Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“I would much rather think of dancing.”

Nicki looked on the verge of argument, then he reconsidered and offered her his arm. “We’ll dance then,” he said curtly.

But even in that, he was to be thwarted. A deep voice that seemed to leap out of the shadows behind them said, “Unfortunately, Monsieur, Miss Stone has promised this waltz to me.”

Whitney turned in astonishment as a black-cloaked form materialized from the darkness. Even without the almost Satanic costume, Whitney would have recognized that mocking smile—it was identical to the one this man had given her across the ballroom, when he’d caught her inadvertently staring at him. “You promised me this dance,” Satan said when she hesitated.

Whitney had no idea who this unidentified acquaintance could be, but she was very anxious to avoid further conversation about marriage with Nicki. “I don’t remember promising anyone a dance tonight,” she said hesitantly.

“You promised me months ago,” Satan informed her, putting his hand beneath her elbow and exerting just enough pressure to begin drawing her with him toward the ballroom.

Smothering a smile at the man’s outrageous audacity, Whitney looked over her shoulder and politely excused herself to Nicki, but she could feel his cool gaze on her back with every step she took.

Nicki was forgotten, however, as she stepped into Satan’s arms and found herself being whirled around in time to the sweeping music by a man who danced with the easy grace of someone who has waltzed a thousand times and more. Around and around they floated until Whitney couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “Did I really promise you a dance tonight?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

His blunt answer made her laugh. “Who are you?” she asked conspiratorially.

A lazy grin swept across his tanned face. “A friend?” he offered in a voice rich and deep.

Whitney didn’t recognize his voice at all. “No. You are an acquaintance, but not a friend.”

“I will have to remedy that,” he replied with absolute confidence that he could.

Whitney felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self-assurance. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I already have more friends than I know what to do with now, and they all vow their loyalty to me until death.”

“In that case,” he said, a smile lighting his gray eyes, “perhaps one of them will meet with an accident—with a little assistance from me.”

Whitney was unable to stop her answering smile. His last words held no menace, she knew; he was merely playing verbal chess with her, and it was exhilarating to try to counter his moves. “It would be most unkind of you to hasten any of my friends to their demise. My friends are a disreputable lot, and their final destination may not have a pleasant climate.”

“A warm one?” he teased.

With a sigh of mock regret, Whitney solemnly nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

He laughed at her, a throaty, contagious laugh, and his eyes suddenly seemed to regard her with a bold, speculative gleam that Whitney found unsettling. She looked away, trying to decide who he was. Outside on the patio, he’d spoken in flawless French, yet here on the dance floor, his English was equally flawless and without a trace of an accent. His face, that part of it which wasn’t covered by his black mask, had a healthy golden tan which he certainly couldn’t have acquired in Paris this early in the spring. And not in England, either.

The task of trying to place him among the hundreds of men to whom she’d been introduced during the last two years was formidable, but Whitney tried anyway. Mentally, she reviewed the men of her acquaintance, discarding one after another as being either not tall enough or with eyes of a color other than his unusual gray. His height, easily two inches over six feet, was his most outstanding feature. She reviewed the clues but still could not identify him. Yet, he knew her well enough to recognize her even though she was wearing a demi-mask. When the strains of the waltz died, she was no closer to identifying him than she had been when the dance began.

Whitney stepped away from him, half turning toward Nicki who was standing near the edge of the dance floor, but her partner firmly claimed her hand, tucked it under his arm, and drew her in the opposite direction toward the doors opening off the south side of the house into the gardens.

Several steps from the doors, Whitney began to doubt the wisdom of letting herself be led into the night by a man whom she couldn’t yet identify. She was on the verge of refusing to take another step when she saw that there were at least two dozen guests scattered about the brick paths that wound through the lantern-lit gardens, any one of whom would come to her aid if her escort failed to conduct himself as a gentleman. Not that Whitney actually doubted he was a gentleman, for the Armands were notoriously meticulous in choosing their guests.

Outside, she reached behind her and untied the ribbons of her demi-mask, letting it dangle from her fingers as she breathed in the fragrance of the spring night scented with blossoms. They came to a white ornamental iron table and chairs, well within sight of the house and other guests, and her escort pulled out a chair for her. “No, I’d rather stand,” Whitney said, reveling in the relative quiet and the beauty of the dappled moonlight.

“Well, Persephone, how are we to manage our friendship if none of your present friends are likely to do me the favor of dying in the foreseeable future?”

Whitney smiled, pleased that at least one person at the ball didn’t confuse her with Venus. “How did you know who I am?”

She was referring to her identity of Persephone, but evidently, Satan misunderstood her, for he shrugged and said, “DuVille isn’t wearing a mask and, since rumor has it that the two of you are inseparable, when I saw him, I realized who you were.”

A frown marred Whitney’s smooth forehead at the unwelcome news that she and Nicki were being linked together by the gossips.

“Since that answer seems to disturb you,” he said drily, “perhaps I should have been more honest and told you that there are certain . . . attributes . . . of yours that made it easy for me to identify you even with your mask on and before DuVille 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 ir

on table, Whitney felt suddenly uneasy. “Who are you?” she demanded firmly.

“A friend.”

“Absolutely not! I can’t recall anyone of my acquaintance with you 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.”