Authors: Judith McNaught
"Well, Prosperina, how are we to manage our friendship
if none of your present friends are likely to do me the favor of dying in
the foreseeable future?"
Whitney smiled, pleased that at least one person at the
ball didn't confuse her with Venus. "How did you know who I am?"
She was referring to her identity of Prosperina, but
evidently, Satan misunderstood her, for he shrugged and said, "DuVille isn't
wearing a mask and, since rumor has it that the two of you are inseparable,
when I saw him, I realized who you were."
A frown marred Whitney's smooth forehead at the
unwelcome news that she and Nicki were being linked together by the gossips.
"Since that answer seems to disturb you," he said drily,
"perhaps I should have been more honest and told you that there are certain
... attributes ... of yours that made it easy for me to identify you even
with your mask on and before DuVille arrived."
My God! Did his gaze actually wander over her body, or
was it only her imagination? When he leaned back and casually perched his
hip on the wrought iron table, Whitney felt suddenly uneasy. "Who are you?"
she demanded firmly.
"A friend."
"Absolutely not! I can't recall anyone of my
acquaintance with your height or eyes, or with such outrageously bold
manners, especially for an Englishman." She paused and studied him
uncertainly. "Are you English?"
He gazed down into her searching green eyes and
chuckled. "How remiss of me," he mocked lightly. "I should have said 'what
ho' and 'egad' and 'quite so'-so that you would know I am."
His humor was infectious, and Whitney could not stop her
answering smile. "Very well, now that you've admitted you're English, tell
me who you are."
"Who would you like for me to be, little one?" he asked.
"Women always admire noble titles-would you like it if I told you I am a
duke?"
Whitney burst out laughing. "You may be a highwayman, or
even a pirate." She twinkled at him. "But you are no more a duke than I am."
The amusement vanished from his smile, replaced by a
quizzical puzzlement. "May I ask why you are so certain that I am not?"
Thinking back to the only duke she'd ever seen, Whitney
impudently surveyed him from head to foot, deliberately repaying him for the
lingering glance he'd subjected her to. "Beginning with the most obvious, if
you were a duke you would have a quizzing glass."
"But how would I use a quizzing glass with a mask?" he
countered curiously.
"A duke does not use a quizzing glass to see-it is
merely an affectation. He raises it to his eye and peers at all the ladies
in the room. But there are other reasons you cannot possibly be a duke," she
continued irrepressibly. "You don't walk with a cane, you don't wheeze and
snort, and in all honesty, I doubt you could claim even a mild case of gout
to your credit."
"Gout!" he choked, laughing.
Whitney nodded. "Without the cane, the gout, and the
wheezing and snorting, you cannot possibly hope to convince anyone that you
are a duke. Couldn't you choose some other title to which to aspire? You
might be able to pass yourself off as an Earl if you had a bit of a squint
and a clubfoot."
He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter,
then he shook his head and regarded her with a thoughtful, almost tender
expression. "Miss Stone," he asked with amused gravity, "hasn't anyone
taught you that noble titles are to be revered, not laughed at?"
"They did try," Whitney admitted, with a laughing look.
"And?"
"And, as you can see, they failed."
For a long moment, his gaze lingered on the elegant
perfection of her glowing face, then settled on her entrancing green eyes.
"But the initial clue that I am not a duke is the absence of a quizzing
glass?" he said rather absently.
Whitney toyed with the ribbons of her mask and smiled as
she nodded. "You would have ft with you at all times."
"Even riding to a hunt?" he persisted.
She shrugged lightly. "If you were a duke, you'd be too
stout to ride."
In a deceptively casual move, he captured her wrists,
drawing her forward so that her hip pressed against his hard thigh. "Even in
bed?" he asked softly.
Whitney, who had been paralyzed into inaction by his
unexpected move, flung off both his hands and fixed him with an icy stare
while a dozen scathing remarks tumbled to be first from her lips.
Just as she opened her mouth, he stood up, looming over
her. "May I get you a glass of champagne?" he offered soothingly.
"You may go straight to-" Swallowing her outrage in
deference to his daunting height and powerful shoulders, Whitney nodded.
"Please," she choked.
He stood there for a moment, his imperturbable gray gaze
studying Whitney's stormy green eyes, then he turned, striding off toward
the house for her champagne.
The moment he walked through the archway, Whitney's
breath came out in a long rush of relief. Whirling around, she hurried
across the lawn, entering the ballroom on the opposite side.
From that point on, her evening declined. She was tense
and jumpy, half expecting the black-cloaked figure she would always think of
as "Satan" to accost her in the ballroom, even though he remained well away
from her, surrounded by a small group of people who were talking and
laughing with him.
As she waited with her aunt and uncle to take leave of
their host and hostess, Whitney surreptitiously watched Satan's tall figure
moving along the line of departing guests in front of them. His head was
bent low as be listened attentively to the blond woman who was smiling up at
him. He laughed at something she said, and Whitney flushed as she recalled
the way he had laughed with her in the garden. Irritably, she wondered who
the blond woman with him was. His mistress, she decided uncharitably, for
he'd never waste a moment's time with any female unless she was willing to
{day that role, at feast for one night!
Without warning he turned, and for the second time that
evening, Whitney was caught in the act of staring at him. His gaze captured
hers, and Whitney raised her chin, trying to stare him out of countenance. A
strange, unfathomable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he slowly
inclined Us head toward her. Angrily, Whitney jerked her gaze away.
Arrogant, conceited-she couldn't think of enough terrible things to call him
in her mind.
"What in the world is the matter, darling?" Aunt Anne
whispered beside her.
Whitney started nervously, then cautiously tipped her
head in the direction of the front door where Satan was now placing an
elegant cape around the blonde's shoulders. "Do you know who he is, Aunt
Anne?"
Her aunt studied the couple for a moment, started to
shake her head in the negative, then stopped abruptly as the blonde reached
up and swept off her demi-mask. "That's Marie St Allermain-the famous
singer," Anne whispered. "I'm certain of it." Whitney saw an odd, awed
expression cross her aunt's face as she scrutinized the dark-haired man in
the Mack cape. "And if she is St. Allermain, then he would have to be. .. my
God! It is!"
Anne's gaze swung sharply to her niece, but Whitney was
watching Satan move his hand in a tight caress over the blonde's back as he
guided her out the front door. She remembered how those same hands had drawn
her to him and flushed with outraged shame.
"Why do you ask?" Anne said tightly.
The last thing Whitney wanted to do was admit to anyone
that she'd been foolish enough to go into the garden with a man whom she was
now certain she'd never met before.
"I-I thought he was someone I know, but I realize now he
isn't," Whitney answered and was greatly relieved when her aunt seemed
willing to drop the subject.
As a matter of fact, Anne was delighted to drop the
subject. She had planned and dreamed too long to see Whitney become just
another conquest of the Duke of Claymore. Marie St. Allermain had been his
mistress for nearly a year, and rumor had it that he had even accompanied
her to Spain when she sang in a command performance before the king and
queen two months ago.
For years, gossip had linked the man with every
beautiful female of suitable lineage in Europe, but marriage was not among
the things he offered. Behind that handsome nobleman there was a trail of
young women's broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that would
make any sensible woman with an unmarried female relation shudder! He was
the last man on the continent in whom Anne wanted Whitney to show any
interest.
The last man in the entire world!
Chapter Seven
EXACTLY FOUR WEEKS AFTER THE ARMANDS' MASQUERADE,
Matthew Bennett left his office and stepped into a splendid
burgundy-lacquered coach with the Westmoreland ducal crest emblazoned in
gold on the door panel. He placed his deerskin case containing the reports
on Miss Whitney Allison Stone on the seat beside him, then stretched his
long legs out in the duke's luxurious coach.
For nearly a century, Matthew's forebears had been
entrusted with the private legal affairs of the Westmoreland family, but
since Clayton Westmoreland's principal residences were in England, it was
Matthew's father in the London office of the firm who was personally
acquainted with the duke. Until now, Matthew's only contact with the current
Duke of Claymore had been in writing, and Matthew was especially anxious to
make a good impression today.
The coach had been climbing steadily, winding gently
around green sloping hills splashed with wildflowers, when the French
country house of the duke finally came into view. Matthew gazed at it in
wonder. Situated atop the verdant hills, the sweeping two-story
stone-and-glass structure was surrounded by terraces overlooking the
panorama that stretched below in every direction.
At the front of the house, the coach drew to a stop, and
Matthew picked up his case and walked slowly up the terraced stone steps. He
presented his card to the liveried butler and was shown into a spacious
library lined with books which were recessed into shallow alcoves in the
walls.
Alone for the moment, Matthew looked with awe at the
priceless artifacts reposing on gleaming rosewood tables. A magnificent
Rembrandt hung above the marble fireplace, and part of one wall was covered
with a glorious collection of Rembrandt's etchings. One long wall was
entirely constructed of huge panes of glass with French doors opening out
onto a broad stone terrace that afforded a breathtaking view of the
surrounding countryside.
At the opposite end of the room, angled toward the
windows, was a massive oak desk, intricately carved around the edges with
leaves and vines. Mentally, Matthew placed the desk as late sixteenth
century and, judging from the splendid craftsmanship, it had probably graced
a royal palace. Walking across the thick Persian carpet, Matthew sat down in
one of the high-backed leather chairs facing the desk, and placed the
deerskin case on the floor beside him.
The library doors opened, and Matthew came swiftly to
his feet, stealing a quick, appraising look at the dark-haired man upon whom
his future depended. Clayton Westmoreland was in his early thirties,
uncommonly tall, and decidedly handsome. There was a vigorous purposefulness
in his long, quick strides that bespoke an active, athletic life, rather
than the indolence and overindulgence that Matthew normally ascribed to
wealthy gentlemen of the peerage. An aura of carefully restrained power, of
forcefulness, emanated from him.
A pair of penetrating gray eyes leveled on him, and
Matthew swallowed a little nervously as the duke came around behind the desk
and took his seat. The duke nodded at the chair across the desk, inviting
Matthew to be seated, and said with calm authority, "Shall we begin, Mr.
Bennett?"
"Certainly," Matthew said. He cleared his throat. "As
you instructed, your grace, we have made inquiries into the young woman's
family and background. Miss Stone is the daughter of Susan Stone-who died
when Miss Stone was five years old-and Martin Albert Stone, who is still
living. She was born on June thirtieth, eighteen hundred, at the family home
near the village of Morsham, approximately seven hours from London.
"The Stone estate is small but productive, and Martin
Stone has lived in the usual style of the landed gentry. However, about four
years ago, his financial situation altered drastically. If you recall, that
was when part of England was deluged with weeks of rainfall. Estates such as
Stone's which did not have adequate drainage facilities suffered badly, and
Stone apparently suffered more than most because there was no alternate
means of supporting the estate, such as livestock.
"Our reports indicate that Stone then made some
extremely large and unwise investments in a variety of risky ventures and,
when those failed, he doubled and tripled his investments in more ventures
of a similar nature-apparently in the hope of recouping his losses. These
ventures were all disastrous, and two years ago, he mortgaged his estate to
gain enough capital to make the last-and largest-of the ventures. He
invested all the funds in a colonial shipping company. Unfortunately, that
failed as well.
"At this time, he is heavily mortgaged and deeply in
debt, not only to the cent-per-centers in London, but to the local
shopkeepers as well. The estate is quickly falling into disrepair, and there
is only a skeleton staff of servants left on the place."
Reaching into the deerskin case, Matthew extracted a
sheaf of papers. "This is an itemized list of his creditors, although there
are bound to be more that we didn't discover in the brief period of time we
had to make our investigation." He slid the papers across the surface of the
ornate desk, then waited for some reaction from the duke.