Whitney, My Love

"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 A

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 A

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, A

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 A

"Like it?" A

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!" A

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 stu

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 di

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 shu