Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  In the Consulate’s private box, Whitney settled her beautiful new gown about her and picked up her ivory fan, using it, as Madame Froussard had instructed, to occupy her hands. She could have laughed at how silly she’d been, wasting so much time on lessons in languages and mathematics, when what she’d really needed to learn in order to please Paul and her father was so incredibly simple. Why, the fan in her hand was far more useful than Greek!

  All about her a sea of heads bobbed and dipped, feathers fluttering from elaborate headdresses. Whitney could have hugged herself with the joy of it all. She saw a gentleman receive a playful slap with his lady’s fan, and she felt a kinship with all women, as she wondered what impropriety he’d whispered to his lovely lady, who looked more flattered than distressed.

  The opera began and Whitney promptly forgot everything else, lost as she was in the haunting music. It was all beyond her wildest dreams. By the time the heavy curtains swept closed to permit a change of scenery on the stage, Whitney had to shake herself back into reality. Behind her, friends of her aunt and uncle had come to the box, lending their voices to the incredible din of talk and laughter in the theatre.

  “Whitney,” Aunt Anne said, touching her shoulder. “Do turn around so that I may present you to our dear friends.”

  Obediently, Whitney stood and turned and was introduced to Monsieur and Madame DuVille. Their greeting was warm and open, but their daughter, Therèse, a winsome blonde of about Whitney’s years, only eyed her in watchful curiosity. Under the girl’s penetrating gaze, some of Whitney’s confidence slid away. She had never known how to converse with people her own age, and for the first time since leaving England, she felt gauche and ill at ease. “Are—are you enjoying the opera?” she managed at last.

  “No,” Therèse said, dimpling, “for I cannot understand a word of it.”

  “Whitney can,” Lord Edward proudly announced. “She understands Italian, Greek, Latin, and even some German!”

  Whitney felt like sinking through the floor, for her uncle’s boast had probably branded her as a bluestocking in the DuVilles’ eyes. She had to force herself to meet Therèse’s startled gaze.

  “I hope you don’t play the pianoforte and sing too?” The little blonde pouted prettily.

  “Oh no,” Whitney hastily assured her. “I can’t do either one.”

  “Wonderful!” declared Therèse with a wide smile as she settled herself into a chair beside Whitney’s, “for those are the only two things I do well. Are you looking forward to your debut?” she bubbled, passing a swift look of admiration over Whitney.

  “Not,” Whitney admitted truthfully, “very much.”

  “I am. Although for me, it is merely a formality. My marriage was arranged three years ago. Which is just perfect, for now I can devote all my attention to helping you find a husband. I shall tell you which gentlemen are eligible and which are only handsome—without money or prospects—then when you make a brilliant match, I shall come to your wedding and tell everyone that I was entirely responsible!” she finished with an irrepressible smile.

  Whitney smiled back, a little dazed by Therèse’s unreserved offer of friendship. The smile was all the encouragement Therèse DuVille needed to continue: “My sisters have all made splendid marriages. Which only leaves me. And my brother, Nicolas, of course.”

  Whitney suppressed the urge to inquire laughingly whether Nicolas DuVille fell into the category of “eligible” or “only handsome,” but Therèse promptly provided the answer without being asked. “Nicki isn’t at all eligible. Well, he is—because he’s very wealthy and terribly handsome. The thing is, Nicolas isn’t available. Which is a great pity and the despair of my family, for Nicki is the only male heir, and the eldest of the five of us.”

  Avidly curious, Whitney nevertheless managed to respond politely that she hoped it wasn’t because Monsieur DuVille was suffering from any affliction.

  “Not,” Therèse said with a musical giggle, “unless one considers excessive boredom and shocking arrogance an affliction. Of course, Nicolas has every right to be so, with females constantly dangling after him. Mama says that if it were up to the females to do the asking, Nicolas would have had more offers of marriage than us four girls combined!”

  Whitney’s demure facade of polite interest disintegrated. “I can’t imagine why,” she laughed. “He sounds perfectly odious to me.”

  “Charm,” Therèse explained gravely. “Nicolas has charm.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “It is such a pity Nicki is so difficult, because if he were to attend our debut and single you out for special attention, you would be an instant success!” She sighed. “Of course, nothing in the world will persuade him to attend a debutante ball. He says they are excruciatingly boring. Nevertheless, I shall tell him about you—perhaps he will help.”

  Only courtesy prevented Whitney from saying that she hoped she never met Therèse’s arrogant older brother.

  4

  * * *

  On the day before Whitney’s official debut into society, a letter arrived from Emily Williams that left Whitney lightheaded with relief: Paul had purchased some property in the Bahama Islands and was planning to remain there for a year. Since Whitney could not imagine Paul tumbling into love with a sun-burned Colonial, that meant she had a full year in which to prepare herself to go home. An entire year without having to worry about Paul marrying someone else.

  To help her nerves over the ball tomorrow evening, she curled up on a rose satin settee in the salon and was happily rereading all of Emily’s letters which were hidden inside a book of etiquette. So absorbed was she with them, that Whitney was unaware that someone was watching her.

  Nicolas DuVille stood in the doorway with the note his sister, Therèse, had insisted he deliver personally to Miss Stone. Since Therèse had tried a dozen other ploys in the last month to put Miss Stone in his way, Nicki had no doubt that delivering this note was a fool’s errand devised between the two girls. It was not the first time his sister had tried to interest him in one of her giddy young friends, and from experience, Nicki knew the best way to nip Miss Stone’s romantic plans for him in the proverbial bud was simply to fluster and intimidate the chit until she was relieved to see him leave.

  His cool gaze took in the fetching scene which Miss Stone had obviously planned in advance so that she would appear to best advantage. Sunlight streamed in the window beside her, highlighting her gleaming cascade of dark hair, a long strand of which she was idly curling around her forefinger as she feigned absorption in her book; her yellow morning dress was arranged in graceful folds, and her feet were coyly tucked beneath her. Her profile was serene, with long lashes slightly lowered, and a faint suggestion of a smile played about her generous lips. Impatient with her little charade, Nicolas stepped into the room. “A very charming picture, Mademoiselle. My compliments,” he drawled insolently.

  Snapping her head up, Whitney closed the book of etiquette containing Emily’s letters and laid it aside as she arose. Uncertainly, she gazed at a man in his late twenties who was coldly regarding her down the length of his aristocratic nose. He was undeniably handsome, with black hair and piercing, gold-flecked brown eyes.

  “Have you had an edifying look, Mademoiselle?” he asked bluntly.

  Realizing that she had been staring at him, Whitney caught herself abruptly and nodded toward the note in his hand. “Have you come to see my aunt?”

  To Whitney’s stunned amazement, the man strolled into the room and thrust the note at her. “I am Nicolas DuVille, and your butler has already informed me that you have been expecting me. Therefore, I believe we can dispense with your pretense of coy surprise, can we not?”

  Whitney stood in shock as the man subjected her to a leisurely appraisal that began at her face and wandered boldly down the full length of her rigid body. Did his gaze actually linger on her breasts, or was it only her confused imagination that made it seem that way? When he was finished inspecting her from the front, he strolled ar
ound her, considering her from all angles as if she were a horse he was thinking of purchasing. “Don’t bother,” he said, when Whitney nervously opened the note. “It says that Therèse left her bracelet here, but you and I know that is only an excuse for us to meet.”

  Whitney was bewildered, embarrassed, amused, and insulted, all at the same time. Therèse had said her brother was arrogant, but somehow Whitney had never imagined he’d be this horrid.

  “Actually,” he said, as he came around to stand in front of her, “you are not at all what I expected.” His voice held a note of reluctant approbation.

  “Nicolas!” Aunt Anne’s gracious greeting relieved Whitney of the necessity of replying. “How lovely to see you. I’ve been expecting you—one of the maids discovered Therèse’s bracelet beneath a cushion of a sofa. The clasp was broken. I’ll get it for you,” she said, hurrying from the room.

  Nicki’s startled gaze shot to Miss Stone. A smile trembled on her lips as she lifted her delicate brows at him, visibly enjoying his chagrin. In view of his earlier rudeness, Nicki felt that some form of polite conversation was now required of him. He leaned down and picked up the etiquette book containing Emily’s letters, glanced at the title, and then at Whitney. “Are you learning good manners, Mademoiselle?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” Miss Stone replied, her eyes glowing with suppressed laughter. “Would you care to borrow my book?”

  Her quip earned her a lazy, devastating smile of admiration. “I see that some form of atonement for my earlier behavior is in order. Mademoiselle,” he said with laughing gravity, “would you favor me with a dance tomorrow night?”

  Whitney hesitated, taken aback by his engaging smile and open admiration.

  Mistaking her silence for coquettishness, Nicolas shrugged, and all the warmth left his smile as he said with mocking amusement, “From your hesitation, I will assume that all your dances are already bespoken. Another time, perhaps.”

  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 Therèse 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. Therèse was a pretty thing, sweet as lemonade, but at least from a brother’s viewpoint, she had few hidden depths to interest a man, particularly a man like Nicholas, who detested predictability.

  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 lend 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.

  Therèse and her mama arrived only seconds before the musicians raised their instruments for the first dance. “I have the most splendid news,” Therèse 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.

  Therèse 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 black 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 paying 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 ast
onished 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 music 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.