Authors: Judith McNaught
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 in 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."