Leaning over, Clayton caught her under the arms and swung her up onto his horse so that she was sitting sideways in front of him. "They are waiting for you to tell them who won the race," he pointed out, ignoring her indignant expression at being so familiarly handled.

"My horse was winded over a mile back," Whitney called out. "Mr. Westland won." She turned to Clayton and said under her breath, "Actually, there was no winner."

His brows lifted mockingly. "Your horse was tiring and you were going to lose," he told her. "And you are a fine enough rider to have realized that long before you fell."

"I'm delighted that you are at least willing to give me credit for taking an honest fall," Whitney retorted primly.

Clayton chuckled. "If you had the slightest notion of how much credit I do give you, it would astonish you."

Before Whitney could consider that staggering pronouncement, he lifted her effortlessly down from the saddle. Standing beside Paul, she watched Clayton turn his horse and gallop over the crest of the hill.

Thursday dragged by with little to occupy Whitney's time. Paul was busy with preparations for his trip, so she spent her day helping with the arrangements for her father's birthday party on Saturday and catching up on her correspondence with friends in Paris.

Friday morning, she wrote a long letter to Emily, who was back in London. The temptation to break her self-imposed, almost superstitious silence about Paul was nearly past bearing, so she hinted that she would soon have some very exciting news for her friend. She ended with a promise to visit Emily in London, a promise Whitney knew she would keep very soon, because she would need to go there in order to purchase her wedding gown and trousseau. When she was there, she would ask Emily to be matron of honor at the wedding, she decided happily.

She brought the letter downstairs to be sent off, and discovered that Clayton Westland had just arrived. He was chatting amiably with Anne in the rose salon, and he politely rose when Whitney joined them.

"I came to reassure myself that you've fully recovered from your accident the other day," he told her, and there was none of his usual mocking irony in his tone.

Whitney knew this was his way of apologizing for thinking she had faked her fall. "Completely recovered," she assured him.

"Excellent," he said. "Then you won't be able to claim fogged thinking or ill health if I beat you soundly at chess again. This afternoon?"

Whitney rose to his bait like a trout for a fly-which is why she ended up spending the better part of the day pleasurably engaged in battling and bantering with him across the chessboard, with her aunt ensconced on the settee, acting as smiling chaperone while her fingers flew nimbly over her embroidery.

Lying in bed that night, Whitney courted sleep, but it refused to come. She lifted her left hand and looked at her long fingers in the darkness. Would there be a betrothal ring there tomorrow? It was possible, if only her father would return early enough tomorrow afternoon for Paul to speak to him. And then they could announce their engagement at the party tomorrow night.

Whitney was not the only one unable to sleep. With his hands linked behind his head, Clayton stared at the ceiling above his bed, pleasurably contemplating their wedding night. His blood stirred hotly as he imagined Whitney's silken, long-limbed body beneath his, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. She was a virgin, and he would take care to arouse her gently until she was moaning with rapture in his arms.

With that delightful thought in mind, he rolled over onto his side and finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

LADY 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.