Authors: Judith McNaught
"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 clever 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.
Nicki was forgotten, however, as she stepped into
Satan's arms and found herself being whirled around in time to the sweeping
music by a man who danced with the easy grace of someone who has waltzed a
thousand times and more. Around and around they floated until Whitney
couldn't stand the suspense any longer. "Did I really promise you a dance
tonight?" she asked.
"No," be said.
His blunt answer made her laugh. "Who are you?" she
asked conspiratorially.
A lazy grin swept across his tanned face. "A friend?" he
offered in a voice rich and deep.
Whitney didn't recognize his voice at all. "No. You are
an acquaintance, but not a friend."
"I will have to remedy that," he replied with absolute
confidence that he could.
Whitney felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of
his arrogant self-assurance. "I'm afraid that's impossible. I already have
more friends than I know what to do with now, and they all vow their loyalty
to me until death."
"In that case," he said, a smile lighting his gray eyes,
"perhaps one of them will meet with an accident-with a little assistance
from me."
Whitney was unable to stop her answering smile. His last
words held no menace, she knew; he was merely playing verbal chess with her,
and it was exhilarating to try to counter his moves. "It would be most
unkind of you to hasten any of my friends to their demise. My friends are a
disreputable lot, and their final destination may not have a pleasant
climate."
"A warm one?" he teased.
With a sigh of mock regret, Whitney solemnly nodded.
"I'm afraid so."
He laughed at her, a throaty, contagious laugh, and his
eyes suddenly seemed to regard her with a bold, speculative gleam that
Whitney found unsettling. She looked away, trying to decide who he was.
Outside on the patio, he'd spoken in flawless French, yet here on the dance
floor, his English was equally flawless and without a trace of an accent.
His face, that part of it which wasn't covered by his black mask, had a
healthy golden tan which he certainly couldn't have acquired in Paris this
early in the spring. And not in England, either.
The task of trying to place him among the hundreds of
men to whom she'd been introduced during the last two years was formidable,
but Whitney tried anyway. Mentally, she reviewed the men of her
acquaintance, discarding one after another as being either not tall enough
or with eyes of a color other than his unusual gray. His height, easily two
inches over six feet, was his most outstanding feature. She reviewed the
clues but still could not identify him. Yet, he knew her well enough to
recognize her even though she was wearing a demi-mask. When the strains of
the waltz died, she was no closer to identifying him than she had been when
the dance began.
Whitney stepped away from him, half turning toward Nicki
who was standing near the edge of the dance floor, but her partner firmly
claimed her hand, tucked it under his arm, and drew her in the opposite
direction toward the doors opening off the south side of the house into the
gardens.
Several steps from the doors, Whitney began to doubt the
wisdom of letting herself be led into the night by a man whom she couldn't
yet identify. She was on the verge of refusing to take another step when she
saw that there were at least two dozen guests scattered about the brick
paths that wound through the lantern-lit gardens, any one of whom would come
to her aid if her escort failed to conduct himself as a gentleman. Not that
Whitney actually doubted he was a gentleman, for the Armands were
notoriously meticulous in choosing their guests. Outside, she reached behind
her and untied the ribbons of her demi-mask, letting it dangle from her
fingers as she breathed in the fragrance of the spring night scented with
blossoms. They came to a white ornamental iron table and chairs, well within
sight of the house and other guests, and her escort pulled out a chair for
her. "No, I'd rather stand," Whitney said, reveling in the relative quiet
and the beauty of the dappled moonlight.