ADY ANNE WAS AWAKENED BY THE BABBLE OF VAGUELY familiar voices calling cheerful greetings to one another in the halls. She blinked at the dazzling sunlight and realized her head was pounding, while a feeling of foreboding crept over her.

Martin's surprise birthday party had been Whitney's idea and, at the time, Anne had immediately supported it, hoping it might help bring, Martin closer to his daughter. But she hadn't known then of Whitney's betrothal to the Duke of Claymore. Now, she worried that one of the thirty visiting guests might recognize the duke, and then God knew what would happen to all the careful plans hatched by Martin and the duke.

Reaching behind her, she tugged on the bellpull to summon her maid and reluctantly climbed out of bed, unable to shake the feeling of impending doom.

Dusk had fallen when Sewell finally tapped at Whitney's bedroom door and informed her that her father had returned.

"Thank you, Sewell," Whitney called dejectedly. Tonight would have been such a perfect occasion for announcing her betrothal; the Ashtons and the Merrytons and everyone else of any consequence in the neighborhood would be at the party. How she wanted to see their collective reaction to the news that Paul and she were going to be married.

Still, she reasoned hopefully as she lathered herself with carnation-scented soap, there was a chance that Paul might find an opportunity to draw her father aside during the party. Then they could still announce their betrothal tonight.

Three quarters of an hour later, her maid, Clarissa, stood back to survey Whitney's appearance while Whitney dutifully turned around for her inspection.

Whitney's elegant ivory satin gown shimmered in the candlelight, and its low, square-cut bodice molded itself to her breasts, displaying a tantalising glimpse of the shadowy hollow between them. The wide bell sleeves were trimmed with rich topaz satin from her elbows to her wrists, and a matching band of topaz adorned the hemline. From the front, the gown fell in straight toes, widening slightly at the hem, but viewed from the back, it flared out into a graceful, flowing half train. Topaz and diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, adding their fire to the matching strand of jewels twined in and out among the thick, shining curls of her elaborately coiffed hair.

"You look like a princess," Clarissa announced with a proud smile.

Prom below and along the halls, Whitney heard the guests stealthily moving about. Her father's valet had been instructed to inform his master that "a few guests" had been invited for dinner, and that he was requested to come downstairs at seven o'clock. Whitney glanced at the clock on her mantel; it was six-thirty. Her spirits lifted as she imagined her father's happy surprise at finding relatives who had travelled from Bam, Brighton, London, and Hampshire to celebrate his birthday. With the intention of asking Sewell to try to keep the guests a little quieter, Whitney dipped out of her room and into the hall.

There on the balcony, leaning over and peering down into the entrance foyer, stood her father, his neckcloth hanging loosely over his starched white shirt. So much for the "surprise," Whitney thought ruefully as she walked over and stood beside him. Below, the local guests were arriving in a steady stream, exchanging greetings in boisterous whispers while a harassed Sewell shepherded them toward the drawing room, admonishing, "Ladies and Gentlemen-Madam, Sir-I must request that you lower your voices."

Her father's puzzled grimace swung from the guests below, to the long hall beside him where two bedroom doors were opened and quickly banged shut again, as the relatives spied their guest of honor standing on the balcony. Whitney pressed a self-conscious kiss on his bristly cheek. 'They've come to celebrate your birthday, Papa."

Despite his stern, disgruntled expression, Whitney could tell that he was touched. "I take it that it's to be a surprise, and I'm not supposed to notice this clamor in my house?"

"That's right." Whitney smiled.

"I shall try, my dear," he said, awkwardly patting her arm. Suddenly there was the ear-splitting sound of glass shattering on the floor. "Oh my goodness, goodness gracious!" trilled an agitated female voice.

"Letitia Pinkerton," Martin identified the voice with his head tilted slightly to the side. "That is her favorite and only expression of dismay." With an odd catch in his voice, he looked at Whitney and added, "I used to send your dear mother into spasms by threatening to teach Letitia to say 'Goddamn!'" With that, he turned and strolled off toward his bedchamber, leaving Whitney staring after him in silent laughter.

Half an hour later, with Whitney on one arm and Lady Anne Gilbert on the other, Martin made his way toward the drawing room. At Whitney's nod, Sewell threw the doors wide and Martin was greeted by exuberant cries of "Surprise!" and "Happy Birthday!"

Anne started forward to begin performing her duties as hostess, but a footman forestalled her. "Pardon me, my lady, but this letter was just delivered by special messenger, and Sewell instructed me to bring it to you directly."

Anne glanced at the letter, saw the familiar, beloved scrawl that was Edward's hand, and with a quick gasp of joyous relief, she took it from him and hurriedly broke the seal.

Whitney looked for Paul, and when she didn't immediately

see him, she made her way to the dining room to make certain that everything was exactly as Aunt Anne and she had planned.

The doors dividing the salon from the dining room had been pushed back, creating one vast area of small tables, each seating six. Enormous clusters of red, white and pink roses reposed in gigantic silver bowls and atop tall floor stands. Silver and crystal gleamed in the candlelight, and her mother's finest linen, in a soft shade of pale pink, was spread on all the tables.

She walked through the salon and peered into the ballroom. Like the other two rooms, the ballroom was lavishly decorated with bouquets of roses that lent color and drama to what had been a cold, austere room.

From behind her she heard Paul's deep voice, and she smiled softly as she turned.

"I missed you today," he said. His gaze drifted appreciatively over her elegant ivory satin gown then lifted to her glowing features. "Who would have guessed," he whispered, drawing her into his arms for a long, tender kiss, "that you were going to turn into such a beauty?"

Anne's eyes were still devouring the contents of Edward's missive as she walked into the dining room. Glimpsing Whitney's ivory gown at the opposite end of the long room. Anne began at once in a happy voice, "Darling, I have finally had word from that laggard uncle of yours! He has been on holiday..." She glanced up just in time to witness the hastily broken embrace, and her eyes widened in shock.

"It's all right, Aunt Anne," Whitney explained, blushing gorgeously. "I've been dying to tell you for days, and I can't wait any longer. Paul and I are going to be married as soon as be has Papa's permission. He's going to try to speak to him tonight, so that we- Aunt Anne?" Whitney said as her aunt abruptly turned on her dainty, satin-shod heel and marched away. She apparently had not heard a word Whitney had said. "Where are you going?"

"I am going over to this table, and I am going to pour myself a very large glass of this burgundy," her aunt announced.

In amazed silence, Whitney watched Anne pluck a crystal goblet from the table, snatch up a bottle of burgundy, and fill the glass to the brim.

"And when I have finished this glass," her aunt added, transferring the glass to her left hand and picking up her mauve silk skirts with her right, "I am going to have another." With that she swept regally from the room. "Good evening, Mr. Sevarin," she said, graciously inclining her dark, silver-streaked head at Paul as she passed him. "So nice to see you again."

"She'll have the devil of a head in the morning, if she plans to keep that up," Paul observed wryly.

Whitney looked up at him, her face full of confusion and concern. "Head?"

"Yes, head. And you, my girl, are going to have your hands full tonight." Placing his fingers beneath her satin-sleeved elbow, he reluctantly guided Whitney toward the drawing room. "Unless I miss my guess, your aunt isn't going to be of much help entertaining your guests."

Paul's prediction was certainly accurate, Whitney thought with an inward sigh an hour later, as she stood at the entrance to the drawing room, welcoming latecomers. In France, Aunt Anne had always performed the endless duties required of a hostess; now, bearing the full burden of responsibility herself, Whitney felt as if she needed another pair of eyes and ears.

She signalled to a servant for more trays of drinks to be passed among the guests, then turned to greet Lady Eubank. Whitney's eyes riveted in horror on the dowager's startling combination of purple turban and red gown. "Good evening, Lady Eubank," she managed, fighting to keep her face straight.

Ignoring her greeting entirely, the dowager raised her monocle and looked about the room. "It doesn't look like a 'good evening' to me, Miss," Lady Eubank snapped. "I perceive Mr. Sevarin standing over there with Elizabeth Ashton on one arm, and the Merryton girl on the other, and I don't even see Westland in the room." She dropped her monocle and directed a disgusted scowl on Whitney. "I credited you with spunk, girl, and you've let me down. I thought you were going to snare the most eligible bachelor alive right in front of these tiresome neighbors of ours. I've half expected to hear a betrothal announcement, and instead, I find you standing by yourself and-"

Whitney couldn't stop the beaming smile that lit her face. "I have snared him, my lady, and you are going to hear an announcement. If not tonight, then as soon as Paul returns from his trip."

"Paul?" Lady Eubank echoed blankly, and for the first time since Whitney had known her, the dowager seemed at a loss tot words. "Paul Sevarin?" she repeated. Suddenly a look of unabashed glee danced in her eyes as she again scanned the crowd. "Is Westland coming tonight?" she demanded.

"Yes."

"Good, good," her ladyship said, and she began to chuckle. "This should be a most diverting evening. Most diverting!" she chuckled, and strolled away.

By half past nine, the stream of arrivals had dwindled to a trickle. Standing near the entry where she was greeting latecomers, Whitney heard one of them speak to Sewell out in the hall. A moment later, Clayton Westland appeared in the doorway.

Whitney watched nun coming toward her. He looked almost breathtakingly handsome in fastidiously tailored black evening attire that hugged his wide shoulders and long legs, and contrasted beautifully with his dazzling white ruffled shirt and neckcloth.

In the spirit of relaxed friendship that had sprung up between them during their afternoon of chess two days ago, Whitney smiled and extended both her hands to him in a cordial gesture of greeting. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming," she said.

Clayton grinned with satisfaction as he took her hands in his. "That sounds very much as if you've been watching and waiting for me."

"If I had been, I'd never admit it, you know," Whitney laughed. Looking at him now, she could scarcely credit her belief that he was an unprincipled libertine bent on her seduction, and then she realized that he still retained both her hands in his, and that he was standing so close to her that the starched ruffles at his shirtfront lightly brushed against the bodice of her gown. Self-consciously withdrawing her hands, Whitney took a small step backward.

His eyes mocked her cautious retreat, but he made no comment on it. "If losing two games of chess to you on Thursday has finally put me in your good graces," he teased, "then I promise to let you defeat me in all future contests."

"You did not let me defeat you at chess," Whitney reminded him with an exasperated sidewise glance. Catching the eye of a footman, she signalled him to approach. With the finesse of a natural hostess, she asked him to fetch a whiskey for Mr. Westland. When she turned back to Clayton, she glimpsed his surprised pleasure at the fact that she remembered his preference in drink.

It showed in his eyes as he said, "We seem to be at a stalemate. I won our race, but you've won a majority of our chess games. How will we ever prove which of us is the better man?"

"You are impossible?" Whitney berated him, smiling. "Merely because I think that a female should be as well-educated as a man, does not mean I wish to be a man."

"It's just as well," he said, and his gaze drifted meaningfully over her exquisite features and provocative figure. His warmly intimate appraisal made Whitney's pulse leap in a bewildering combination of excitement and alarm. "At any rats," he continued, "I doubt there's any other contest of skill in which we could compete evenly. As a male, my youthful pursuits were naturally more vigorous, while yours were sedate and ladylike."

Whitney flashed him a jaunty smile. "How are you with a slingshot?"

His hand stilled in the act of reaching for the drink the footman was handing him. "You can use a slingshot?" he said with such exaggerated disbelief that she burst out laughing. "I wouldn't tell just everyone this," she said, leaning a trifle closer, white she resumed her vigilant surveillance of her guests' well-being. "But I used to be able to snap the petals off a daisy at seventy-five paces." Across the room, she saw Paul start toward her father and for one moment, it looked as if he would be able to catch him alone, but two of her relatives were already bearing down on him from the other side. Inwardly, Whitney sighed.

Clayton knew she was preoccupied with her guests and that he was monopolizing her time, but she looked so damned beautiful that he was loath to leave her side. Besides, she was practically flirting with him, and he was enjoying every moment of it. "I'm very impressed," he murmured.

Whitney scarcely noticed the betraying huskiness in his tone. She was watching one of her elderly uncles approach a gaily laughing group. "Do any of you know about prehistoric rocks?" Hubert Pinkerton demanded loudly. "Devilish interesting topic. Let me tell you about them. We'll start with the Mesozoic era..." In growing dismay, Whitney watched the gay atmosphere of the group deteriorate to polite attention, then restrained antagonism. And she'd so wanted her father's party to be gay and lively!

She turned to Clayton, intending to leave him and try to divert her uncle. "Will you excuse me, I-" She turned her head as a harried-looking footman approached and said that they were running low on champagne. He was immediately followed by another servant requesting instructions about supper. After handling both minor calamities, Whitney turned apologetically to Clayton and saw him frowning as he looked about the room. "Where is your aunt this evening? Why isn't she helping you attend to these details?"

"She's feeling a trifle indisposed," Whitney explained lamely, watching his piercing gaze rivet on Anne, who was clutching a wine goblet and staring trancelike out a window.

"Please excuse me," Whitney said, tipping her head toward Uncle Pinkerton. "I have to rescue those people from my Uncle Hubert. He will bore everyone to distraction talking about prehistoric rock formations, and they already look antagonized enough to do him an injury."

"Introduce me to your uncle," Clayton said. She looked so astonished that he added, "I will divert him so that you can took after the rest of your guests."

Whitney gratefully brought him over and performed the introductions, then watched in fascinated admiration as Clay-ton bowed to the elderly man and said smoothly, "I was just now telling Miss Stone how much I would enjoy discussing our mutual interest in the rock formations of the Mesozoic period." Positively emanating enthusiasm, Clayton turned to Whitney and said, "Will you excuse us, Miss Stone? Your uncle and I have much to discuss."

He carried off his flagrant deception with such skill that Whitney could hardly tear her eyes from him as he guided Uncle Hubert off to a deserted corner and appeared to become instantly absorbed in whatever her uncle was saying to him.

The long day of undiluted tension and anxiety as Whitney waited for her father to return had taken its toll. By half past ten, as she gently urged the stragglers into the dining room, Whitney could think of nothing as inviting as finding a quiet comer where she could relax. The guests were making their way along the banquet table, filling their plates from the sumptuous array of foods, when Elizabeth Ashton's father's sudden exclamation halted the line and stopped conversations in mid-sentence. "You say the Duke of Claymore is missing?" he demanded of a visiting relative from London. "You mean Westmoreland?" He clarified as if unable to believe he'd heard right.

"Yes, I thought everyone knew," the relative replied, raising his voice for the benefit of the people who had turned to stare at him. "It was in the papers yesterday, and London is buzzing with speculation over where he is."

The level of conversation in the room soared to a fever pitch. Whitney's neighbors picked up their plates and crowded together at tables where better informed guests from out of town could impart their news. After supper, it was impossible to thread one's way through the people who were clustered between the tables, speculating over the Duke of Claymore's disappearance. Whitney was standing with a large

group which included her aunt, Lady Eubank, and Clayton Westland, while Paul was hopelessly trapped across the room, wedged between Elizabeth Ashton and Peter Redfern, unable to make his way to her.

"Claymore's in France this time of year, if you want my guess," someone said.

"Oh? Do you think so?" Lady Anne asked, her face flushed with a vivacious interest that Whitney attributed to too much wine. At the first mention of the Duke of Claymore, her aunt's distraction and lethargy had vanished. But while her aunt was obviously enjoying the gossip and speculation about the man, the subject made Whitney's father fidgety and nervous, and he was periodically slaking an uncharacteristic thirst for whiskey.

Personally, Whitney found the subject excessively boring and she stifled a yawn.

"Tired, little one?" Clayton whispered beside her.

"Yes," Whitney admitted as Clayton drew her hand through the crook of his arm, covering it with his own strong fingers as if he were trying to infuse some of his stamina into her. He shouldn't call her "little one," she thought, and he shouldn't be holding her hand in such a familiar way, but she was too grateful for his assistance tonight to cavil over such trifles.

"I heard that his mistress took her own life in Paris last month," Margaret Merryton said, turning to address her stunned audience. "Apparently Claymore cast her aside, and she went all to pieces. She cancelled her European tour, went into seclusion, and-"

'-And," Amelia Eubank put in frigidly, "she is now spending a fortune renovating a country estate she just purchased. Do you expect us to believe she's a ghost, you hen-wit"

Rushing furiously under the assault of Lady Eubank's sharp tongue, Margaret wedged herself around and looked appealingly to Clayton. "Mr. Westland has lately been in Paris and London. Surely you've heard the news of her suicide?"

"No," Clayton replied curtly. "I've heard nothing of the kind."

Margaret's papa's thoughts had taken another twist. Stroking his goatee, he said thoughtfully, "So St. Allermain's bought a country estate and is spending a fortune renovating it, is she?" Laughter rumbled in his belly as he turned a slow, knowing leer on the gentlemen. "It sounds to me as if Claymore has pensioned her off-with a bit extra for good behavior!"

Beneath her fingertips, Whitney felt the muscles in Clayton's forearm harden. Tipping her head to see his face, she found him looking at Mr. Merryton and the others with an expression of such excruciating distaste and cold boredom that she almost flinched. Unexpectedly, his gaze slid to her and his expression softened into a faint smile.

Inwardly, however, Clayton was not smiling. He was furious at his secretary for failing to put a stop to the speculation over his whereabouts by giving out the story that he was somewhere! He was mentally dictating a sharp note of reprimand to the man when he realized, to his infinite disgust, that the guests were now wagering on the identity of his next mistress.

"I'll wager �5 on the Countess Dorothea," Mr. Ashton put in. "Do I have a taker?"

"Indeed you do, sir," Mr. Merryton declared with a sty laugh. "The countess is old news! She's been dangling after Claymore these past five years, even followed him to France with the poor old earl still on his deathbed. And what happened? I'll tell you what: Claymore cut her dead in front of half of Paris. Lady Vanessa Standfield will be his next choice, but the duke will marry her. She's been waiting patiently for him since her come-out. My �5 says his grace's attention will next turn to Lady Standfield and that he'll marry the young woman. Can I interest anyone in that sporting wager?"

The entire conversation was excessively improper in the presence of ladies and, with great relief, Whitney saw that her aunt was going to intervene at last. "Mr. Merryton," Aunt

Anne said, waiting until she had his full attention. "Would you care to make it 10?"

A shocked silence followed her aunt's unladylike proposition, and Whitney was grateful when Clayton's choked laugh made it seem as if it was all in good fun. Aunt Anne then turned to Clayton. "And you, Mr. Westland?" she asked brightly. "Would you care to wager on Lady Standfield being the future Duchess of Claymore?"

Clayton's lips twitched with amusement. "Certainly not. I have it from an unimpeachable source that Clayton Westmoreland has decided to wed an enchanting brunette he met in Paris."

Whitney caught the sly, piercing look that Lady Eubank passed over Clayton, then forgot about it when someone else said, "There's a remarkable similarity in your names, Mr. Westland. Are you by chance related to the duke in some way?"

"We're closer than brothers," Clayton answered promptly, with an arch grin to make it seem an outrageous jest. From there, the conversation drifted to inaccurate descriptions of the duke's lavish estates, to the horses in his famous stables, and inevitably returned to more tales of his mistresses and conquests.

Clayton glanced at his future wife to see how attentively she was listening (and therefore how much further he was sinking in her estimation, by virtue of what she was hearing) and saw Whitney concealing a yawn behind her slender fingertips. Under cover of the group's boisterous banter, Clayton leaned toward her and teased in a low voice, "Aren't you concerned about the future Duchess of Claymore, my lady?"

Caught in the act of yawning, Whitney's gaze flew guiltily to his face. She smiled that stow, unconsciously provocative smile of hers that sent a fresh surge of pure lust firing through Clayton's veins, while smoothing the satin skirt of her gown, preparatory to leaving. "Of course I'm concerned about her," she whispered gravely. "I have the deepest sympathy for anyone who marries that disgusting, dissolute, amoral, lecherous seducer of women!" With that, she turned and headed for the ballroom to instruct the musicians to begin.

There hadn't been the slightest opportunity for Paul to speak to Whitney's father, and with a sinking heart, Whitney watched the hands on the clock lurch toward twelve midnight. During their only dance together, Paul and she had carefully chosen the precise moment of his departure, so that they might snatch a few stolen minutes to say goodbye. Excusing herself, Whitney picked up her skirts and discreetly followed well behind Paul as he strode from the room.

With a shoulder propped against a Gothic pillar, Clayton raised his glass to his tips and watched with a mixture of possessive pride and irritation as Whitney glanced secretively around, then started to follow Sevarin from the room. One of the guests waylaid her, and while Clayton looked on, Sevarin returned to the ballroom and, abandoning all pretense at discretion, took her by the arm and drew her away.

That particular proprietary gesture of Sevarin's sent a stab of sharp anger through Clayton. Why, he wondered, was he standing here like a damned fool, tolerating the Merryton girl's flirtatious advances, when his own betrothed was strolling away on another man's arm? With a sardonic smile, be contemplated the satisfaction he could have by crossing the room in a dozen quick strides and informing Sevarin that he did not like another man's hands on his betrothed. Then, in a few sentences, he could inform Whitney that his "disgusting, lecherous" attentions were permanently fixed on her and that she should prepare herself to be wed within the week!

He was seriously considering doing exactly that when Amelia Eubank bore down on him. "Margaret," Amelia barked heartlessly, "stop banging on Mr. Westland and go attend to your hair."

Without a trace of sympathy, she watched the young woman blush furiously, then turn and leave. "Nasty chit," Amelia said, directing her attention to Clayton. "The girl is nothing but malice and spite, held together by a core of viciousness. Her parents spend every penny they can scrimp together to send her to London and keep her in society. They can't afford it, and she doesn't belong there. She knows it too, and that makes her envious and mean."

Realizing that he wasn't paying any attention to her, Amelia craned her turbaned head in an effort to discover the object of his unwavering interest. Whitney Stone, she noticed with a tiny smile, was just returning to the ballroom, directly in his line of vision. "Well, Claymore," she said, "if the 'enchanting brunette' you've decided upon is who I think it is, you've taken too long. Her betrothal to Sevarin is to be announced as soon as Sevarin returns."

The duke's eyes turned cold and cynical. "Excuse me," he said in a dangerously soft voice. Putting his glass down, he walked away, leaving Amelia gazing after him with gleeful satisfaction.

Whitney felt Clayton's light touch at her elbow and turned, her warm smile filled with gratitude. From the moment he'd diverted Uncle Hubert at the beginning of the evening, Clayton had carefully placed himself wherever a conversant, amiable, unattached gentleman was most needed. Without being told, he bad recognized her need for help and come to her aid. "You must be exhausted," he murmured in her ear. "Can't you slip away and get some steep now?"

"Yes, I think I will," Whitney sighed. Nearly all the guests had already departed or retired upstairs for the night, and Aunt Anne seemed perfectly willing and able to function as hostess to those remaining. "Thank you for all your help tonight," she said as she turned to leave. "I'm very grateful."

Clayton watched her until she disappeared down the hall, then he strode purposefully toward Martin Stone. "I want a word with you and Lady Gilbert after your guests leave tonight," he said curtly.

Just climbing the stairs was an effort for Whitney's tired legs. Once she was in her room, it took ten minutes of struggling with the long row of tiny satin buttons down her back to unfasten her gown. She leaned forward to step out of it, and a shiny object tumbled from the gaping bodice of her chemise.

With infinite tenderness, Whitney picked up the opal ring from the carpet and looked at it. Paul's ring, given to her as he left tonight. "To remind you that you're mine," he had whispered, pressing the ring into her palm.

A wild thrill of excitement shot through her now as she slowly placed the opal ring onto her finger. All the exhaustion she'd felt but a moment before seemed to melt away in a burst of joy.

She hummed softly as she wrapped herself in an oriental dressing gown of red silk and sat down at her dressing table to unpin and brush her hair. With each stroke of her ivory-handled brush through her long hair, the glittering opal seemed to catch fire and sparkle in the mirror. Laying the brush aside, Whitney held her hand out in front of her to better admire her betrothal ring. Her betrothal ring! "Mrs. Paul Sevarin," she said softly, smiling at the sound of the wonderful words. "Whitney Allison Sevarin." Something about that tickled her memory, and Whitney said it again, trying to recall...

With a joyous laugh, Whitney remembered and hurried over to her bookshelves. Taking down the leather-bound Bible from the shelf, she quickly fanned through the pages, but found nothing. Finally she grasped the book by its covers and turned it upside down, giving it a hard shake. A small scrap of paper, smudged and folded several times, drifted to the floor. Picking it up, Whitney smiled as she began to read:

"I, Whitney Allison Stone, being fifteen years of age and in full possession of my mind and all my faculties (despite what Papa says) do hereby Vow, Swear and Promise that I shall someday manage to make Paul Sevarin marry me. I shall also make Margaret Merryton and everyone else take back every single horrid tiling they have said about me. Sworn this day and duly signed by the future Mrs. Paul Sevarin."

Beneath the signature, she'd written "Whitney Allison Sevarin" and then, apparently carried away by her longing, had practiced the wished-for name at least a dozen mote times.

Reading that note after so many years, remembering the despair that had driven her to write it, made her joy at possessing Paul's ring swell within her until Whitney thought she would burst if she couldn't show her ring to someone and share her glad tidings.

Going to bed when she felt like this would be hopeless; she was more in the mood for singing and dancing! She had to tell someone, she just had to...

Whitney hesitated for a few minutes, and then happily decided to tell her father that Paul was going to offer for her. He would remember how she had chased after Paul years ago, and he would be gratified to know that at last, the villagers would no longer have any reason to ridicule her antics. Now, it was Paul Sevarin who was pursuing her. He wanted to marry her!

Whitney checked her appearance in the mirror, straightened the high mandarin collar of her red dressing robe, tightened the sash around her slender waist, and tossing her glossy hair off her shoulder, marched to her bedchamber door.

Trembling with anticipation and a bit of apprehension, she walked along the hall, her robe rustling behind her. In the aftermath of so much laughter and gaiety there was something almost melancholy about the silence now, but Whitney ignored the feeling as she raised her hand to tap on her father's door..

"Your father is in his study, Miss." The footman's voice echoed hollowly from the darkened entrance foyer below.

"Oh," Whitney said softly. Perhaps she ought to show her ring to Aunt Anne tonight, and wait until tomorrow to tell her father everything. "Has my aunt retired yet?"

"No, Miss. Lady Gilbert is with your father."

"Thank you. Good night."

Whitney hastened downstairs, knocked on the study door, and in response to her father's call to enter, she swirled into the room, closing the door behind her. Flattening her palms against the thick oaken panel, she leaned against it. Her smiling gaze took in her father, seated behind his desk directly in front of her and, over to her left, Aunt Anne, who was watching her alertly from a wingback chair at right angles to the fireplace. With only the glow from the cheery link fire to illuminate the room, Whitney completely overlooked the shadowy form seated in the wingback chair opposite her aunt's, with its high back concealing its occupant.

Her father's voice was faintly slurred but friendly as he splashed brandy into his glass. "Yes, Daughter, what is it?"

Drawing a long, deep breath, Whitney plunged in. "I have something wonderful to tell you, Papa, Aunt Anne, and I'm so happy that you're here together, so that I can share it with you both at the same time."

Strolling over to her father, Whitney moved the brandy glass aside and perched a hip on his desk. For a moment she gazed fondly into his glassy-eyed, upturned face, then she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. "I, Whitney Stone, love you very much, Papa," she said softly. "And I am deeply sorry for the grief I brought you when I was growing up."

"Thank you," he murmured, flushing,

"And," Whitney continued, getting up and coming around the front of the desk so that she could face Aunt Anne, "I love you too, Aunt Anne, but then you've always known that."

She drew another long, quavering breath, and suddenly her words came tumbling out, gathering excited momentum. "And I also love Paul Sevarin. And Paul loves me and wants to marry me! And, Papa, when he returns, he's going to ask your permission to do so. I know how- Is something wrong, Aunt Anne?"

Bewildered, Whitney stared at her aunt who had half-risen from her chair and was staring straight ahead with a look of such horrified alarm that Whitney leaned forward and peered into the shadows. She gasped when she saw Clayton Westland sitting there. "I-I beg your pardon! I'm sorry to have interrupted the three of you. As you've probably guessed, Mr. Westland, I had no idea you were sitting there. But since you are," Whitney persevered, determined to finish now that she'd begun, "I hope I can depend upon you not to mention my forthcoming betrothal to anyone. You see..." The screech of chair legs on the planked floor as her father heaved himself to his feet, checked Whitney in mid-sentence. The fury in his voice brought her whirling around to face him.

"How dare you!" he bellowed. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning?" Whitney echoed in bewilderment. Her father was standing with palms flat against the top of his desk, his arms trembling. "Paul Sevarin has asked me to marry him, that's all." In defiance of his thunderous glower, which she recalled so well as a child, Whitney added, "And I am going to do it."

Slowly, distinctly, as if he were addressing an idiot, her father said, "Paul Sevarin hasn't a pittance to his name! Do you understand me? His lands are mortgaged, and his creditors are hounding him!"

Despite her shock, Whitney managed to make her voice sound calm and reasonable. "I had no idea Paul was pressed for funds, but I can't see why it should signify one way or another. I have money of my own from my grandmother. And there's my dowry, besides. And whatever I have will be Paul's."

"You have nothing!'* her father hissed. "I was in worse straits than Sevarin. The duns were after me. I used your inheritance and dowry to pay them."

Recoiling as much from the vicious tone of his voice as the words he said, Whitney turned to her aunt, expecting her support. "Then Paul and I will have to live simply, without the luxuries my dowry and inheritance could have provided."

Aunt Anne just sat there, clutching the arms of her chair.

In helpless confusion, Whitney turned back to her father. "Papa, you should have told me that you were in such trouble! Why, I-I spent a fortune on clothes and jewels and furs before I came home from France. If only I'd-"

It penetrated through the wave of guilt and alarm sweeping over her that there was something amiss in all of this, something that didn't make any sense. Then it dawned on Whitney what it was. Cautiously, she said, "The stables are filled with new horses. The house and grounds are swarming with more servants than we could possibly need. If you are in such dire circumstances, why are we living in this extravagant manner?"

Her father's face took on a frightening purple hue. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.

"Surely I have a right to an explanation," Whitney persisted carefully. "You have just told me that I must marry Paul as a pauper, without dowry, and that my inheritance is gone. If all this is true, how do we manage to live like this?"

"My circumstances unproved," he hissed.

"When?"

"In July."

Unable to keep the accusation from her voice, Whitney said, "Your circumstances improved in July, yet you aren't going to replace my inheritance or my dowry?"

His fist crashed against the desktop; his roar reverberated through the room. "I'll tolerate no more of this farce. You're betrothed to Clayton Westmoreland. The arrangements have been made. The settlement has already taken place!"

The subtle difference in Clayton's surname momentarily escaped Whitney's notice as she groped frantically through the tumult in her mind. "But how-why-when did you do this?"

"In July!" he hissed. "And it's settled, do you understand? It's final!"

Whitney stared at him through eyes huge with horror and disbelief. "Are you telling me that you made a settlement on this man without ever consulting me? You pledged my dowry and my inheritance to a perfect stranger, without considering my feelings?"

"Damn you!" her father hissed between his clenched teeth. "He made the settlement on me!"

"You must have been a very happy man in July," Whitney whispered brokenly. "You finally managed to rid yourself of me forever, and this 'gentleman' actually paid you for me, and-oh God!" she cried. With sudden, heartbreaking clarity, all the pieces of the bizarre puzzle fell into place, presenting the whole gruesome picture, complete in every profane detail.

Closing her eyes against the scalding tears that threatened, she braced her hands on the desk for support. When she opened them, she saw her father through a bleary haze. "He has paid for all of this, hasn't he? The horses, the servants, the new furniture, the repairs to the house..." She choked on her next words. "The things I bought in August in France. What I'm wearing now, he paid for that too, didn't he?"

"Yes, dammit! I had lost everything. I had sold everything I could."

A boulder settled where Whitney's heart had been; cold fury dwelled where there had been love. "And when there was nothing else you could bear to part with, you sold me! You sold me to a perfect stranger for a lifetime!" Whitney stopped, drawing a long, anguished breath. "Father, are you certain you got the best price for me? I hope you didn't take his first offer. Surely you haggled a little-"

"How dare you!" he thundered, slapping her across the face with a force that nearly sent her to her knees. His hand lifted to strike her again, but the biting fury in Clayton Westmoreland's voice checked him in mid-motion. "If you touch her again, Martin, I'll make this the sorriest day of your life."

Her father's face froze, then sagged with defeat as he sank back into his chair. Whitney swung around on her "rescuer," her voice shaking with fury. "You low, vile snake! What sort of man are you that you have to purchase a wife? What sort of animal are you that you had to buy her without ever having seen her? How much did I cost you?" she demanded.

Despite her haughty stance, Clayton saw that her beautiful eyes, which were hurling scornful daggers at him, were also glittering with unshed tears. "I am not going to answer that," he said gently.

Whitney's thoughts circled, looking for some crack in his armor of implacable calm, some spot where she could thrust the blade of her anger. "You couldn't have paid much," she taunted. "The house you live in is no more than modest. Did you squander your entire pitiful fortune on acquiring me? Did my father drive a hard bargain or-"

"That's enough," Clayton interrupted quietly, coming to his feet.

"He can give you everything... everything," her father rasped behind her. "He's a duke, Whitney. You'll have everything you-"

"A duke!" Whitney scoffed contemptuously, glaring at Clayton. "How did you manage to convince him of that, you lying, conniving..." Her voice broke, and Clayton tipped her chin up, forcing her rebellious gaze to meet his.

"I am a duke, little one. I told you that months ago, in France."

"Why you... You Human Pestilence! I wouldn't marry you if you were the King of England." Jerking her head away, she hissed furiously. "And I never had the misfortune to lay eyes on you in France."

"I told you I was a duke at a masquerade in Paris," he persisted quietly. "The Armands' masquerade."

"You liar! I didn't meet you there. I had never met you until I came home!"

"Darling," Aunt Anne said with gentle caution. "Think back to the night of the masquerade. Just as we were leaving, you asked me if I could identify one of the guests-a very tall man with gray eyes, wearing a long black cloak and..."

"Aunt Anne, please!" Whitney expelled her breath in an uncomprehending rush of frustrated impatience. "I didn't meet this man that night or any..." A strangled gasp emitted from Whitney as a kaleidoscope of images chased themselves across her mind. A pair of now familiar gray eyes glinted down at her in the Armands' garden. A deep voice tinged with laughter said, "Suppose I told you that I am a duke..."

In the space of ten seconds, all these memories collided head on with the reality of the present, bringing her whirling around on Clayton in a tempestuous fury. "That was you! That was you, skulking behind that mask!"

"Without a quizzing glass," Clayton confirmed with a grim smile.

"Of all the treacherous, despicable, underhanded..." Whitney ran out of words to express her turbulent animosity at approximately the same time another blinding realization dawned, bringing with it a fresh rush of scalding tears. "My Lord Westmoreland"-she spat his correct surname with all the contempt she could summon-"I should like to inform you that I found the endless conversation about you this evening-about your estates, your horses, your wealth, your women-not just boring, but utterly nauseating!"

"So did I," Clayton agreed sardonically.

The amusement Whitney thought she heard in his voice was like acid on a burn. Clutching a fold of her dressing robe, she twisted it until her knuckles turned white, while she tried to drag enough air through the thick knots of emotion in her chest to speak. All she could manage was a painful constricted whisper. "I'll hate you for this until the day I the!"

Ignoring her threat, Clayton said gently, "I want you to go to bed now and try to get some sleep." He slid his hand under her elbow, tightening his hold when she tried to pull free. "I'll come back in the afternoon. There are a great many explanations to be made, and I'll make them, when you're in a better frame of mind to listen."

Not for one second was Whitney deceived by his pretense of tender concern. The moment Clayton finished speaking, she snatched her arm away and stalked to the door.

As she reached for the brass handle, he added in a fiat, authoritative voice, "Whitney, I expect you to be here when I arrive." Whitney's hand froze on the handle; her heart shrieked her resentment of his commands, his directives, his existence! Without so much as a backward glance to indicate she'd heard, she wrenched the door open, barely restraining the wild urge to jerk the oak panel shut behind her with a crash.

So long as they could hear her footsteps in the hall, Whitney walked slowly, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her flee like a terrified hare. At the end of the hall she turned, her pace quickening with every step until she was rushing headlong, tripping on a stair, then running down the hall toward the safety, the sanity, of her room. Once inside it, she leaned against the door in a cold, trembling paralysis... staring at the cheerful, cozy room she'd left so excitedly but a half hour ago, her mind unable to cope with the disaster that had just occurred.

Downstairs in the study, the awful, ominous silence lengthened until even the air seemed to crackle with tension. Clayton stood with his hands braced against the fireplace mantel, staring into the fire with murderous rage emanating from every inch of his taut, powerful frame.

Martin dropped his hands from his face so abruptly that his fists thudded against the desktop, making Anne jump. "It was the liquor, I swear it," Martin whispered, his face ashen. "I've never raised a hand to her before. What can I do to..."

Clayton's head jerked around. "What can you do?" he snapped savagely. "You've done enough! She'll marry me, but she'll make you pay for what happened tonight and, in doing so, she'll make me pay as well." His tone changed, his words coming slowly, like uncoiling whips. "From this night forward, no matter what she says, you are going to keep your mouth shut! Is that clear to you, Martin?"

Martin swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes. Clear."

"If she tells you she's just put poison in your tea, you are going to drink it, and you'll... keep... your... goddamned... mouth.. shut!"

"Yes. Shut."

Clayton started to say more, then stopped, as if he could no longer trust himself to speak. With a curt bow to Anne, he strode swiftly to the door and jerked it open. He paused, his icy gaze swinging back to Martin. "When next you're counting your blessings, give thanks to Almighty God that you have twenty years on me, for I swear that if you didn't-" With a superhuman effort, Clayton bit off the rest of his threat and stalked from the room, his rapid footsteps echoing sharply down the hall.

In front of the house, the coach lamps on the duke's carriage flickered and wavered in the breeze, conjuring eerie shapes that crept forward, then pirouetted away beneath the rustling, swaying branches of the elms that lined the drive.

James McRae, Clayton's coachman, shifted patiently on his perch. All the guests had left, with only the duke remaining behind, but McRae didn't mind waiting. In fact, he could not have been more pleased that his master was prone to linger in Miss Stone's company, for he had wagered a rather large sum of money with Armstrong, the duke's valet, that Miss Stone was destined to be the next Duchess of Claymore.

The front door of the house opened and the Duke of Claymore bounded down the front steps. From the corner of his eye, McRae observed the duke's long, ground-devouring strides, which were eloquent of either rage or exhilaration. McRae wasn't certain which, nor did he think it much mattered; so long as Miss Stone continued to provoke such unprecedented emotional reactions in the duke, the odds continued to grow in McRae's favor.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" the duke growled, flinging himself into the open carriage and slamming the door behind him.

Something's amiss with the lass, McRae concluded with a chuckle, sending the magnificent grays bowling down the drive. So delighted was he, that not even the persistent throbbing of his abscessed wisdom tooth could dull his spirits. Mentally visualizing a variety of pleasant ways to spend the proceeds from his wager, McRae began to hum a lilting Irish melody. After a few bars, the duke leaned forward and demanded furiously, "Are you in pain, McRae?!"

"No, your grace," McRae hurriedly replied over his shoulder.

"In mourning?" the duke snapped.

"No, your grace."

"Then cease that goddamn moaning!"

"Aye, your grace," McRae said, carefully concealing his happy expression from his infuriated master.