Free Whitney, My Love by Judith McNaught

arrived."
    My God! Did his gaze actually wander over her body, or
was it only her imagination? When he leaned back and casually perched his
hip on the wrought iron table, Whitney felt suddenly uneasy. "Who are you?"
she demanded firmly.
    "A friend."
    "Absolutely not! I can't recall anyone of my
acquaintance with your height or eyes, or with such outrageously bold
manners, especially for an Englishman." She paused and studied him
uncertainly. "Are you English?"
    He gazed down into her searching green eyes and
chuckled. "How remiss of me," he mocked lightly. "I should have said 'what
ho' and 'egad' and 'quite so'-so that you would know I am."
    His humor was infectious, and Whitney could not stop her
answering smile. "Very well, now that you've admitted you're English, tell
me who you are."
    "Who would you like for me to be, little one?" he asked.
"Women always admire noble titles-would you like it if I told you I am a
duke?"
    Whitney burst out laughing. "You may be a highwayman, or
even a pirate." She twinkled at him. "But you are no more a duke than I am."
    The amusement vanished from his smile, replaced by a
quizzical puzzlement. "May I ask why you are so certain that I am not?"
    Thinking back to the only duke she'd ever seen, Whitney
impudently surveyed him from head to foot, deliberately repaying him for the
lingering glance he'd subjected her to. "Beginning with the most obvious, if
you were a duke you would have a quizzing glass."
    "But how would I use a quizzing glass with a mask?" he
countered curiously.
    "A duke does not use a quizzing glass to see-it is
merely an affectation. He raises it to his eye and peers at all the ladies
in the room. But there are other reasons you cannot possibly be a duke," she
continued irrepressibly. "You don't walk with a cane, you don't wheeze and
snort, and in all honesty, I doubt you could claim even a mild case of gout
to your credit."
    "Gout!" he choked, laughing.
    Whitney nodded. "Without the cane, the gout, and the
wheezing and snorting, you cannot possibly hope to convince anyone that you
are a duke. Couldn't you choose some other title to which to aspire? You
might be able to pass yourself off as an Earl if you had a bit of a squint
and a clubfoot."
    He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter,
then he shook his head and regarded her with a thoughtful, almost tender
expression. "Miss Stone," he asked with amused gravity, "hasn't anyone
taught you that noble titles are to be revered, not laughed at?"
    "They did try," Whitney admitted, with a laughing look.
    "And?"
    "And, as you can see, they failed."
    For a long moment, his gaze lingered on the elegant
perfection of her glowing face, then settled on her entrancing green eyes.
"But the initial clue that I am not a duke is the absence of a quizzing
glass?" he said rather absently.
    Whitney toyed with the ribbons of her mask and smiled as
she nodded. "You would have ft with you at all times."
    "Even riding to a hunt?" he persisted.
    She shrugged lightly. "If you were a duke, you'd be too
stout to ride."
    In a deceptively casual move, he captured her wrists,
drawing her forward so that her hip pressed against his hard thigh. "Even in
bed?" he asked softly.
    Whitney, who had been paralyzed into inaction by his
unexpected move, flung off both his hands and fixed him with an icy stare
while a dozen scathing remarks tumbled to be first from her lips.
    Just as she opened her mouth, he stood up, looming over
her. "May I get you a glass of champagne?" he offered soothingly.
    "You may go straight to-" Swallowing her outrage in
deference to his daunting height and powerful shoulders, Whitney nodded.
"Please," she choked.
    He stood there for a moment, his imperturbable gray gaze
studying Whitney's stormy green eyes, then he turned, striding off toward
the house for her champagne.
    The moment he walked through the archway, Whitney's
breath came out in a long rush of relief. Whirling around, she