"I'm certain he's only waiting for the right moment to declare himself. And I haven't really been home very long, a few weeks only."

"You've known each other for years, darling," Aunt Anne contradicted gently. "I've seen matches between two perfect strangers arranged in the length of time we've been back here. Perhaps Mr. Sevarin merely enjoys paying court to a lovely young woman who is all the rage, right now. Many men do, you know."

Whitney smiled confidently and planted a kiss on her aunt's cheek, "You worry too much for my happiness, Aunt Anne. Paul is on the verge of offering, you'll see."

But as their open carriage rocked along beneath the shadowy oaks toward Clayton's house, Whitney's optimism began to ebb. Idly, she toyed with a long strand of her hair which hung in gentle waves over her shoulders and midway down her back where it curled at the ends. Could it be that Paul merely enjoyed escorting the current neighborhood beauty? she wondered. Unemotionally, Whitney knew she had usurped that title from Elizabeth Ashton, although she didn't derive nearly as much satisfaction from the knowledge as she once thought she would. Invitations to local card parties and soirees were arriving with flattering regularity, and whenever Whitney accepted, Paul either escorted her or spent most of the evening at her side. In fact, the only person in the neighborhood who rivaled Whitney's popularity was Clayton Westland, and she saw him everywhere she went.

Whitney shrugged the thought of her despised neighbor aside. Why didn't Paul declare himself? she wondered. And why didn't he ever speak of love, if not marriage? Whitney was still searching for answers to those troublesome questions when they arrived at Clayton's home.

The front door was opened by a stiff-backed butler who eyed the trio down the length of his nose. "Good evening," he intoned majestically. "My master is expecting you." Whitney was at first shocked, then secretly amused by his lofty manner, which would have been far more appropriate if he were the butler of some grand personage, opening the front door of a magnificent mansion.

As Aunt Anne and her father were being divested of their outer garments, Clayton came striding down the hall into the small foyer. He went directly to Whitney. "May I?" he inquired politely, stepping behind her, his long fingers resting lightly on the peach-colored satin cape covering her shoulders.

"Thank you," Whitney said civilly. Pushing back the wide hood, she unfastened the satin frog closing at her throat, releasing the cape with as much speed as possible. The touch of his hands reminded her of the way he had held and caressed her the day of the picnic, the way he had promised to hold her much closer for far longer as if he were offering a sweet to a child. Conceited ass!

Her father detained her aunt to admire some carved ivory objects adorning a hall table while Clayton showed Whitney to a medium-sized room that apparently served as a combined salon and study.

A fire burned cheerily on the wide hearth, chasing away the night chill and adding its lively glow to the light of the candles in sconces above the mantle. The room was sparsely but rather grandly furnished to suit masculine tastes. One wall was taken up by a long, richly carved oak cabinet which bore a pair of massively splendid sterling silver candelabra, one at each end. The top of the cabinet was inlaid with marble squares, each of which was surrounded by strips of intricately carved wood. In the center stood an enormous sterling tea service unlike any Whitney had ever seen. It was so immense that Sewell, their butler, would never be able to lift it, let alone carry it with dignity. Whitney smiled a little as she visualized the ever-correct Sewell staggering into a room, laboring beneath the weight of the tray.

"Dare I hope that smile denotes a softening in your opinion of me?" Clayton drawled lazily.

Whitney snapped her head around. "I have no opinion of you," she lied.

"You have a very strong opinion of me, Miss Stone," he said, chuckling as he seated her in a comfortable wingback chair upholstered to soft burgundy leather. Instead of sitting down across from her in the other wingback chair, the man had the unmitigated gall to perch atop the arm of hers and casually stretch his right arm across the back of it.

"If there is a shortage of comfortable seating, I will be happy to stand," Whitney said coldly, already starting to rise.

Clayton's hands caught her shoulders, pressing her back into the chair as he compliantly stood up. "Miss Stone," he said, grinning, and gazing down into her angry upturned face, "you have the tongue of an adder."

"Thank you," Whitney said calmly. "And you have the manners of a barbarian."

Inexplicably, he threw back his head and shouted with laughter. Still chuckling, he reached down and affectionately rumpled the shining hair atop her head, which brought Whitney surging to her feet, torn between slapping his face and giving him a swift kick in the shin. Her father and aunt found them still standing face to face, Clayton's expression boldly admiring, while Whitney glared at him in frigid silence. "Well, I see you two are having a devilish pleasant chat," her father announced jovially, which made Clayton's lips twitch and Whitney almost, but not quite, burst out laughing. Dinner was a feast that would have done credit to a royal chef. Whitney toyed with the delicious lobster in light wine sauce, feeling vastly uncomfortable seated at the opposite end of the table from Clayton, as if she were mistress of his home. He was playing the host tonight with a natural, relaxed elegance that Whitney reluctantly admired, and even Lady Anne had unbent completely as she carried on an animated political discussion with him.

During the fifth course, Whitney broke her long-enduring, self-imposed silence. Clayton had taunted and goaded her all evening until she finally jumped into the conversation in order to argue in favor of educating females in the same manner as males. "What use is geometry to a woman who will spend her time embroidering handkerchiefs for her husband?" he had challenged.

Whitney accused him of thinking like his grandfather, and he laughingly retaliated by calling her a bluestocking.

"Blasted bluestocking," Whitney amplified with an amused smile. "It is what gentlemen such as you, who cherish antiquated ideas, call any female whose vocabulary contains more than the three acceptable phrases."

He grinned. "And what three phrases would those be?"

"The phrases are 'yes, my lord'; 'no, my lord"; and 'as you wish, my lord.'" She lifted her chin and said, "I find it sad that most of my sex have been trained from babyhood to sound exactly like witless female butlers."

"So do I," Clayton admitted quietly. Before Whitney had recovered from her astonishment, he added, "However, the fact remains that no matter how well-educated a woman is, she will someday have to submit to the authority of her lord and master."

"I don't think so," Whitney said, ignoring her father's anguished, quelling looks. "And what's more, I shall never, ever call any man my lord and master."

"Is that right?" he mocked.

Whitney was about to answer when her father suddenly launched into a monologue on the merits of irrigating farms, which surprised Whitney and visibly annoyed Clayton.

During dessert, Clayton again returned his attention to her. "I was wondering if there is any particular game you would enjoy playing after dinner," His gray eyes locked onto hers in silent, laughing communication as he added meaningfully, ". . . other than those little 'games' you and I have already played together?"

"Yes," Whitney said, boldly returning his gaze. "Darts."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Ms features. "If I had any darts, which I don't, I wouldn't care to be within your range, Miss Stone."