smile. "After all, you said yourself that he would make me a fine husband, that very first night when you came to the debutante ball and danced with me."
Nicki was silent until they were standing outside on the patio. "It would be a mistake for you to marry him, for Andre Rousseau's family and mine are old friends, and it would sorely strain that friendship if I were to kill their only son, merely to make you a widow."
Startled by the threatening words, Whitney snapped her head up, only to find that Nicki was grinning at her. "That really is too bad of you, Nicki. I like Andre, and I like you. We are all friends."
"Friends?" he repeated. "You and I are better than that, I would say."
"Well, good friends then," Whitney relented uncomfortably.
They remained outdoors, speaking to acquaintances who strolled past them on the patio, while Whitney tried to think of some way to restore her relationship with Nicki to the casually impersonal one they'd enjoyed until a few months ago. Suddenly he spoke and Whitney lurched with surprise at the topic. "At what
age is an Englishwoman expected to marry?"
"No later than five-and-thirty," Whitney lied promptly.
"Stop, I am serious."
"Very well," Whitney smiled, desperately trying to keep things light. "No later than five-and-twenty, then."
"It is time you think of marriage."
"I would much rather think of dancing."
Nicki looked on the verge of argument, then he reconsidered and offered her his arm. "We'll dance then," he said curtly.
But even in that, he was to be thwarted. A deep voice that seemed to leap out of the shadows behind them said, "Unfortunately, Monsieur, Miss Stone has promised this waltz to me."
Whitney turned in astonishment as a black-cloaked form materialized from the darkness. Even without the almost Satanic costume, Whitney would have recognized that mocking smile-it was identical to the one this man had given her across the ballroom, when he'd caught her inadvertently staring at him. "You promised me this dance," Satan said when she hesitated.
Whitney had no idea who this unidentified acquaintance could be, but she was very anxious to avoid further conversation about marriage with Nicki. "I don't remember promising anyone a dance tonight," she said hesitantly.
"You promised me months ago," Satan informed her, potting his hand beneath her elbow and exerting just enough pressure to begin drawing her with him toward the ballroom.
Smothering a smile at the man's outrageous audacity, Whitney looked over her shoulder and politely excused herself to Nicki, but she could feel his cool gaze on her back with every step she took.
Whitney, My Love wds-2 Page 5
