He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Then they're yours."

"No, I couldn't accept them. Really, I couldn't."

"Is it now your intention to deprive me of the pleasure of giving you gifts?" he asked gently. "It pleased me mightily to know I had paid for your gowns and jewels even though you had no idea they were from me."

Lulled by his tolerant good humor, Whitney asked the one question she had heretofore been afraid to voice. "How much did you pay my father for me?"

The mood was shattered. "If you will grant me nothing else," he said shortly, "at least grant me this. Stop persisting in this foolish determination to see yourself as something I purchased!"

Now that she'd asked the question and incurred his anger, Whitney wanted an answer "How much?" she repeated obstinately.

Clayton hesitated and then snapped icily, "One hundred thousand pounds."

Whitney's mind reeled. Never in her wildest imaginings had she dreamt of a sum like that; a household servant only earned thirty or forty pounds a year. If she and Paul scrimped and saved for the rest of their lives, they could never pay back a fortune like that. She wished with all her heart that she hadn't asked the question. She didn't want to spoil their evening; tonight would be their first and last gala affair together, and for some reason it was terribly important to her not to ruin it. Trying desperately to recover some of their earlier gaiety, Whitney said lightly, "You were a fool, my lord duke."

Clayton threw his gloves onto the seat across from them. "Really?" he drawled in a bored, insulting voice. "And why is that, Ma'am?"

"Because," Whitney informed him pertly, "1 don't think you should have let him fleece you out of a single shilling over Ј99,000!"

Clayton's stunned gaze shot to her face, narrowed on her smiling lips, and then he leaned back his head and laughed, a rich throaty sound that warmed Whitney's heart. "When a man sets out to acquire a treasure," he chuckled, drawing her closer and smiling at her. "He does not argue over a few pounds."

The silence between them lengthened and the amusement in his eyes was slowly replaced by a slumbering intensity. His silver gaze held hers imprisoned as he slowly bent his head to her. "I want you," he breathed, and his lips parted hers for a deep, violently sensual kiss that left Whitney shaken and flushed.

The Rutherford mansion was ablaze with lights, and the long drive leading up to it crowded with vehicles making their way toward the front of the house where they stopped to allow their resplendent passengers to alight. Footmen carrying torches met each vehicle, then escorted the guests up the terraced front steps to the main door.

In a reasonably short time, Whitney and Clayton were being escorted up the steps by a torch-bearing, liveried footman. In the entry foyer, a servant took their outerwear, and they proceeded up the carpeted staircase where enormous bouquets of white orchids in tall silver stands had been placed on each step.

They walked around the corner and out onto a balcony and Whitney paused to gaze down at the scene in the ballroom below. Her first London ball, she thought. And her last. The crowd seemed to dip and sway as the ladies moved about the floor, talking and laughing. Immense crystal chandeliers reflected the dazzling kaleidoscope of colorful gowns, which were multiplied over and over again in the two-story mirrored walls.

"Ready?" Clayton said, tucking her hand possessively in the crook of his arm and trying to draw her toward the wide curving staircase which lead from the balcony down to the crowd below.

Whitney, who had been casually looking for Nicki, suddenly realized that everyone down in the ballroom was beginning to look at them, and she pulled back in confused alarm while hundreds of curious gazes swivelled up to where they were standing. The roar of conversation began steadily winding down until it was reduced to whispers and murmurings, and then it soared to deafening heights. Whitney had the terrifying feeling that every person in that ballroom was either looking at them or talking about them. A woman looked up at Clayton, then hurried over to speak to a tall, distinguished-looking man, who immediately turned to gaze up at Clayton, then disengaged himself from the people surrounding him and strode purposefully in the direction of the balcony where they stood. "Everyone is staring at us," Whitney whispered apprehensively.

Completely impervious to the stir he was creating, Clayton flicked a glance down at the guests, then shifted his gaze to Whitney's lovely, upturned face. "I see that," he agreed drily as the distinguished-looking man, who Whitney assumed must be their host, bounded up the last stair onto the balcony.

"Clayton!" Marcus Rutherford laughed. "Where the devil have you been? I was beginning to believe the rumors that you'd dropped off the face of the earth."

Whitney listened as the two men, who were obviously close friends, exchanged greetings. Lord Rutherford was handsome, and looked to be about seven and thirty, with piercing blue eyes that spoke of perceptiveness. Without warning, those brae eyes levelled on her, inspecting her with unconcealed admiration. "And who, pray, is this ravishing creature beside you?" he demanded. "Must I introduce myself to her?"

Glancing uncertainly at Clayton, Whitney was startled to find him gazing down at her with a look of profound pride. "Whitney," be said, "may I present my friend, Lord Marcus Rutherford-" Directing a meaningful glance at Whitney's hand which was still firmly clasped in Lord Rutherford's, Clayton finished, "Marcus, kindly take your hands off my future wife, Miss Whitney Stone."

"Whitney?" Marcus Rutherford repeated. "What an unusual…" A slow, disbelieving smile broke across his face as he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Clayton. "Have I heard you aright?"

Clayton inclined his head in a slight nod, and Lord Rutherford's delighted gaze returned to Whitney. "Come with me, young lady," he said, eagerly drawing Whitney's hand through his arm. "As you may have noticed, there are about six hundred people down there all on fire to know who you are."

When Clayton seemed perfectly agreeable to letting her go with Marcus Rutherford, Whitney hastily took matters into her own hands. "My Lord Rutherford," she said, her pleading gaze directed at Clayton. "We-we wish to keep our forthcoming marriage a secret for a while."

She looked so distressed that Clayton reluctantly relinquished his plan to present her to everyone as his betrothed. "It's to remain a secret for a white, Marcus," be said.

"You must be mad," Lord Rutherford returned, but he released Whitney's hand. "You'll never keep this prize of yours a secret for a day. In fact"-he glanced in the direction of the crowd below which was now openly watching what was transpiring on the balcony-"you'll never manage such a feat for even an hour." He waited a moment, obviously hoping that Clayton would relent, then turned to leave them, saying over his shoulder, "You win at least allow me to confide in Lady Rutherford? She's already charged me to discover who this beautiful young woman with you is."

Before Whitney could object, Clayton nodded his assent. With a feeling of impending disaster, she turned a despairing took on him and said, "Now watch what happens." Lord Rutherford strode directly to a stunning redhead, drew he-aside and said something to her, and that lady turned to gaze in astonished welcome at Clayton and Whitney while flashing them a conspiratorial smile. Precisely as Whitney expected, the moment Lord Rutherford left her side, Lady Rutherford hurried over to another woman and bent low to whisper in her ear, and that lady's head swivelled to Clayton and Whitney, pausing for a split-second before she raised her fan and leaned close to speak to the lady beside her.