Blind with anger, Whitney stormed up to a group of middle-aged guests, which included her aunt, and stared past them, oblivious to their conversation. How she loathed and despised Clayton Westland! If it was the last thing she ever did, she would repay him for this night, for putting his filthy, debauched hands on her, for causing her to appear a harlot in front of Paul.

It was at least an hour later when Paul's deep voice said very quietly near her ear, "Come and dance with me." His hand had already taken possession of her elbow, and Whitney walked beside him. She was so afraid of seeing condemnation on his face that even when they were dancing she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Does a man have to take you out to the balcony to get your attention, Miss Stone?" he taunted.

Whitney's gaze flew to his, and she discovered to her intense relief that the scene he had witnessed on the balcony had obviously annoyed him, but there was no disgust in his expression.

"Would you prefer a stroll in the night air?" he mocked.

"Please don't tease me about that," she half pleaded, half sighed. "It's been a long evening, and I'm exhausted."

"I'm not surprised," he said with heavy irony, but when Whitney flushed with embarrassment, he relented. "Do you think you could recover from your 'exhaustion' by tomorrow morning-in time for a picnic with, say, ten people, in your honor?"

Lady Eubank and Aunt Anne had been right! Whitney realized jubilantly. "I would love it," she admitted with a bright, happy smile.

When the dance ended, Paul led her to a relatively quiet corner of the room. He stopped a footman bearing a tray of champagne, took two glasses, and gave one to Whitney. Leaning his shoulder against a pillar, he grinned down at her. "Shall I invite Westland?"

Whitney's first instinct was to grab his lapels and scream no! But one look at that confident grin of his, and she chose a wiser course. She shrugged and even managed to smile. "By all means, invite him if you wish."

"You wouldn't object?"

Whitney gave him an innocent stare. "I can't think why I should. He's, well, very handsome . . ." She looked down at her glass to hide her grimace of revulsion. "And charming, and.. ."

"Miss Stone," Paul said, subjecting her to an amused scrutiny, "you wouldn't by any chance be trying to make me jealous, would you?"

"Are you?" Whitney countered with a mutinous smile.

He didn't answer, but Whitney was almost certain that he was. Either way, the balance of the evening was the way she used to dream it would be. Paul remained at her side most of the time, and when he did leave her, it wasn't to return to Elizabeth.

Dismissing his valet, Clayton poured himself a light brandy. Inwardly, he smiled at the bizarre turn his courtship had taken tonight. Never in his wildest imaginings had he visualized anything quite like this! Nevertheless, he was extremely pleased by what he had learned on Amelia Eubank's balcony a few hours ago. None of Whitney's suitors in France had been permitted the liberties he had taken; she had been shocked by his intimate kiss and outraged when his hand touched her breast.

God, what an enchanting creature she was-part angel, part spitfire; artlessly sophisticated, with a ripe, opulent beauty that made his blood stir hotly.

Lifting his glass, he frowned into the contents. He had treated her badly tonight. Tomorrow, he would have to find a way to make amends.

THE MORNING OF THE PICNIC DAWNED BRILLIANT BLUE, WITH A fresh cool breeze that carried the scent of fall.

Whitney bathed and washed her hair, then debated what to wear. Paul would undoubtedly call for her in the carriage, but Whitney had a deep yearning to ride beside him on horseback, as they occasionally had in years past. Her mind made up, she snatched a buttercup-yellow riding habit from the wardrobe.

She was ready when she heard Paul's carriage coming to a stop directly below her open bedroom window, but she made herself pace the length of her room ten times before she hurried out into the hallway and across the balcony.

Paul watched her coming down the stairs, a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her jaunty yellow riding habit and the yellow-and-white dotted silk shirt that peeked from beneath her open jacket. Around her neck she had tied a matching dotted scarf, knotting ft on the side, with the ends flipped over her right shoulder. "How can you look so lovely so early?" he asked, taking both her hands in his as she stepped onto the polished foyer floor.

Whitney suppressed the urge to fling herself into his arms and smiled up at him instead. "Good morning," she said softly. "Shall we ride, rather than take the carriage? The stable is filled with horses, and you may have year choice."

"I'm afraid you'll have to ride over without me. I'll need the carriage to escort those females who seem to live in constant terror of falling from a horse." He inclined his head toward a dark shadow near the front door. "Clayton will ride with you and show you where we'll be."

Whitney panicked at the lump of disappointment and alarm swelling in her throat. She couldn't believe Paul was doing this. Since he'd invited her, and since the picnic was in her honor, his first obligation was to escort her there. Besides, only one of the girls in the neighborhood was afraid of horses-Elizabeth Ashton. She had a terrible feeling that appointing Clayton Westland as her substitute escort was Paul's way of demonstrating to her that he would not play the part of jealous suitor. Last night he had realised that she was trying to make him jealous, and this morning he was showing her that it hadn't worked.

With a sublime effort, Whitney forced herself to shrug lightly and smile. "You'll miss a lovely ride then. It's much too fine a day to be cooped up in a carriage."

"Clayton will show you the place," Paul repeated, studying her composed features. Drily, he added, "1 gather that you two know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?"

Whitney dragged her gaze toward the tall figure lounging in the doorway, and gritted her teeth to hide her loathing.

"I'm sure your father won't object if Clayton rides one of your horses," Paul said, already starting to leave.

Outside on the fourth step, he turned. "Take good care of my girl," he called to Clayton, and then he was gone, leaving Whitney slightly pacified and thoroughly mystified at being first cavalierly handed over into Clayton's custody, and then called "my girl."

Her bemused thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice she despised saying a quiet, "Good morning." Resentfully, Whitney snapped her attention to Clayton, who was still standing in the doorway. Biting back three nasty responses to his simple greeting, she passed a disdainful glance over his immaculate white shirt, which was open at the collar, his gray riding breeches, and his gleaming black boots. "Can you ride?" she asked icily.

"Good morning," he repeated with calm emphasis, still smiling at her.

Whitney clamped her mouth shut and brushed past him into the brilliant sunlight, leaving him to follow her or stay in the house, she didn't care which.

As she marched down the path leading around the back of the house toward the stable, he remained a pace behind her, but halfway there, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Smiling down at her, he said, "Do you treat every gentleman who steals a kiss from you with such animosity-or only me?"

Whitney looked at him with withering scorn. "Mr. West-land, in the first place, you are no 'gentleman.' In the second, I don't like you. Now, please get out of my way."

He remained there, studying her stormy face in thoughtful silence. "Kindly move out of the way and let me pass," Whitney repeated.