"You were in a millinery shop with your aunt, the first time I saw you. The proprietress was attempting to foist off on you a hideous hat covered with little grapes and berries, by convincing you that if you wore it for a stroll in the park, the gentlemen would fall at your feet."

"I don't recall the time," Whitney said uncertainly. "Did I buy the hat?"

"No. You informed her that if the gentlemen fell at your feet, they would only be trying to avoid the swarm of frenzied bees who were attracted by a fruit platter wearing a female."

"That rather sounds like the things I say," Whitney admitted, self-consciously toying with her gloves. She could almost believe there was tenderness in the way Clayton spoke of the incident, and it flustered her. "Is that when you decided you … ah … wanted to know me better?"

"Certainly not," he teased. "I was relieved that the proprietress, and not I, had to withstand those flashing green eyes of yours."

"What were you doing in a millinery shop?" Before the question was out, Whitney could have bitten her foolish tongue! What would he be doing there, except waiting for his current mistress?

"I can see from your expression that you've arrived at the answer to that," he remarked blandly.

Repressing her irrational annoyance over his being in the shop with another woman, Whitney asked, "Did we meet again after that-I mean, before the masquerade?"

"I saw you occasionally that spring, usually driving in the park. And then I saw you again a year later, quite grown up, at the DuPres' ball."

"Were you alone?" The question just seemed to pop out, and Whitney clenched her fists in self-disgust.

"I was not," he admitted frankly. "But then, neither were you. In fact, you were surrounded by admirers-a snivelling lot, as I recall." He chuckled at Whitney's indignant glare. "There's no reason to glower at me, my lady. You thought they were too. Later that evening, I overheard you telling one of them who was nearly killing himself with rapture over the scent of your gloves, that if the smell of soap affected him so, he was either deranged or very dirty."

"I would never have been so rude," Whitney protested, uneasily aware that he had called her "my lady" as if she were already his duchess. "He sounds only silly and not at all deserving of such a setdown, and . . ." Forgetting what she was about to say, she stared past Clayton, trying to bring a hazy recollection into focus. "Did he walk with absurd little mincing steps?"

"Since I was far more interested in your face than his feet, I wouldn't know," Clayton responded drily. "Why?"

"Because I do remember saying that now," she breathed. "I remember watching him mince away, thinking how thoroughly I disliked him. Then I turned around and saw a tall, dark-haired man standing in the doorway, smiling as if the entire scene had amused him. It was you!" she gasped. "You were spying in that doorway!"

"Not spying," Clayton corrected. "I was merely preparing to tend a hand to the poor besotted devil in case you drew blood with that razor tongue of yours."

"You shouldn't have bothered, for he more than deserved anything I said. I can't recall his name, but I do remember that the evening before, he'd tried to kiss me, and that his hands had a nauseating tendency to wander."

"A pity," Clayton drawled icily, "that you can't recall his name."

Beneath demurely lowered lashes, Whitney stole a peek at his ominous expression and realized with satisfaction that now he, and not she, was the jealous one. It dawned on her then that if she could appear fickle, perhaps even a little fast, he might have second thoughts about wanting to marry her. "I think I ought to tell you that he wasn't the only gentleman in Paris who tried to win my affections and became. . . overeager. I had dozens of serious suitors in Paris. I can't even remember all their names."

"Then allow me to assist you," Clayton offered calmly. White Whitney stared at him in shock, he rapped off the names of every man who had offered for her. "I left out DuVille," he finished, "because he is still biding his time. But I suppose I ought to include Sevarin, since he is trying to offer for you. It appears to me, Madam," he continued conversationally, again addressing her as if she were already a married woman, "that for a sensible young woman, you are extremely foolish about the men you allow to court you."

To avoid discussing Paul, Whitney seized upon Clayton's implied criticism of Nicki. "If you are referring to Nicolas DuVille, his family happens to be one of the oldest and most respected in France!"

"I am referring to Sevarin, and you know it," he said in a coolly authoritative tone that Whitney particularly resented. "Of all the men I mentioned, Sevarin is the least suitable, yet if it had been left to you, he would be your choice. He is no match for your intelligence or your spirit or your temper. Nor," he added meaningfully, "is he man enough to make a woman of you."

"And just what do you mean by that remark?" Whitney demanded.

His glance slid meaningfully to the grassy spot near her feet where he had used the crop on her tender backside, then held her in his arms, soothing her. "I think you know precisely what I mean," he said, watching the pink tint creeping up her cheeks.

Whitney wasn't completely certain, but she did know it was not a subject she wished to pursue. She switched to an earlier, less inflammatory one. "If you were so 'taken' with me in France, why didn't you do the proper thing and approach my uncle to make your offer?"

"So that he could fob me off with that nonsense about your being too young to marry, and your father not being ready to part with you yet?" he said with sardonic amusement. "Hardly!"

"What you really mean," Whitney retorted, "is that it was beneath your exalted position in life to bother being introduced to me, and then to-"

"We were introduced," Clayton interrupted. "We were introduced that same night, by Madame DuPre. You didn't pay enough attention to hear my name, and you accorded me a brief nod and one shrug before you returned to the more pressing business of accumulating as many fawning admirers as you could squeeze around your skirts."

How that cool reception must have deflated him, Whitney thought with secret pleasure. "Did you ask me for a dance?" she needled sweetly.

"No," he replied drily. "My card was already full."

Under other circumstances, Whitney would have laughed at the joke, but she knew that it was intended as a barbed reminder that he, too, was popular with the opposite sex. As if she needed to be reminded! She threw him a derisive look that matched her tone. "I imagine that if men did have dance cards, yours would always be full! Now that I think about it, what does a man do with his mistress when he desires to dance with someone else?"

"I don't recall having found that an insurmountable obstacle the night you and I danced at the Armands' masquerade."

The gloves Whitney had been holding dropped to the grass. "How dare you be so crude as to-"

"-as to even bring up such a thing?" he countered smoothly. "Isn't the saying 'an eye for an eye'?"

"I can hardly believe my ears!" Whitney scoffed furiously. "If you aren't a living example of 'the devil quoting scripture.'"

"Touche." He grinned.

His amusement only made Whitney angrier. "You may be able to dismiss your scandalous conduct with a laugh, but I can't. In the time I remember knowing you, you've made lewd suggestions to me at the Armands', insulted me at Lady Eubank's, and assaulted me in this very spot." Whitney bent down and snatched her gloves from the grass. "God alone knows what you'll try to do next."

Her last sentence brought a warm gleam to his eyes, and Whitney warily decided it was time to leave. She started to stalk past him toward the horses, but he reached out and caught her wrist, pulling her toward him. "With the exception of the Armands' masquerade, I have always treated you precisely as you've deserved to be treated, and that's the way it will always be between us. I have no intention of letting you walk all over me. If I did, you'd soon have no more respect for me than you would have had for Sevarin, had you been unfortunate enough to marry him."