Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  "In that case," he said, his expression turning humorous, "I suppose it would be perfectly proper for two friends to exchange a farewell kiss."

  With a dazzling smile of joyous amazement, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed and puckered her lips, but his mouth only brushed her cheek. When she opened her eyes, he was striding from the garden.

  "Paul Sevarin," she whispered with great determination. "I shall change completely in France, and when I come home, you are going to marry me."

  As the packet they had boarded at Portsmouth pitched and rocked across the choppy Channel, Whitney stood at the rail, her gaze fastened on the receding English coastline. The wind caught at the wide rim of her bonnet, tugging it free to dangle from its ribbons, whipping her hair against her cheek. She stared at her homeland, conjuring a vision of how it would be when she again crossed this Channel. Of course, news of her return would be announced in the papers: "Miss Whitney Stone," they would proclaim, "lately the belle of Paris, returns this week to her native England." A faint smile touched Whitney's lips … The belle of Paris . . .

  She pushed her unruly hair off her face, stuffing it into the crown of her childish bonnet, and resolutely turned her back on England.

  The Channel seemed to smooth out as she marched across the deck to stare in the direction of France. And her future.

  FRANCE

  1816-1820

  Chapter Three

  SITUATED BEHIND WROUGHT-IRON GATES, LORD AND LADY Gilbert's Parisian home was imposing without being austere. Huge bow windows admitted light to the spacious rooms; pastels lent an air of sunny elegance to everything from parlors to second-floor bedrooms. "And these are your rooms, darling," Anne said as she opened the door to a suite carpeted in pale blue.

  Whitney stood mesmerized on the threshold, her gaze roving longingly over the magnificent white satin coverlet on the bed splashed with flowers of orchid, pink, and blue. A dainty settee was covered in matching fabric. Delicate porcelain vases were filled with flowers in the same hues of orchid and pink. Ruefully, Whitney turned to her aunt. "I'd feel ever so much better, Aunt Anne, if you could find another room for me, something not quite so, well, fragile. Anyone at home," Whitney explained to Anne's amazed expression, "could tell you that I've only to walk by something delicate to send it crashing to the floor."

  Anne turned to the servant beside her who was shouldering Whitney's heavy trunk, "In here," Anne said with a firm nod of her head toward the wonderful blue room.

  "Don't say you weren't forewarned," sighed Whitney, removing her bonnet and settling herself gingerly on the flowered settee. Paris, she decided, was going to be heavenly.

  The parade of visitors began promptly at half past eleven, three days later, with the arrival of Anne's personal dressmaker, accompanied by three smiling seamstresses who talked endlessly about styles and fabrics and measured and remeasured Whitney.

  Thirty minutes after they departed, Whitney found herself marching back and forth with a book on her head before the critical stare of the plump woman whom Aunt Anne was entrusting with the formidable task of teaching Whitney something called "social graces."

  "I am atrociously clumsy, Madame Froussard," Whitney explained with an embarrassed flush as the book plummeted to the floor for the third time.

  "But no!" Madame Froussard contradicted, shaking her elaborately coiffed silver hair. "Mademoiselle Stone has a natural grace and excellent posture. But Mademoiselle most learn not to walk as if she were in a race."

  By the dancing instructor who arrived on the heels of Madame Froussard's departure, Whitney was whirled around the room in time to an imaginary waltz and judged, "Not at aO hopeless-with practice."

  By the French tutor who appeared at tea time, she was pronounced, "Fit to instruct me, Lady Gilbert"

  For some months, Madame Froussard visited for two hours, five times each week, instructing Whitney in the social graces. Under her relentless, exacting tutelage, Whitney worked diligently to learn anything which might eventually help her win favor in Paul's eyes.

  "Exactly what are you teaming from Madame Froussard?" inquired Uncle Edward as they dined one evening.

  A sheepish look crept across Whitney's face. "She is teaching me to stroll not gallop." She waited, half expecting her uncle to say that was a nonsensical waste of time, but instead he smiled approvingly. Whitney smiled back, feeling unaccountably happy. "Do you know," she teased, "I once believed that all one needed to walk properly were two sound limbs!"

  From that night on, Whitney's laughing anecdotes about her day's endeavors became a delightful ritual at each evening meal. "Did you ever observe, Uncle," she asked him gaily one night, "that there is an art to turning around in a court dress with a train?"

  "Mine never gave me any trouble," he joked.

  "Done incorrectly," Whitney informed him with mock solemnity, "one is likely to find oneself wrapped in a train that has just become a tourniquet."

  A month later she slid into her chair and fluttered a silken fan, eyeing her uncle with a speculative sparkle over the slats. "Are you over-warm, my dear?" Edward asked her, already into the spirit of the inevitable fun.

  "A fan is not really for cooling oneself," Whitney advised him, batting her long eyelashes with an exaggerated coquetry that made Anne burst out laughing. "A fan is for flirting. It is also for keeping one's hands gracefully occupied. And for slapping the arm of a gentleman who is too forward."

  The laughter vanished from Edward's face. "What gentleman has become too forward?" he demanded tersely.

  "Why, no one has. I don't know any gentlemen yet," Whitney replied.

  Anne watched the two of them, her smile filled with joy, for Whitney now occupied the place in Edward's heart, and hers, that would have been their own daughter's.

  One evening the following May, the month before Whitney's official debut into society, Edward produced three opera tickets. Tossing them with artificial casualness in front of Whitney, he suggested that-if her schedule permitted- she might enjoy accompanying her aunt and himself to the Embassy's private box.

  A year ago, Whitney would have whirled around in a rapturous circle, but she had changed now, so instead she beamed at her uncle and said, "I would like that above anything, Uncle Edward."

  In silence she sat while Clarissa, who had been Susan

  Stone's maid before she became companion and maid to Susan's daughter, brushed her hair and swept it upward, smoothing it into curls at the crown. Her new white bock with ice-blue velvet ribbons at the high waistline and frilled hemline was gently lowered over her head. A matching ice-blue satin cloak completed her ensemble. Whitney stood before her mirror, staring at herself with shining eyes. Tentatively, she dropped into a deep throne room curtsy, her head bowed to the perfect angle. "May I present Miss Whitney Stone," she murmured gravely. "The belle of Paris."

  A fine, chilly mist descended, making the Paris streets gleam in the moonlight. Whitney snuggled deeper into the folds of her satin cloak, loving the feel of it against her chin, while she looked out the window at the teaming mass of humanity scurrying along the wide, rain-swept boulevards.

  Outside the theatre crowds milled about in gay defiance of the dampness. Handsome gentlemen in satin coats and tight-fitting breeches bowed and nodded to ladies who glittered with jewels. Stepping from the coach, Whitney gazed in wonderment at the unbelievably gorgeous ladies who stood, poised and confident, talking to their escorts. They were, she decided then and there, the most beautiful women in the world, and she instantly dismissed any future hope of ever really being "the belle of Paris. "But she did so with very little regret, for there was a wonderful exhilaration in simply being here among them.

  As the trio made their way into the theatre, only Anne observed the younger gentlemen whose idle glances flickered past Whitney, then returned for another, longer look. Whit-ney's beauty was a blossoming thing, a vividness of features and coloring that promised much more to come. There was a radiance about her that sprang from her livel
y spirit and zest for life, a regalness and poise in her bearing that came from clashing head-on for so many years with adversity.

  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 beads 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, Therese, 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 fast time since leaving England, she felt gauche and ill at ease. "Are-are you enjoying the opera?" she managed at last.

  "No," Therese 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 Therese'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 Therese 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 Therese's unreserved offer of friendship. The smile was all the encouragement Therese 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 Therese 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," Therese 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," Therese 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 Therese's arrogant older brother.

  Chapter Four

  ON THE DAY BEFORE WHTTNEY'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 quiet 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, Therese, had insisted he deliver personally to Miss Stone. Since Therese 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 band. "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 around her, considering her from all angles as if she were a h
orse he was thinking of purchasing. "Don't bother," he said, when Whitney nervously opened the note. "It says that Therese 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. Therese 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 an 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 Therese'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 teaming 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."