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is cousin to Nicki's valet and he
told her that Nicki is coming tonight. And he is bringing three of his
friends as well-he bet them five-hundred francs against two hours of their
time tonight on a roll of the dice, and they lost, so they have to come and
dance with you . . ." She broke off with an apologetic shrug to Whitney and
bestowed a charming curtsy upon the young man who had come to ask her for a
dance.
    Whitney's mind was still reeling with embarrassment over
this news when the musicians struck the first note of music, and the
debutantes were escorted onto the dance floor by their respective partners.
Not all the debutantes-Whitney felt her color deepen as she looked
helplessly at Aunt Anne. She had known when she came tonight that she might
not be asked to dance at first, but she hadn't expected to feel so
wretchedly conspicuous at being left standing there with her aunt and Madame
DuVille. The feeling was painfully familiar -it was as if she were back home
in England where invitations to neighborhood functions were infrequent and,
if she went, she was either treated with derision or ignored.
    Therese danced the second and third dances, but Whitney
was not asked for either. When it was time for the fourth one, the
humiliation of being passed over again was more than she could bear. Leaning
toward Aunt Anne, Whitney started to ask if she could go somewhere to
freshen up, but there was a commotion at the entrance and she curiously
followed the gazes of the other guests.
    Nicolas DuVille and three other gentlemen were standing
beneath the arched portico at the entrance to the ballroom. Carelessly at
ease in their elegant dark formal wear, and serenely indifferent to the wild
attention they were receiving, they surveyed the crowd. In frozen
apprehension, Whitney watched as Nicolas DuVille's gaze swept the staring
masses of giggling debutantes and young dandies. When at last he saw
Whitney, he inclined his head slightly in greeting, and the foursome started
forward.
    Whitney pressed back against the wall, childishly
tempted to try to squeeze herself between it and Aunt Anne. She didn't want
to risk another confrontation with Nicolas DuVille. Yesterday she'd been too
surprised to feel intimidated by him; tonight what pride and self-confidence
she possessed were already in tatters, and to add to her discomfort, she was
acutely aware of how elegantly urbane and handsome Nicolas looked in his
Mack evening attire.
    She watched the men threading their way through the
watchful crowd, coming right toward her, and even in her state of paralyzed
horror, Whitney recognized the sharp contrast between Nicolas DuVille's
group and the other gentlemen in the room. He and his party were not only
several years older than most of the young men paving lavish court to even
younger girls, there was also an aura of smooth sophistication about them
that further set them apart.
    Madame DuVille laughed with delighted surprise as her
son greeted her. "Nicki, I could not be more astonished if the devil himself
strolled in!"
    "Why thank you, Mama," he murmured drily, making her a
brief bow. Abruptly, he turned to Whitney and grinned as he took her cold
hand in his. Raising it to his lips for a formal kiss, he said with an
infuriating chuckle, "Stop looking so astounded to find yourself the object
of my attention, Mademoiselle. You should act as if this is nothing more
than you expect."
    Whitney stared at him wide-eyed, not certain whether she
was insulted or grateful for his unsolicited advice.
    He raised an ironic eyebrow, as if he knew what she was
thinking, then he turned and introduced his three companions to her.
    The musk began and without asking, Nicki simply took her
hand, placed it on his arm, and escorted her onto the dance floor. He guided
her effortlessly through the swirling waltz, while Whitney concentrated on
following the steps she had learned from her dancing