Whitney My Love Read online

  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