Authors: Judith McNaught
"Mine never gave me any trouble," he joked.
"Done incorrectly," Whitney informed him with mock
solemnity, "one is likely to find oneself wrapped in a train that has just
become a tourniquet."
A month later she slid into her chair and fluttered a
silken fan, eyeing her uncle with a speculative sparkle over the slats. "Are
you over-warm, my dear?" Edward asked her, already into the spirit of the
inevitable fun.
"A fan is not really for cooling oneself," Whitney
advised him, batting her long eyelashes with an exaggerated coquetry that
made Anne burst out laughing. "A fan is for flirting. It is also for keeping
one's hands gracefully occupied. And for slapping the arm of a gentleman who
is too forward."
The laughter vanished from Edward's face. "What
gentleman has become too forward?" he demanded tersely.
"Why, no one has. I don't know any gentlemen yet,"
Whitney replied.
Anne watched the two of them, her smile filled with joy,
for Whitney now occupied the place in Edward's heart, and hers, that would
have been their own daughter's.
One evening the following May, the month before
Whitney's official debut into society, Edward produced three opera tickets.
Tossing them with artificial casualness in front of Whitney, he suggested
that-if her schedule permitted- she might enjoy accompanying her aunt and
himself to the Embassy's private box.
A year ago, Whitney would have whirled around in a
rapturous circle, but she had changed now, so instead she beamed at her
uncle and said, "I would like that above anything, Uncle Edward."
In silence she sat while Clarissa, who had been Susan
Stone's maid before she became companion and maid to
Susan's daughter, brushed her hair and swept it upward, smoothing it into
curls at the crown. Her new white bock with ice-blue velvet ribbons at the
high waistline and frilled hemline was gently lowered over her head. A
matching ice-blue satin cloak completed her ensemble. Whitney stood before
her mirror, staring at herself with shining eyes. Tentatively, she dropped
into a deep throne room curtsy, her head bowed to the perfect angle. "May I
present Miss Whitney Stone," she murmured gravely. "The belle of Paris."
A fine, chilly mist descended, making the Paris streets
gleam in the moonlight. Whitney snuggled deeper into the folds of her satin
cloak, loving the feel of it against her chin, while she looked out the
window at the teaming mass of humanity scurrying along the wide, rain-swept
boulevards.
Outside the theatre crowds milled about in gay defiance
of the dampness. Handsome gentlemen in satin coats and tight-fitting
breeches bowed and nodded to ladies who glittered with jewels. Stepping from
the coach, Whitney gazed in wonderment at the unbelievably gorgeous ladies
who stood, poised and confident, talking to their escorts. They were, she
decided then and there, the most beautiful women in the world, and she
instantly dismissed any future hope of ever really being "the belle of
Paris. "But she did so with very little regret, for there was a wonderful
exhilaration in simply being here among them.
As the trio made their way into the theatre, only Anne
observed the younger gentlemen whose idle glances flickered past Whitney,
then returned for another, longer look. Whit-ney's beauty was a blossoming
thing, a vividness of features and coloring that promised much more to come.
There was a radiance about her that sprang from her lively spirit and zest
for life, a regalness and poise in her bearing that came from clashing
head-on for so many years with adversity.
In the Consulate's private box, Whitney settled her
beautiful new gown about her and picked up her ivory fan, using it, as
Madame Froussard had instructed, to occupy her hands. She could have laughed
at how silly she'd been, wasting so much time on lessons in languages and
mathematics, when what she'd really needed to learn in order to please Paul
and her father was so incredibly simple. Why, the fan in her hand was far
more useful than Greek!
All about her a sea of beads bobbed and dipped, feathers
fluttering from elaborate headdresses. Whitney could have hugged herself
with the joy of it all. She saw a gentleman receive a playful slap with his
lady's fan, and she felt a kinship with all women, as she wondered what
impropriety he'd whispered to his lovely lady, who looked more flattered
than distressed.
The opera began and Whitney promptly forgot everything
else, lost as she was in the haunting music. It was all beyond her wildest
dreams. By the time the heavy curtains swept closed to permit a change of
scenery on the stage, Whitney had to shake herself back into reality. Behind
her, friends of her aunt and uncle had come to the box, lending their voices
to the incredible din of talk and laughter in the theatre.
"Whitney," Aunt Anne said, touching her shoulder. "Do
turn around so that I may present you to our dear friends."
Obediently, Whitney stood and turned and was introduced
to Monsieur and Madame DuVille. Their greeting was warm and open, but their
daughter, Therese, a winsome blonde of about Whitney's years, only eyed her
in watchful curiosity. Under the girl's penetrating gaze, some of Whitney's
confidence slid away. She had never known how to converse with people her
own age, and for the fast time since leaving England, she felt gauche and
ill at ease. "Are-are you enjoying the opera?" she managed at last.
"No," Therese said, dimpling, "for I cannot understand a
word of it."
"Whitney can," Lord Edward proudly announced. "She
understands Italian, Greek, Latin, and even some German!"
Whitney felt like sinking through the floor, for her
uncle's boast had probably branded her as a bluestocking in the DuVilles'
eyes. She had to force herself to meet Therese's startled gaze.
"I hope you don't play the pianoforte and sing too?" The
little blonde pouted prettily.
"Oh no," Whitney hastily assured her. "I can't do either
one."
"Wonderful!" declared Therese with a wide smile as she
settled herself into a chair beside Whitney's, "for those are the only two
things I do well. Are you looking forward to your debut?" she bubbled,
passing a swift look of admiration over Whitney.
"Not," Whitney admitted truthfully, "very much."
"I am. Although for me, it is merely a formality. My
marriage was arranged three years ago. Which is just perfect, for now I can
devote all my attention to helping you find a husband. I shall tell you
which gentlemen are eligible and which are only handsome-without money or
prospects- then when you make a brilliant match, I shall come to your
wedding and tell everyone that I was entirely responsible!" she finished
with an irrepressible smile.
Whitney smiled back, a little dazed by Therese's
unreserved offer of friendship. The smile was all the encouragement Therese
DuVille needed to continue: "My sisters have all made splendid marriages.
Which only leaves me. And my brother, Nicolas, of course."
Whitney suppressed the urge to inquire laughingly
whether Nicolas DuVille fell into the category of "eligible" or "only
handsome," but Therese promptly provided the answer without being asked. "Nicki
isn't at all eligible. Well, he is- because he's very wealthy and terribly
handsome. The thing is, Nicolas isn't available. Which is a great pity and
the despair of my family, for Nicki is the only male heir, and the eldest of
the five of us."
Avidly curious, Whitney nevertheless managed to respond
politely that she hoped it wasn't because Monsieur DuVille was suffering
from any affliction.
"Not," Therese said with a musical giggle, "unless one
considers excessive boredom and shocking arrogance an affliction. Of course,
Nicolas has every right to be so, with females constantly dangling after
him. Mama says that if it were up to the females to do the asking, Nicolas
would have had more offers of marriage than us four girls combined!"
Whitney's demure facade of polite interest
disintegrated.
"I can't imagine why," she laughed. "He sounds perfectly
odious to me."
"Charm," Therese explained gravely. "Nicolas has charm."
After a thoughtful pause, she added, "It is such a pity Nicki is so
difficult, because if he were to attend our debut and single you out for
special attention, you would be an instant success!" She sighed. "Of course,
nothing in the world will persuade him to attend a debutante ball. He says
they are excruciatingly boring. Nevertheless, I shall tell him about
you-perhaps he will help."
Only courtesy prevented Whitney from saying that she
hoped she never met Therese's arrogant older brother.
Chapter Four
ON THE DAY BEFORE WHTTNEY'S OFFICIAL DEBUT INTO SOCIETY,
A letter arrived from Emily Williams that left Whitney lightheaded with
relief: Paul had purchased some property in the Bahama Islands and was
planning to remain there for a year. Since Whitney could not imagine Paul
tumbling into love with a sun-burned Colonial, that meant she had a full
year in which to prepare herself to go home. An entire year without having
to worry about Paul marrying someone else.
To help quiet her nerves over the ball tomorrow evening,
she curled up on a rose satin settee in the salon and was happily rereading
all of Emily's letters which were hidden inside a book of etiquette. So
absorbed was she with them, that Whitney was unaware that someone was
watching her.
Nicolas DuVille stood in the doorway with the note his
sister, Therese, had insisted he deliver personally to Miss Stone. Since
Therese had tried a dozen other ploys in the last month to put Miss Stone in
his way, Nicki had no doubt that delivering this note was a fool's errand
devised between the two girls. It was not the first time his sister had
tried to interest him in one of her giddy young friends, and from
experience, Nicki knew the best way to nip Miss Stone's romantic plans for
him in the proverbial bud was simply to fluster and intimidate the chit
until she was relieved to see him leave.
His cool gaze took in the fetching scene which Miss
Stone had obviously planned in advance so that she would appear to best
advantage. Sunlight streamed in the window beside her, highlighting her
gleaming cascade of dark hair, a long strand of which she was idly curling
around her forefinger as she feigned absorption in her book; her yellow
morning dress was arranged in graceful folds, and her feet were coyly tucked
beneath her. Her profile was serene, with long lashes slightly lowered, and
a faint suggestion of a smile played about her generous lips. Impatient with
her little charade, Nicolas stepped into the room. "A very charming picture,
Mademoiselle. My compliments," he drawled insolently.
Snapping her head up, Whitney closed the book of
etiquette containing Emily's letters and laid it aside as she arose.
Uncertainly, she gazed at a man in his late twenties who was coldly
regarding her down the length of his aristocratic nose. He was undeniably
handsome, with black hair and piercing, gold-flecked brown eyes.
"Have you had an edifying look, Mademoiselle?" he asked
bluntly.
Realizing that she had been staring at him, Whitney
caught herself abruptly and nodded toward the note in his band. "Have you
come to see my aunt?"
To Whitney's stunned amazement, the man strolled into
the room and thrust the note at her. "I am Nicolas DuVille, and your butler
has already informed me that you have been expecting me. Therefore, I
believe we can dispense with your pretense of coy surprise, can we not?"
Whitney stood in shock as the man subjected her to a
leisurely appraisal that began at her face and wandered boldly down the full
length of her rigid body. Did his gaze actually linger on her breasts, or
was it only her confused imagination that made it seem that way? When he was
finished inspecting her from the front, he strolled around her, considering
her from all angles as if she were a horse he was thinking of purchasing.
"Don't bother," he said, when Whitney nervously opened the note. "It says
that Therese left her bracelet here, but you and I know that is only an
excuse for us to meet."
Whitney was bewildered, embarrassed, amused, and
insulted, all at the same time. Therese had said her brother was arrogant,
but somehow Whitney had never imagined he'd be this horrid.
"Actually," he said, as he came around to stand in front
of her, "you are not at an what I expected." His voice held a note of
reluctant approbation.
"Nicolas!" Aunt Anne's gracious greeting relieved
Whitney of the necessity of replying. "How lovely to see you. I've been
expecting you-one of the maids discovered Therese's bracelet beneath a
cushion of a sofa. The clasp was broken. I'll get it for you," she said,
hurrying from the room.
Nicki's startled gaze shot to Miss Stone. A smile
trembled on her lips as she lifted her delicate brows at him, visibly
enjoying his chagrin. In view of his earlier rudeness, Nicki felt that some
form of polite conversation was now required of him. He leaned down and
picked up the etiquette book containing Emily's letters, glanced at the
title, and then at Whitney. "Are you teaming good manners, Mademoiselle?" he
inquired.
"Yes," Miss Stone replied, her eyes glowing with
suppressed laughter. "Would you care to borrow my book?"
Her quip earned her a lazy, devastating smile of
admiration. "I see that some form of atonement for my earlier behavior is in
order. Mademoiselle," he said with laughing gravity, "would you favor me
with a dance tomorrow night?"
Whitney hesitated, taken aback by his engaging smile and
open admiration.
Mistaking her silence for coquettishness, Nicolas
shrugged, and all the warmth left his smile as he said with mocking
amusement, "From your hesitation, I will assume that all your dances are
already bespoken. Another time, perhaps."