Aunt Anne and Whitney's father were coming up to London for Elizabeth's wedding-Elizabeth had surprised everyone by deciding she wished to be married in all the splendor London could provide. As much as she longed to see her beloved aunt, Whitney dreaded the confrontation. In four days Aunt Anne would arrive, expecting to find Clayton and Whitney acting like an unofficially engaged couple. Instead, Whitney was going to tell her that she was never going to marry the Duke of Claymore. And Aunt Anne would insist on knowing why.

Why? Whitney thought wildly, rehearsing the scene with her aunt. "Because he dragged me away from Emily's party, he took me to his house and he tore my clothes off, and he made me get into his bed."

Aunt Anne would be stunned and outraged, but she would want to know what had happened before that. She would want to know why. Whitney sank down onto a park bench, her shoulders drooping with confused despair. Why had Clayton believed she had given herself to Paul? And why hadn't he at least come to find out how she was faring? Or to tell her what he was going to do?

Not once in the last four weeks had Whitney allowed herself to think about that night, but now that she 'had started, she couldn't stop. She tried to remember Clayton as the man who had coldly and viciously ripped her clothes off. Instead she remembered him in that awful, pain-blurred moment when he had discovered her virginity. She saw his tensed shoulders above her, his head thrown back, his face a tortured mask of anguish and regret.

She wanted to remember the names he had called her and the insulting, degrading things he had said to her. Instead she remembered that he had held her in his arms while she cried, stroking her hair and whispering to her in a voice raw with emotion. "Don't cry, darling. Please don't cry anymore."

An awful, stabbing ache grew and grew in Whitney's throat, but now the pain she felt was for Clayton, not herself. When she realized it, she jumped furiously to her feet. She must be mad, utterly mad! She was actually feeling sorry for the man who had violated her! She never wanted to lay eyes on him again. Ever!

She walked quickly back down the path, the gusty wind blowing her cape around her like a tourniquet. As suddenly as it had come up, the wind died and a squirrel scampered toward her, then stopped, watching her half in fear, half in expectation. Whitney stopped too, waiting for him to move, but he sat up and chattered reproachfully at her.

She saw the acorn lying beside her foot and bent down to pick it up, offering it to him. The furry little animal blinked nervously, but came no closer, so Whitney tossed it to him. "Better take it," she told him softly, "it's going to be winter soon." The squirrel flicked its eyes to the precious acorn now lying only inches from him. For a moment he hesitated, then he turned, fleeing from it as quickly as his legs would carry him. !

Not once in the weeks since that fateful night had Whitney broken her brave promise not to cry. She had succeeded, but she had also stored up a terrible burden of emotion. A little squirrel who preferred to starve rather than take something she had touched, was the last straw. "I hope you starve!" she choked as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She pivoted on her heel and stalked down the path, past the park gates.

Tears streamed down her face and the wind burned her eyes, but she cried anyway. She cried until there were no more tears of bitterness or hurt left to shed-and strangely her spirits began to lift. In fact, by the time she reached the Archibald house, Whitney felt better than she had since "it" had happened.

Lord Archibald was away that evening so Whitney and Emily shared a cozy dinner in Whitney's room, and Whitney discovered she could actually enjoy herself again.

"You look remarkably restored tonight," Emily teased her, as she poured tea.

"I feel remarkably restored," Whitney said, smiling.

"Good," Emily replied. "Because there's something I want to ask you."

"Ask away," Whitney said, sipping her tea.

"My mother wrote me that you're betrothed to Paul Sevarin. Are you?"

"No-to Clayton Westmoreland," Whitney replied in quick defense.

A priceless antique tea cup slid through Emily's fingers and crashed to the floor. Her eyes widened, then grew wider still while a slow smile dawned across her pretty features. "You aren't. . . jesting?" she whispered.

Whitney shook her head.

"You're certain?"

"Very certain."

"I don't think I believe you," Emily said.

She looked so skeptical that Whitney's lips trembled with laughter. "Would you care to bet your new sable cape that I'm not betrothed to him?"

"Do you want it badly enough to Be?"

"Definitely. But I'm not lying."

"But how-when-did it happen?"

Whitney opened her mouth to explain, then changed her mind. She desperately needed to talk to someone about it, but she was afraid to begin. Today, for the first time in weeks, she had begun to feel alive again; she didn't want to risk her fragile, newfound tranquillity. "No, Emily," she said. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about it." She got up nervously and Emily rose too, advancing on her with a determined, joyous smile.

"Well, you're going to!" Emily laughed softly. "You are going to tell me every single, tiny detail of this unbelievable romance if I have to wring it out of you with my own two hands. Now begin at the beginning."

Whitney started to refuse, but Emily looked so happy and so determined, that it was useless. Besides, she suddenly wanted to talk about it. She sat back down and Emily settled beside her. "I suppose it actually began several years ago, before my come-out," Whitney started. "Clayton said he saw me in a millinery shop with my aunt. The proprietress was trying to convince me to purchase a hideous bonnet covered with artificial fruit. . ."

At the end of the story Emily stared at her with a combination of mirth and wonder. "Oh lord," she whispered. "It's too delicious for words-and so romantic. Imagine, after spending all that money, he came to England only to discover that you were infatuated with Paul." She gulped down a giggle. "Michael was so worried that his grace would break your heart, but I wasn't. I saw the way he looked at you when he came to take you to the Rutherfords' ball, and I knew."

"You knew what?" Whitney asked.

"Why, that he is in love with you, silly!" Emily broke off in bewilderment. "But he hasn't been here in weeks, and I know he's in London because he's been seen at the opera and the theatre." She watched the familiar haunted expression return to Whitney's face. "Whitney?" she breathed. "What's wrong? You've looked like this ever since the night you didn't come home. What happened that night to make you so unhappy?"

"I don't want to discuss it," Whitney said hoarsely.

Emily took Whitney's cold hands in hers. "You have to talk about it, it's been tearing you apart. I'm not trying to pry; I already know you didn't tell the truth. You see, I was standing at the window the morning you returned, and I saw the gold crest on the coach that brought you back. It was the duke's coach, wasn't it?"

"You know it was," Whitney said, her head bent with shame.

"And I also know you left here with him-you said you did, and Carlisle said you did too. Although," she added with a bemused smile in her voice, "Carlisle was shockingly in his cups that night, and he kept insisting that the Duke of Claymore had descended from nowhere and forcibly dragged you off into the night. Of course, I didn't believe for a minute-oh dear lord!" she burst out. "Is that what happened? Is it?" she pleaded.

Whitney nodded.

"Where did he take you?" Emily demanded, her voice tight with apprehension. "Did he take you to another party?"