"But your mother will think I'm the gauchest female alive if I deliberately provoke him."

Stephen grinned boyishly at her. "My mother will think you are brave and wonderful. Just as I do. Now courage, young lady! I'm expecting to see more of the gay, spirited female I watched at the Kingsleys' the other night."

There was just time for Whitney to flash an astonished, grateful look at him as he led her to her place at the table. As Stephen seated her, Clayton remarked with withering sarcasm, "It's kind of you finally to join us."

"It was kind of you to ask me, your grace," Whitney returned pointedly.

Clayton ignored her and nodded to the servants to begin serving. He was seated at the head of the table, with his mother on his right, and Vanessa on his left. Whitney was next to the duchess, and Stephen took a place opposite Whitney, beside Vanessa.

As the servant poured champagne into Whitney's glass, Clayton drawled caustically, "Leave the bottle next to Miss Stone. She is overly fond of champagne, as I recall."

Whitney's spirits gave a leap of joy-Clayton was no longer able to ignore her! Surely he must still care for her to be angry enough to say such a thing. She smiled enchantingly at him over her glass and sipped the bubbly wine. "Not overly fond of champagne. Although at times it does help to reinforce one's courage."

"Really? I wouldn't know."

"Ah yes, you prefer whiskey to reinforce yours," she quipped as he lifted his glass to his mouth. His eyes narrowed ominously and Whitney quickly looked away. Please love me, she implored him silently. Don't make me go through this for nothing.

"Do you play the pianoforte, Whitney?" the duchess asked, nervously stepping in to cover the charged silence.

"Only if I wish to give offense," Whitney replied with a shy smile.

"Do you sing then?" her grace persisted in sheer desperation.

"Yes," Whitney laughed, "but without the slightest attention to tune, I'm afraid."

"Really, Miss Stone," Vanessa drawled, "it's extraordinary to meet a gently reared Englishwoman who has not been taught either to sing or to play. Exactly what are your accomplishments?"

"Whitney is a proficient flirt," Clayton interjected scathingly, answering Vanessa's question himself. "She is conversant in several languages and could undoubtedly do a creditable job of cursing fluently in all of them. She plays a fair game of chess, a poor game of solitaire, and is a capable horsewoman when deprived of her crop. She claims to excel with a slingshot-a talent for which I can't vouch firsthand, and she is a convincing actress-a talent for which I can. Have I treated you fairly, Whitney?" he snapped.

"Not entirely, your grace," Whitney said softly, stinging from the cruel whips of his words even though she was smiling. "Surely my chess game is better than 'fair.' And if you doubt my skill with the slingshot, I shall be pleased to demonstrate it to you-providing that you volunteer to be my target, as I have just been yours."

Stephen gave a sharp crack of laughter and his mother croaked, "Have you attended many social functions since you've come back from France?"

Whitney felt Clayton's scorching gaze on her and could not quite meet it. "Many parties and balls. Although no one has given a masquerade, and I particularly enjoy them. I believe my lord duke enjoys them equally-"

"Do you also enjoy weddings?" Vanessa asked her smoothly. "If so, we shall be certain to invite you to ours."

The silence of an ancient tomb settled over the table Whitney tried valiantly to continue eating but could not swallow past the lump of desolation swelling in her throat. She looked miserably at Stephen, who shrugged imperturbably, and arched a brow in Clayton's direction. She knew that Stephen meant for her to continue, but she couldn't now. It was over. As transparent as it would be to everyone when she pleaded sudden illness, Whitney couldn't bear to stay at that table. She was too bruised and battered to care that everyone would know that the announcement of Clayton and Vanessa's betrothal was the reason she was leaving.

She took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table beside her plate. As she reached down to slide her heavy chair back, a feminine hand suddenly came to rest over hers. The duchess gave her fingers a brief, encouraging squeeze, then held them tightly in a gesture that clearly said, "Stay and finish what you have begun."

Whitney smiled uncertainly, hesitated, then replaced her napkin. She glanced at Clayton, who was moodily contemplating the wine in his glass, then at Vanessa. Whitney couldn't bear to think of Clayton married to such a haughty beauty-not when she herself loved him so much, and had come this far, in this embarrassing fashion, to tell him so. She thought of Clayton holding Vanessa in his arms and kissing her in that intimate way of his, and that made Whitney angry and jealous enough to stay.

Vanessa put her hand on Clayton's arm. "I hope you aren't angry with me for blurting out our secret in front of a stranger."

"I'm certain he isn't in the least angry, Miss Standfield," Whitney said quietly, but her eyes were on Clayton. "We all do foolish things when we're in love. Don't we, your grace?"

"Do we?" Clayton countered repressively. "I hadn't noticed."

"Then you either have a very short memory," Whitney challenged softly, "or a very convenient one. Or perhaps you've never been in love, after all."

Clayton's wineglass slammed on the table. "Precisely what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Whitney withered before the blast of those gray eyes. "Nothing," she lied softly.

The clink of silver began again. She watched Clayton's hand flexing on his goblet of wine, clenching it and loosening, then clenching again, and she knew he was wishing that her neck, not his goblet, were in his grip. After several minutes, his mother nervously cleared her throat, and cautiously said to Whitney, "Tell me, my dear, were things very different here in England when you returned?"

Whitney started to reply impersonally, but then she realized that the duchess had just unknowingly given her exactly the opening she needed. Since Clayton wasn't willing to let her explain in private, perhaps she could at least make him partially understand, here, at the table. "Very different!" she said with feeling. "You see, shortly after I returned to England, I discovered that while I was still in France my father had arranged for my marriage to a man I had scarcely met, and did not even recognize when I saw him again here." "How distressing," replied the duchess with a dawning look of understanding.

"Indeed it was-particularly because I have a freakish streak in my nature which positively rebels against being coldly ordered about by anyone. And the man I was to marry, although he was kind and understanding in many ways, was quite horridly arbitrary and imperious about the betrothal. He acted as if I had no choice in the matter whatever."

"These arranged marriages can be difficult to adjust to at first," the duchess agreed. "What did you do then?"

"She betrothed herself to another man who was thoroughly spineless and an idiot!" Clayton announced coldly.

"But not dictatorial and tyrannical," Whitney shot back. "And I did not betroth myself to Paul at all!"

Angry silence reigned until Stephen laughingly said, "My God, don't keep us in suspense. Then what happened?"

Clayton answered for her in a contemptuous drawl. "Since there were another thousand eligible men in London, Miss Stone set about seeing how many of those she could betroth herself to as well."

Whitney couldn't endure it when he used that tone of voice. She bit her lip and meekly shook her head. "No, I was only ever betrothed to one man, but he's so angry with me, he won't give me a chance to explain. He's already withdrawn his offer."

"The beast!" Stephen said cheerfully, helping himself to a second portion of duck a 1'orange. "He sounds like an evil-tempered sort. You're probably much better off without him." "I-I have a rather formidable temper myself," Whitney admitted.

"In that case, he's better off without you," Clayton snapped, then his gaze swung on Stephen with deadly menace. "Stephen, I find this conversation not only excessively boring, but in excruciatingly bad taste. Am I making myself clear?"

Stephen met his brother's look with sham bewilderment and nodded, but even he didn't dare to reopen the subject.

Servants moved about the room, and all five people at the dining table studiously concentrated on the sumptuous fare on their plates, but only Stephen ate with any enjoyment. Whitney told herself she would try once more, just once more, to make Clayton leave the room with her. Although how she was going to cope with him if she succeeded, was beyond her imagination.

"Stephen asked you a question, Clayton," Vanessa whispered.

"What?" Clayton demanded, staring at Stephen with blazing animosity.

"I asked how your horses did at the last race."

"They did well," was the curt answer.

"How well?" Stephen persisted. Although he addressed the table at large, the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was aimed at Whitney as he explained. "We had a bet that three of Clayton's and two of mine would come in the money. I know mine placed, and only two of his did, which means he lost the bet, and he owes me Ј300." Stephen's conspiratorial grin widened meaningfully at Whitney. "He doesn't care about the money, but he hates to admit he lost. He's never learned to accept defeat."

Clayton laid down his knife and fork, preparing to give Stephen the brutal setdown he'd earned hours before, but Whitney, taking Stephen's cue, immediately drew off Clay-ton's fire. "How strange you should say that," she said to Stephen, looking genuinely amazed. "I have found that your brother accepts defeat without even putting up the slightest struggle. Why, faced with the tiniest discouragement, he simply gives up and-"

Clayton's open hand slammed down on the table with a crash that made the dishes dance. He surged to his feet, a muscle leaping furiously along the taut line of his jaw. "Miss Stone and I have something to say to each other which is best said in private." He gritted out the words, flinging his napkin down on the table. Swiftly, he strode around the table and jerked Whitney's chair back. "Get up!" he snapped in a tow, terrible voice when Whitney remained frozen in her seat. His hand clamped down painfully on her forearm and Whitney rose unsteadily.

The duchess looked at her in helpless dismay, but Stephen lifted his glass to Whitney in a silent toast and grinned.

Forcibly pulling her beside him, Clayton strode purposefully from the room and down the carpeted marble hallway. As they passed the front door, he snapped at the butler, "Have Miss Stone's carriage waiting in front in three minutes!" He turned down a side hall and nodded curtly to a servant who opened the doors of a luxurious study for them.

Clayton hauled her halfway across the room, which was lined with books recessed behind richly carved arches of polished oak, then flung her arm away and stalked to the fireplace. Turning, he regarded her with a look of undiluted loathing, white he visibly strove to bring his rampaging temper under control. Suddenly his voice slashed through the silence. "You have exactly two minutes to explain the purpose of this unexpected and unwelcome visit of yours. At the end of that time, I will escort you to your carriage and make your excuses for your absence to my mother and brother."

Whitney drew a tortured breath, knowing that if he saw her fear now he would use it against her. "The purpose of my visit?" she said in a small, distracted voice, her mind frantically counting off the passing seconds. "I-! would have thought by now it was obvious."

"It is not obvious!"

"I've come to-to explain why I said what I did to you at the banquet. You see," she said, stammering in her haste to finish in the minutes he'd allotted her, "earlier at the church, I thought we-you and I-still had an agreement, and-"

Clayton's eyes raked contemptuously over her. "We have no agreement," he said scathingly. "It's over. Done with. It should never have begun! The betrothal was an insane idea, and I curse the day I thought of it."

Sick with failure and defeat, Whitney dug her nails into the flesh of her palms and shook her head in denial. "It never had a chance to begin because I wouldn't let it.''

"Your two minutes are almost up."

"Clayton, please listen to me!" she cried desperately "You-you told me a long time ago that you wanted me to come to you willingly, that you didn't want a cold, unwilling wife."