SHE WAS STILL HALF CONVINCED OF IT WHEN THEIR COACH DREW away from Emily's London townhouse. "Do you know," she whispered miserably, "I never liked champagne."

With a throaty laugh Clayton put his arm around her and drew her throbbing head against his shoulder. "I'm rather surprised to hear that," he teased.

Sighing, Whitney closed her eyes and slept until they were almost at her home, occasionally clutching Clayton's arm when their coach gave a particularly sharp lurch

She awakened feeling entirely restored and very sheepish. "I haven't been very good company," she apologized, smiling ruefully at Clayton. "If you would like to come for supper. I-"

"I have to start back to London tonight," he interrupted.

"Tonight?" Whitney repeated, sitting bolt upright. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week."

Elation began to pulse through Whitney's veins and she quickly turned her face from him. If Clayton was in London, Paul and she could elope to Scotland without having to fear that he would learn of their elopement in time to come after them. His going to London now was a stroke of luck beyond any she could have hoped for. It was a boon! It was a blessing!

It was a calamity.

The relief she'd been feeling turned to panic, and Whitney's head began to pound with renewed vigor. Dear God, Clayton was going back to London. As gentlemen did, he would probably spend his evenings at his clubs, dining or gambling with his friends and acquaintances. In those clubs there were bound to be men who had attended the Ruther-fords' ball and heard the rumor of his betrothal in the club's atmosphere of easy camaraderie, his friends would naturally press him to confirm or deny the rumor. And Whitney could almost imagine Clayton grinning and telling them that it was true. And if he did, he would look like an utter fool when she eloped with Paul instead.

Awash with misery, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed. As much as she feared Clayton's vengeance, which would now be far more awesome because he would feel publicly humiliated, she dreaded even more being the cause of that public humiliation. She couldn't bear the thought of this proud man becoming the object of derision and pity. He had done nothing to deserve that. Last night she had seen how respected and admired he was by everyone. Now, because of her, he would be humbled before them.

Whitney clasped her clammy palms together in her lap. Perhaps she could prevent a public scandal. Paul was due home tomorrow. If they eloped tomorrow night, she could notify Clayton in London almost at once, and the sooner he knew of her elopement, the fewer people he would tell that he had offered for her.

Naturally, she would make certain her message didn't reach him in time for him to come after her. Tuning, she decided with a lump growing in her throat, was going to be essential. No matter how travel-weary Paul might be, they would have to leave within hours of his return. Once Clayton learned of her elopement, he wouldn't tell anyone he was betrothed to her. He could pass the betrothal rumor off with one of his mocking smiles and simply appear at some public function with one of those beautiful women who panted after him. And that would be that! Everyone would believe that his betrothal to a penniless nobody like Whitney Stone had merely been a joke, a ridiculous rumor.

Paul. Her heart sank when she thought of telling him they had to elope. He wouldn't want to do it; he would be concerned about the damage to her reputation that an elopement would cause. He had been so happy the night of her father's party, telling her about the plans he had for them, the improvements he would make to his house and lands to please her.

Clayton's hand cupped her chin and Whitney jumped nervously. "When Sevarin returns," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, "I want you to inform him at once that you aren't going to marry him. I will not tolerate people believing that my future wife has been engaged to another man. Give Sevarin any reason you wish for declining his offer, but tell him immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Whitney whispered.

Clayton gave her a long, penetrating look. "I want your word on it."

"I-" Whitney swallowed, profoundly touched that he was crediting her with having a sense of honor as strong as his own. She dragged her eyes to his, feeling utterably vile for betraying his trust. "I give you my word."

His expression softened and he looked at her with unbearable gentleness. "I know how hard it will be for you to tell him, little one. I promise I'll make it up to you someday." Tears burned the backs of her eyes and the muscles of her throat constricted as he tenderly traced the elegant curve of her cheek. "Forgive me?" he asked her softly.

Forgive him? Whitney's emotions were waning so fiercely inside of her that for one second, she actually considered turning into his strong arms and sobbing out her confused sorrow. Instead she nodded and gazed at him, trying to memorize his handsome face as it was now-because if she ever saw him again, she knew his expression would be one of icy rage.

They were turning up the road toward her house, and Whitney numbly pulled on her gloves.

"Why are you going back to London so quickly?" she asked as the time to bid him a final, painful goodbye drew nearer with each moment.

"Because I met with my Business managers early this morning and there are some decisions which I must make, once I've met with some people in the city. It's purely a matter of choosing which are the best investments in which to place a rather large sum of money," he reassured her, and with a grin he added, "Contrary to the gossip you heard about me at your father's party, I don't lead a life of leisurely debauchery. I have seven estates, a thousand tenants, and a hundred business interests, all of which are suffering from the lack of my attention-which has been devoted almost exclusively to you, my pet."

The coach drew to a stop in front of her house, and a footman came to open the door and let down the steps. Whitney began to rum toward the door, but Clayton's quiet voice stopped her. "My business affairs won't require that I remain in London for that long, but I thought you would want some time alone after you confront Sevarin. Unless you send word to me in London, I'll remain there until Sunday-a week from tomorrow."

As he told her how to reach him in London, Whitney heard the guarded hope in his voice that she would indeed send for him before the week was out, and she laid a trembling hand on his sleeve, aching to plead for his forgiveness and understanding. "Clayton, I-" She saw his pleasure at her voluntary touch and her use of his given name, and her voice broke. "Have a pleasant trip," she managed to say, pulling away and blindly climbing down from the coach.

As soon as she reached her room, Whitney sent a note round to Paul's house with instructions that no matter what time Mr. Sevarin returned, he was to be given it. In it, she asked him to send word to her that he was back and then to go immediately to the old gamekeeper's cottage where she would join him. There, at least, she would have some privacy so that she could explain her predicament. Explain her predicament! How in the world was she ever going to find the words to do that? she wondered dejectedly.

By nightfall there was still no word from Paul.

Twice as she dressed for bed, Whitney almost went down the hall to enlist her aunt's aid in the elopement. Each time, her better judgment warned that Aunt Anne would never consent to an elopement no matter how urgent Whitney's reasons might be. Aunt Anne would think only of the irreversible damage the elopement would do to Whitney's reputation. She would never understand that Whitney couldn't, she just couldn't take the coward's way out now and let Paul down, even if she wanted to-which she didn't, Whitney told herself without much conviction. He loved her. He was counting on her.

Since she couldn't trust Clarissa with her secret either, Whitney slowly packed her necessities and hid the case, then she climbed into bed and gazed at the ceiling. Of all the unpleasant tasks facing her, the one she dreaded most was writing the note she would have to send to Clayton in London.

Mentally she worded and reworded it. It preyed on her mind until she finally decided to get it over with and dragged herself out of bed. "Paul and I have eloped," she wrote. "I hope some day you will find it in your heart if not to forgive me, at least to understand."

Forgive? Understand? Never would Clayton do so. She sat at her desk and stared at the note, imagining Clayton's reaction to it. At first he would smile, thinking that she was sending word to him to return early, and then his smile would fade...

Shivering as if the blast from those glacial gray eyes were already levelled on her, Whitney crawled back into bed and huddled under the covers. She wasn't certain she had the courage to elope or even if she wanted to elope.

Tears trickled down her cheeks and dampened her pillow as she thought of the tall, gray-eyed man whom she would have to face when she returned from her elopement-a forceful, vital man who would turn away from her in disgust and loathing, who would never again laugh with her, never hold her in his strong arms, and never again call her "little one" in that tender way of his.

Paul's message arrived at eleven o'clock the following morning. Dressed warmly against the frosty chill of the cloudy day, Whitney raced Khan around the hillside and galloped into the overgrown yard of the deserted cottage. She tied Khan beside Paul's horse, then shoved open the creaky door of the cottage. The timid little tire Paul had built snapped and flickered on the hearth but did little to dispel the chilly gloom of the single empty room. At a movement behind her, Whitney whirled nervously. "Paul!"

"I believe you were expecting me," he teased. Straightening from his lounging position against the wall, he opened his arms and said, "Come here."

Whitney went to him and automatically turned her face up for his kiss, while her mind sorted through various ways to begin.

"I've missed you, brat," he murmured in her hair. "Have you missed me?"

"Yes," she answered absently, pulling away from his arms. She had to explain slowly, not heap all their tangled problems on him in the first minute. She moved toward the center of the room, then turned to face him. "Paul, I have some things to tell you which you are going to find"-she searched madly for the right word-"surprising."

"Go on," Paul urged, grinning. "I like surprises."

"Well, you aren't going to like this one!" she burst out helplessly. "You know Mr. Westland?"

Paul nodded.

"And do you recall at my father's party, how everyone was gossiping about the Duke of Claymore, Clayton Westmoreland?"

"I do," Paul said.

"Well, Mr. Westland is actually Westmoreland."

"The duke who disappeared?" Paul said, his expression a mixture of amusement, curiosity, and disbelief. "The duke who owns fifty estates, four hundred of the best horses in Europe, and who is, if my memory of the party gossip is correct, on the verge of marrying no less than fifty ravishingly beautiful females? That duke?"

Temporarily sidetracked, Whitney said, "Actually he only has seven estates. He may have four hundred horses, I don't know. But I do know that he is on the verge of marrying only one female. Now Paul," she said soothingly, her voice shaky with nerves, "I know you will find this as disconcerting as I did at first, but I am the female he's on the verge of marrying."

Paul's lips twitched with laughter as he came forward to draw her into his arms. "If he persists in his suit," he teased, running his thumb along her chin, "I'll tell him what I've just discovered-that when you are left to your own company, you drink the cooking sherry."

"Are you implying that I'm foxed?" Whitney gasped in disbelief.

"Drunk as a wheelbarrow," he joked, then he sobered. "Stop trying to make me jealous. If you're angry because I've been gone so long, then simply say so."

In sheer frustration, Whitney lurched back and stamped her foot. "I am not trying to make you jealous! I am trying to make you understand that I've been betrothed to Clayton Westmoreland since this past June." There, it was out!

"I beg your pardon?" Paul said, staring at her.

"Actually, I think it was July," Whitney rambled on disjointedly. "Do you think it's important?"

For the first time Paul took her seriously. "You accepted Westland?"

"Not Westland, Westmoreland," Whitney emphasized. "And I didn't accept him, my father did."

"'Then tell your father to marry him," Paul said tautly. "You love me, it's as simple as that." His blue eyes narrowed on her in censorious irritation. "You're playing games and I don't like ft. None of this makes sense."

"I can't help it," Whitney shot back, stung. "It's the truth."

"Then will you kindly explain to me how you happen to have been engaged since July to a man you didn't meet until September."

Now he was deadly serious and Whitney almost wished he weren't. Drawing a long, unsteady breath, she said, "I was introduced to him in France, but I didn't pay any attention to his name, nor did I remember his face. The next time I saw him was at a masquerade in May, and I couldn't see his face then either. At the masquerade, he decided he wanted to marry me, but he knew that my uncle was turning down all my suitors-because I wanted to come back here and marry you-so he came here and paid my father �100,000 for me, then he had my father send for me and he moved into the Hodges place."

"Do you really expect me to believe all that?" Paul snapped.

"Not really," Whitney said miserably, "but it's the truth. I had no idea what had been done until the night you left. I went downstairs to tell my father and aunt that you and I were going to be married, and Clayton was there. The next thing I knew, my father was shouting at me that I was betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, who turned out to be Clayton, and then everything got even worse."

"I find it impossible to see how this could get worse," Paul answered sarcastically.

"Well, it has. Clayton took me to London with him three days ago, and he told one of his friends that we were going to be married-"

"Then you have agreed to marry him?" Paul said icily.

"No, of course not."

Paul turned on his heel and walked over to the fireplace. Propping his booted foot against the grate, he stared down into the fire, leaving Whitney gazing helplessly at his back. Suddenly he stiffened, and when he turned his face was white with shocked alarm. "What do you mean he paid your father for you?" he demanded. "It is customary for the father to dower the daughter, and not the reverse."

Whitney realized at once where his thoughts had drifted, and her heart turned over in pity for Paul, and for herself. "I don't have any dowry, Paul. My father had lost that and my inheritance as well."

Paul leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes, his broad shoulders drooping despondently.

The time had come for Whitney to commit herself to the path she had chosen, and she went to him with legs that felt like lead. Her mind screamed that she didn't have to do this, but her heart wouldn't let her desert him. Not now, not after seeing this tortured expression on his face. "Paul, my father told me how difficult your circumstances are, and it doesn't matter to me, please believe that. I will marry you anyway. But we will have to act quickly. Clayton will be in London for six more days and in that time, we can elope to Scotland. By the time Clayton discovers what-"

"Elope!" Paul's voice lashed out and his fingers bit viciously into her arms. "Are you out of your mind? My mother and sisters would never be able to hold up their heads."

"No," Whitney whispered hoarsely. "The shame will be mine."

"Damn your shame!" he snapped, shaking her. "Don't you see what you've done? 1 have just spent a small fortune on five horses and a phaeton!"

How was that her fault? Whitney wondered, recoiling from the blaze in his eyes. And then she knew. Bitter resentment twined around her heart like sharp steel bands, wringing a ragged, choking laugh from her. "You spent the 'fortune' you thought I had-the dowry you imagined I would bring, didn't you?"

Paul didn't have to answer; she could see the truth in his flaring eyes. Angrily flinging his hands away, she stepped back. "Five minutes after I accepted you, you were mentally spending my money, weren't you? You couldn't even watt to talk to my father first! You 'loved' me so much that you didn't bother to stay here with me and ask his consent. All you cared about was the money, and you didn't even spend it on important things. Your lands are mortgaged, your house is in disrepair... Paul," she whispered, her green eyes glittering with tears, "what sort of man are you? Are you so spineless and so irresponsible that you would have married me just for money to spend on horses you don't even need?"

"Don't be an idiot!" Paul snapped, but his face was flushed with guilty embarrassment. "I loved you. I'd never have asked you to marry me otherwise." "Love!" Whitney scoffed bitterly. "None of you know the meaning of the word! My father 'loves' me and he sold me to save himself. All you care about is how much money I'm worth to you. At least Clayton doesn't insult my intelligence by claiming to love me. He bought me like a bondservant, and now he expects me to live up to the bargain, but he doesn't pretend to 'love' me."

Paul's breath came out in a ragged sigh. "I'll think of something, but eloping is out of the question. Will Westland... Westmoreland... give you up?"

Whitney looked at nun and stubbornly lifted her chin. "No," she said proudly, and at that moment, she would have given him that answer even if she believed otherwise. Turning, she stalked to the door, then paused to look at him over her shoulder. "Elizabeth Ashton is still available," she said bitterly. "I'm certain her dowry could cover your extravagances on this last trip. You'd better start thinking of ways to regain her favor so that you can get your hands on her money."

"Shut up!" Paul snapped. "Or I'll do just that."

Whitney slammed the door on his last word, but not until she gained the privacy of her own room did she allow the tears to come. Sinking down onto her bed, she wept all her heartbroken disillusionment into her pillow. She cried for herself, for her empty dreams and the misplaced devotion she'd lavished on Paul all these years. She cried because she had been willing to destroy her reputation for Paul, and all he had cared about was his mother and sisters. But most of all, she cried with rage at her own stupidity.

When Clarissa brought a dinner tray to her room that night, Whitney's eyes were puffy and her chest ached, but the storm of misery and animosity was mostly past. She ate alone, her thoughts in a swirling, melancholy turmoil that began nowhere and ended nowhere.

By noon the next day, Whitney was no longer angry with Paul. In fact, she was feeling strangely guilty. She had always imagined him as her modern-day knight in shining armor, courageous, romantic, and gallant, and it really wasn't his fault that he couldn't live up to that illusion. She felt a growing sense of shame and responsibility for the unwitting part she'd played in his worsened financial circumstances. She had exerted every wile she possessed to make him offer for her, and by accepting his offer, she'd inadvertently caused him to spend money she didn't have.

Late in the afternoon, as she wandered aimlessly among the last blooms in the rose garden, Whitney's active mind turned from the contemplation of problems to the consideration of solutions. Soon a hazy plan took shape. Elizabeth loved Paul, of that Whitney was certain. Surely there must be something Whitney could do to smooth things over with Elizabeth, so that she would be receptive to Paul if he chose to renew his interest in her.

Whitney hesitated and pulled her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. Considering the chaotic state of her own affairs right now, she was the last person on earth capable of taking a guiding hand in someone else's romance. Nevertheless, it was her responsibility, and besides, she had never been able to stand meekly by and hope that fate would make the right things happen.

With a vitality that had been dormant for many days, Whitney decided to take matters into her own hands. She went into the house and dashed off a note to Elizabeth, then she paced across her bedroom, wondering if Elizabeth would flatly decline her invitation. There had been so much competitive jealousy on Whitney's part in years gone by, so many pranks and tricks, that poor Elizabeth would be understandably suspicious of any overture by Whitney to befriend her at this late date.

Whitney was so convinced that Elizabeth would refuse to come that she jumped when Elizabeth's soft voice spoke from the doorway of the bedroom. "You-you asked me to come?" Her blue eyes were darting nervously around the room, and she looked ready to bolt.

Whitney fixed a reassuring smile on her face and said graciously, "Yes, and I'm so happy that you have. May I take your gloves and bonnet?" As she reached out, Elizabeth nervously clapped both her hands to the crown of her bonnet, clutching it protectively to her curls, and Whitney recalled another bonnet of Elizabeth's-a little straw confection with pink ribbons that Paul had once complimented years ago. Five minutes later, the bonnet was discovered beneath the treads of the chair in which Whitney was rocking. Elizabeth was thinking of it too, Whitney realized, and a flush crept up her cheeks when she remembered poor Elizabeth's shriek of dismay.

"I-I prefer to keep it on," Elizabeth said.

"I don't blame you," Whitney sighed. For the next half hour, Whitney served tea and kept up a one-sided conversation of trivialities in an attempt to put Elizabeth at ease, but Elizabeth replied in monosyllables and continued to perch on the edge of her chair as if she were going to fly from the room at the first loud noise.

Finally, Whitney went to the point. "Elizabeth," she said, finding it very awkward to confess her foibles to the female she had always viewed as her archrival. "I owe you an apology for a grave injustice I've done you recently, as well as for some horrid things I did to you when we were young. About Paul-" she blurted out. "I know how you must hate me, and I don't blame you, but I would like to help you."

"Help me?" Elizabeth repeated blankly.

"Help you marry Paul," Whitney clarified.

Elizabeth's blue eyes widened. "No! No, really, I couldn't," she stammered, blushing gorgeously.

"Of course you could!" Whitney declared, passing her a tray of little pastries. "You're a very beautiful girl and Paul has always..."

"No," Elizabeth contradicted softly, shaking her blond head. "You are more in the way of being beautiful. I am only, well, pretty, at best."

After taking this monumental step in befriending Elizabeth, Whitney wasn't about to have her generosity outdone. "You have beautiful manners, Elizabeth. You always do and say the proper thing at the proper time."

"The properly dull thing," Elizabeth argued prettily. "Not lively and interesting things like you say."

"Elizabeth," Whitney said, unable to suppress her amusement, "I was always perfectly outrageous, while you were always perfectly perfect."

Elizabeth relaxed back in her chair and giggled. "There, you see! I would have only said thank you' but you always say unusual things."

"Do not pay me another compliment," Whitney warned with a laughing look. "I won't be outdone, you know, and we will be here all night admiring one another."

Elizabeth sobered and said, "I'm very happy about you and Paul." At Whitney's stunned glance, she explained, "Everyone knows your betrothal is supposed to be a secret, but since everyone is talking about it, I didn't think you would mind if I mentioned it."

"What do you mean, everyone is talking about it?" Whitney said hoarsely. "Who else knows?"

"Well, let me think. Mr. Oldenberry, the apothecary, told Margaret and me. He said he heard it from Lady Eubank's maid, who heard it from Lady Eubank, who heard it from Paul's own mama. I suppose everyone in the village knows."

"But it isn't true!" Whitney cried desperately.

Elizabeth's pretty face fell. "Please don't say it isn't true!" she implored agitatedly. "Not now, not when Peter is almost to the point of offering."

"Who is Peter going to offer for?" Whitney asked, momentarily diverted.

"For me. But he won't if Paul is unattached. You see, Peter is shy, and he's always believed I have a secret tendre for Paul, which isn't in the least true. But even if it was, my papa would never permit me to marry Paul because he's a shocking spendthrift and his lands are mortgaged."

Whitney slumped back in her chair and gaped at Elizabeth. "Peter Redfern shy?" she echoed. "Elizabeth, are we talking about the same Peter Redfern? The one who tried to box my ears the day of the picnic when you fell out of the tree?"

"Well, he's shy around me," Elizabeth said.

In speechless disbelief, Whitney pictured Peter's freckled face and thinning red hair, and tried to imagine how he could have won the heart of a fragile, ethereal beauty like Elizabeth, who had always had Paul at her beck and call. "Do you honestly mean to tell me," Whitney uttered, "that you've been in love with Peter all these years?"

"Yes," Elizabeth admitted brokenly. "But if you tell everyone that you and Paul aren't going to be married, then Peter will just stand back, the way he always has, and let Paul take his place. And then I'll-I'll--" Elizabeth groped for her lacy handkerchief and promptly trailed off into dainty tears.

Whitney cocked her head to one side. "However do you manage to cry like that?" she asked admiringly. "I always gasp and snort and my eyes spill over like fountains."

Elizabeth giggled tearily and dabbed at her eyes before lifting them pleadingly to Whitney. "You said you'd done me injustices and you were sorry. If you truly mean it, couldn't you wait just a few days before crying off with Paul? Peter is going to say he wants to marry me any moment now, I can tell."

"You don't realize what you're asking of me," Whitney said, tensing. "If a certain person were to hear the gossip and believe I've truly betrothed myself to Paul, my life wouldn't be worth a farthing." Elizabeth looked on the verge of a fresh bout of tears and Whitney stood up, torn between the certainty that a few days really wouldn't make a difference and the inexplicable fear that they could result in disaster. "I'll give you three days before I put a stop to the gossip," Whitney reluctantly conceded.

Long after Elizabeth's departure, Whitney sat in her room, thinking and worrying. If everyone, including the servants, was openly gossiping about her "betrothal" to Paul, Clayton would certainly hear of it as soon as he returned. He had made it very clear that he wouldn't tolerate people believing she had ever been betrothed to anyone but him, and Whitney tried to think of some proof she could offer him that none of this was her fault-that she had, in fact, told Paul she wouldn't marry him, exactly as she had promised Clayton she would.

He had accepted her word and trusted her to keep it, and Whitney wanted him to believe she had, but the only one who could prove it was Paul, and Paul was in no mood to aid her.

Whitney bit her lip, concerned with more than just the loss of her honor. Without the incentive of marrying Paul to give her courage, she now felt a deep-rooted, genuine fear of Clayton's wrath. The more she pondered it, the more convinced she became that the best way to avert certain disaster was to go to London and explain to Clayton what was happening here. He would be far less angry hearing it from her than from strangers, and he would know she wasn't to blame. After all, if she was truly planning to marry Paul, as the gossip had it, why would she return to London to see Clayton?

Resolutely, Whitney got up and went down the hall to her aunt's room. She poured out the entire story, including the gossip about her betrothal to Paul and her abandoned plan to elope. Aunt Anne blanched but she remained silent until Whitney was finished. "What do you intend to do now?" she asked then.

"I think it would be best if I went to London and stayed with Emily. As soon as I arrive, I'll notify his grace I'm there, and he'll naturally come to see me. Then I'U choose exactly the right moment to tell him about the gossip here. I don't think he'll care so much about the talk, so long as he believes it isn't my fault."

"I'll come to London with you," her aunt instantly volunteered.

Whitney shook her head. "I wish you could, but there's a slim chance that he might return to the village without my having been able to see him in London. If he does, he'll hear the gossip and undoubtedly come straight here to the house. I need you here to explain and calm him down."

"What a cheerful prospect," Lady Anne said drily, but she was smiling. "Very well, I'll stay here. Now, assuming you reach him in London, what reason will you give him for being there?"

Whitney's smooth forehead knitted into an irritated frown. "I suppose I'll have to tell him the truth-that I was afraid he would come back to the village and believe that despite his warning, I hadn't refused Paul. Although, I find it excessively galling to have to tear off to London like a rabbit frightened of incurring his wrath. That man walked into my life a few months ago, and I've been like a puppet obliged to dance to his tune ever since. I think I shall tell him that too!" Whitney finished mutinously.

"While you're bent on being so honest about your feelings," Aunt Anne suggested with a knowing gleam in her eyes, "why don't you also tell him that you have developed a sincere affection for him and you are willing now to honor the betrothal contract? It will please him immensely to hear you say it."

Whitney shot up off the sofa as if she'd been scorched. "I most certainly will not!" she declared hotly. "Considering that he never cared whether I wanted to marry him, and has never doubted for a minute that I would marry him, I fail to see why I should flatter his vanity now by professing to want to marry him. Besides, I haven't made up my mind to marry him."

"I think you have, darling."

Her aunt's quiet voice checked Whitney in mid-stride as she headed for the door. "And if it will make it easier for you to admit your own feelings, I will tell you that, in my opinion, that man loves you with an intensity that would astonish him if he but recognized it-and very likely flatter your vanity."

"You're wrong, Aunt Anne," Whitney said tonelessly. "He has never even said he cares for me. I'm a possession he's acquired, nothing more. Don't ask me to crawl to him; I have very little pride left as it is, and I won't sacrifice it to soothe his temper or flatter his ego."

Elizabeth Ashton appeared at the house each afternoon to report her progress, but by the end of the third day, there was still no cause for celebration. Clarissa and Whitney were packing for the next day's trip to London when Elizabeth trailed into the bedroom, a soldier returning in defeat from a battle that should have been easy for her to win. "Peter is no nearer declaring himself now than he was ten years ago," she said glumly, flopping into a chair.

Whitney thrust an armload of underclothing into a trunk

and gazed at Elizabeth in perplexed dismay. "Are you certain?"

"Positive," Elizabeth said morosely. "I suggested we dine at my house tonight, without my parents, and do you know what he said? He said"-Elizabeth sighed heavily-"that he likes dining with my parents."

"That idiot!" Whitney burst out irritably. Slowly she began to pace back and forth. "You may be ready to accept defeat, but I'm not-at least not from Peter Redfern, of all people! That dolt has worshiped you since we were children. What he needs is some sort of motivation to force him into declaring himself without delay." Idly, Whitney shoved the fully packed portmanteau out of the way with her foot and frowned at the luggage scattered everywhere around the room. "I have it!" she burst out, whirling on Elizabeth with an impetuous, daring gleam in her green eyes that Elizabeth well remembered from days gone by. Terrified, she shrank back into her chair: "Whitney, whatever you're thinking, we aren't going to do it."

"Oh yes, we are!" Whitney hooted triumphantly. "Miss Ashton, I hereby invite you to come to London with me."

"But I don't want to go to London," Elizabeth sputtered desperately. "I want Peter."

"Good, and you're going to get him tonight. Now repeat after me, 'Yes, I will go to London with you.'"

"Yes, I will go to London with you," Elizabeth parroted. "But I don't want to."

"Perfect, because you aren't going to. But I have just asked you and you've accepted. This way, when you tell Peter you've agreed to come with me, you won't be lying to him." Advancing purposefully on a bewildered Elizabeth, Whitney caught her hand and pulled her over to the writing desk. "Now, write and tell Peter to join you here for dinner with me tonight. Tell him..." Whitney hesitated, her forefinger pressed to her lips, then chuckled at her own stroke of genius. "Tell him that you and I are planning to do the most extraordinary thing together. That should petrify him."

"Peter isn't going to like our going to London together," Elizabeth said.

"He'll detest the idea!" Whitney agreed proudly, "Even though I've grown up, Peter still watches me as if he expects me to do something outrageous at any moment."

For the first tune in her sweet, acquiescent life, Elizabeth displayed a stubborn streak. "If Peter won't approve, I won't go."

Stung by Elizabeth's lack of appreciation for her brilliant plan, Whitney said, "You aren't going. Don't you see, Peter will be appalled at the idea of our going off together. He doesn't think I've truly changed. He still thinks of me as the same hoyden who used to smile Reverend Snodgrass's old mare on the rump with a slingshot."

"You did that?" Elizabeth gasped.

"That, and a great many other things Peter knows about," Whitney admitted impenitently. "He'll try to dissuade you from coming with me, but you are to tell him that I am insisting. I'll be right there to insist, and when Peter can't talk either of us out of it, he'll do the only thing he can do."

"What?" Elizabeth asked, looking intrigued but dubious.

Whitney threw up her hands. "Why, he'll propose, you widgeon!" Taking Elizabeth's trembling hand in an affectionate, reassuring grasp, Whitney said, "Please, please trust me. Nothing wrings an offer so quickly from a man as the fear that you are going to leave him. And nothing makes a man quite so brave and bold as the opportunity to rescue an innocent female from 'unsuitable companions,'-in this case, the unsuitable companion is me. Nicolas DuVille scarcely paid any attention to me unless he objected to some gentleman who was courting me, then he swooped down like an avenging angel to protect me from some man who was not nearly as dangerous a flirt as he! It was vastly amusing, I can tell you. Now please write that note. Before this night is over, Peter will propose, you just wait and see."

Reluctantly Elizabeth did as she was bidden and the note was dispatched to Peter with a footman.

Three hours later, against her protests, Elizabeth was draped in Whitney's most daring gown, which had been temporarily shortened, and her golden curls had been tamed into a sleek chignon. Still objecting, she was led to a mirror by Clarissa and Whitney.

"Go ahead," Whitney urged. "See how lovely you look-"

Elizabeth's timid gaze travelled up the clingy folds of the elegant silk gown, past her sum hips and dainty waist, then riveted in shock on her exposed decolletage. Her hands flew to cover the tops of her breasts swelling above the bodice of the gown. "I can't," she gasped, blushing.

Whitney rolled her eyes. "Yes, you can, Elizabeth. Why in France, this gown would be considered only a tiny bit daring."

A nervous giggle trilled from Elizabeth as she slowly lowered her hands. "Do you think Peter will like it?"

"Not," Whitney predicted happily, "when I tell him that I think your gowns are much too demure and that when we're in London I intend to make certain you buy more like this one to wear at the parties we shall be attending."

At eight o'clock Peter strode into the candlelit drawing room and joined the two young women who were waiting for him. After a brief nod in Whitney's direction, he looked around the room for Elizabeth, who was staring out the window with her back to him.

"What is this 'extraordinary thing' the two of you are planning to do?" he demanded.

Elizabeth slowly turned and an expression of comical incredulity froze Peter's features. With slackened jaw and glazed eyes, he gaped at her.

Elizabeth, who had evidently hoped he would take one look at her and fail to his knee to propose matrimony, waited in expectant silence. When he neither spoke nor moved, her dainty chin lifted with stubborn determination and for the first time in her twenty-one years, Elizabeth consciously began to use the feminine wiles with which she was born. "Whitney is taking me for an extended trip to London tomorrow," she explained, while strolling back and forth, parading her blond loveliness before a staggered Peter. "Whitney thinks I shall be all the rage in London once I have new clothes and a new hair style. She is going to teach me how to flirt with gentlemen too," ad-libbed Elizabeth with wide-eyed innocence. "Of course," she finished with a spurt of inspiration, "I do hope I shan't have changed so much by the time we return that you won't recognize me..."

Whitney's lips trembled with admiring laughter which she quickly suppressed as Peter's outraged glower swung toward her. "What the devil do you think you're doing?" he snapped furiously.

Somehow Whitney managed to look almost as innocent as Elizabeth. "I'm only trying to take Elizabeth under my wing."

"Elizabeth would be safer under an axe!" he exploded. "I won't permit-"

"Now Peter," Whitney soothed, struggling desperately to keep her face straight. "Be reasonable. All I intend to do is take Elizabeth to London and introduce her to some of the gentlemen I met at a ball there this week. They are a most charming, eligible group, and all of them have impeccable backgrounds and unexceptionable reputations. They may be a little fast, but I'm quite certain Elizabeth won't fall violently in love with more than one or two of them. It's time for her to marry, you know. She's a year older than I."

"I know how old Elizabeth is!" Peter raked his hand through his hair in frustration.

"Then you should also know that you have no say in what she does. You aren't her papa, nor her husband, nor even her fiance. So do stop arguing and admit defeat. I'll just go and see about dinner," she finished, hastily turning away to hide her brimming laughter.

Whitney was absolutely certain that Peter would propose when he took Elizabeth home. She was wrong; they were standing hand-in-hand when she returned to the drawing room ten minutes later.

"It grieves me to upset your plans," Peter mocked, "but Elizabeth will not be accompanying you to London. She has agreed to become my wife. Well," he demanded irritably, "what have you to say to that?"

"Say?" Whitney repeated, lowering her eyes to hide her delighted smile. "Why... how very provoking of you,

Peter. I had so wanted to... give Elizabeth a glorious taste of London."

Peter, who was innately good-tempered, glanced with smiling tolerance at his future wife and said in a friendlier voice, "Since you're so bent on being with Elizabeth in London, you can shop for her trousseau with her. If her papa accepts me tonight, I expect she'll want to leave tomorrow, and she has already informed me that she wants you to be a bridesmaid."