Before Whitney could guess his intent, his hands caught her upper arms, pulling her against the length of his hard frame as his mouth began a purposeful descent. "Nicki, don't! I-" Instantly his mouth silenced her startled protest, his lips moving sensuously, tasting and courting hers. In the past, only clumsy, overzealous suitors had tried to kiss her, and Whitney had easily put them off, but Nicki's arousing kiss was awakening a response in her that amazed and alarmed her. She managed to remain perfectly still and unresponsive, but the moment his arms loosened, she stepped back quickly. "I suppose," she said with false calm, "that I ought to slap your face for that."

She looked so coolly unaffected that Nicki, who had been unexpectedly shaken by the feel of her soft mouth beneath his, and the pressure of her breasts against his chest, was furious. "Slap my face?" he repeated sarcastically. "Why should you? I can't believe that I'm the first, or even the hundredth, man to steal a kiss from you."

"Really?" Whitney flung back, stung to the quick by his intimation that she would play fast and loose. "Well, I've obviously just had the honor of being your first!" The words weren't past her lips before Whitney saw the rigid anger in his expression and realized that she'd made a serious tactical error in insulting his masculinity. "Nicki-" she whispered in warning, cautiously stepping backward and out of his reach. Nicki advanced on her. She scooted behind her uncle's desk, facing him across it, her hands braced on the top. Each time Whitney moved one way, Nicki countered. They stood, two combatants separated by Uncle Edward's desk, each waiting for the other to make a move. Suddenly, the childish absurdity of the situation struck Whitney, and she began to laugh. "'Nicki, have you the faintest idea what you're going to do if you catch me?"

Nicki had an excellent idea what he would like to do if he caught her, but he also appreciated the foolishness of the scene. He straightened, and the mask of anger fell away.

"Come out from behind the desk," he chuckled. "I give you my word I shall behave as a gentleman."

Scanning his face, Whitney assured herself that he meant ft, then obediently did as he bade her. Linking her hand through his arm, she escorted him to the door. "I'll see you tonight at the masquerade," she promised.

LORD EDWARD GILBERT STOOD BEFORE THE DRAWING ROOM minor, his eyes wide with shock and repugnance as he stared at himself in the scaly green crocodile costume his wife had chosen for him to wear to the Armands' masquerade.

His revolted gaze slid from the top of his grotesque head with its fierce jaws open wide, ready to snap, down to his claw-like reptilian feet, then along the thick tail dragging the floor behind him. Precisely at the center of what should have been the crocodile's sleek green body, Edward's stomach swelled majestically. Turning his back to the mirror, he looked over his shoulder and experimentally rotated his hips, watching in morbid fascination as his tail undulated behind him. "Obscene!" he snorted in disgust.

Lady Anne and Whitney came into the room at that moment, and Edward turned on his wife. "God's armpits!" he exploded, jerking off his headpiece and waving it angrily at her as he waddled across the room, his tail dragging behind him. "How am I ever going to have a cigar wearing this, may I ask?"

Lady Anne smiled unperturbably as she surveyed him in the costume she had chosen without consulting him. "I couldn't get your favorite Henry the Eighth costume, and I was perfectly sure you wouldn't care for the elephant costume-"

"Elephant!" Edward repeated bitterly, glowering at her. "I'm surprised you didn't purchase that getup for me. You could have had me crawling about on all fours, waving my trunk and stabbing people in the rump with my tusks! Madam, I have a reputation to maintain, a dignity-"

"Hush, dear," she remonstrated affectionately. "What will Whitney think-"

"I'll tell you what she'll think-she'll think I look like an ass. Everyone will think I look like an ass!" He turned his head toward Whitney. "Go ahead, my dear, tell your aunt I look like an ass!"

Whitney regarded him with laughing fondness. "Your costume is very clever and original, Uncle Edward," she said diplomatically, then she sidetracked him completely by mentioning the name of a lifelong rival. "I did hear, though, that Herbert Granville is coming as a horse."

"No, really?" Lord Gilbert said, instantly amused. "Which end?"

Her eyes twinkled at him. "I forgot to ask."

He chuckled, then said, "Let me guess who you are supposed to be." Whitney twirled around for his inspection. Her Grecian gown of filmy white silk was fastened at the left shoulder with an amethyst broach, leaving the other creamy shoulder tantalizingly bare. Its gossamer folds clung provocatively to her full breasts and narrow waist, then fell gracefully to the floor. The thick clusters of her shining hair were bound with vibrant buttercups and violets. "Venus," he decided.

Whitney shook her head. "Here-this clue will help." She swirled a purple satin mantle over her shoulders and waited expectantly.

"Venus," he declared again, more emphatically.

"No," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Actually, the dressmaker tried to improve on mythology. I'm supposed to be Prosperina, but she is always depicted in a simpler, girlish gown."

"Who?" Edward echoed.

"Prosperina, the goddess of spring," Whitney said. "Re-member, Uncle Edward? She is always shown with violets and buttercups in her hair, and wearing a purple mantle like this one?" When her uncle still looked confused, Whitney added, "Pluto carried her off to live in the underworld as his wife."

"Rotten thing for him to have done," Edward replied absently, "but I like your costume, my dear. Everyone will be so busy trying to figure out who you're supposed to be, they won't have time to wonder who the obese crocodile is." With that he offered his arm to Whitney, and the other to Anne, who was gowned as a medieval queen, complete with tall conical headdress and veil.

Waves of laughter surged across the Armands' overcrowded ballroom, drowning out the efforts of the musicians, then receding, leaving behind the persistent undertow of conversation. On the congested dance floor, extravagantly costumed guests struggled for space to dance to musk they could scarcely hear.

Standing on the sidelines, surrounded by her personal entourage of admirers, Whitney smiled serenely. She watched Nicki arrive, nod briefly to his mother, then begin making his way unerringly toward her, recognizing her despite her white demi-mask. He was coming from another party and was not wearing a costume. Whitney studied him with an inward smile; she admired everything about him, from the easy way he wore his elegant clothes to his sophisticated charm. For a fleeting moment, the memory of the way his mouth had felt as it moved over hers tingled through her.

When he was near, he flicked a level, impassive glance over the men standing around her, and they parted to make a place for him as if he had ordered them aside. Grinning wolfishly, he surveyed her Grecian gown, purple mantle, and the violets and buttercups twined in her glossy hair. He lifted her fingers to his lips and raised his voice in order to be heard over the din of conversation. "You are ravishing tonight, Venus."

"Amen!" agreed an enormous banana who was struggling to fight his way past Whitney's group.

"Ravissante!" declared a knight in armor, raising his visor and fixing Whitney with an appreciative leer.

Nicki passed a cold look over the two, and Whitney demurely raised her fan. But behind the silken slats, she was smiling widely. This was her world now, and she warmed with a feeling of security. In France, when she said something unusual, there were no snorts of disapproval or gasps of outrage. Instead, people said she was "witty" and "lively" and even quoted her. Surely when she went home to England it would be the same. She had made dreadful mistakes there as a girl. She knew better now, and she would not disgrace herself again.