Free Whitney, My Love by Judith McNaught Page A

hurried
across the lawn, entering the ballroom on the opposite side.
    From that point on, her evening declined. She was tense
and jumpy, half expecting the black-cloaked figure she would always think of
as "Satan" to accost her in the ballroom, even though he remained well away
from her, surrounded by a small group of people who were talking and
laughing with him.
    As she waited with her aunt and uncle to take leave of
their host and hostess, Whitney surreptitiously watched Satan's tall figure
moving along the line of departing guests in front of them. His head was
bent low as be listened attentively to the blond woman who was smiling up at
him. He laughed at something she said, and Whitney flushed as she recalled
the way he had laughed with her in the garden. Irritably, she wondered who
the blond woman with him was. His mistress, she decided uncharitably, for
he'd never waste a moment's time with any female unless she was willing to
{day that role, at feast for one night!
    Without warning he turned, and for the second time that
evening, Whitney was caught in the act of staring at him. His gaze captured
hers, and Whitney raised her chin, trying to stare him out of countenance. A
strange, unfathomable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he slowly
inclined Us head toward her. Angrily, Whitney jerked her gaze away.
Arrogant, conceited-she couldn't think of enough terrible things to call him
in her mind.
    "What in the world is the matter, darling?" Aunt Anne
whispered beside her.
    Whitney started nervously, then cautiously tipped her
head in the direction of the front door where Satan was now placing an
elegant cape around the blonde's shoulders. "Do you know who he is, Aunt
Anne?"
    Her aunt studied the couple for a moment, started to
shake her head in the negative, then stopped abruptly as the blonde reached
up and swept off her demi-mask. "That's Marie St Allermain-the famous
singer," Anne whispered. "I'm certain of it." Whitney saw an odd, awed
expression cross her aunt's face as she scrutinized the dark-haired man in
the Mack cape. "And if she is St. Allermain, then he would have to be. .. my
God! It is!"
    Anne's gaze swung sharply to her niece, but Whitney was
watching Satan move his hand in a tight caress over the blonde's back as he
guided her out the front door. She remembered how those same hands had drawn
her to him and flushed with outraged shame.
    "Why do you ask?" Anne said tightly.
    The last thing Whitney wanted to do was admit to anyone
that she'd been foolish enough to go into the garden with a man whom she was
now certain she'd never met before.
    "I-I thought he was someone I know, but I realize now he
isn't," Whitney answered and was greatly relieved when her aunt seemed
willing to drop the subject.
    As a matter of fact, Anne was delighted to drop the
subject. She had planned and dreamed too long to see Whitney become just
another conquest of the Duke of Claymore. Marie St. Allermain had been his
mistress for nearly a year, and rumor had it that he had even accompanied
her to Spain when she sang in a command performance before the king and
queen two months ago.
    For years, gossip had linked the man with every
beautiful female of suitable lineage in Europe, but marriage was not among
the things he offered. Behind that handsome nobleman there was a trail of
young women's broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that would
make any sensible woman with an unmarried female relation shudder! He was
the last man on the continent in whom Anne wanted Whitney to show any
interest.
    The last man in the entire world!
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    EXACTLY FOUR WEEKS AFTER THE ARMANDS' MASQUERADE,
Matthew Bennett left his office and stepped into a splendid
burgundy-lacquered coach with the Westmoreland ducal crest emblazoned in
gold on the door panel. He placed his deerskin case containing the reports
on Miss Whitney Allison Stone on the seat beside him, then