Lord Athlebright, heir to the Duke of Higtham, was at this moment dancing attendance on his mother, but Viscount Markham, an amiable gentleman of some thirty-odd years, heir to the Earl of Cork, was approaching.
“My dear comtesse.” Markham bowed gracefully. “You must have only recently arrived. I could not have remained in ignorance of your fair presence for long.”
Helena smiled. “We have just arrived.” She extended her hand. “I would like to stroll, if you’re agreeable?”
His lordship took her hand, smiling easily. “It would indeed be my pleasure.”
The touch of hands, more precisely of fingertips, was not enough to judge. Helena glanced around but couldn’t see any musicians. “Will the dancing start soon?”
“I doubt it.” Markham looked at her. Was she imagining the calculating gleam in his eye? “Lady Castlereagh calls her evenings balls, but in reality, dancing is the last thing on her mind. Consequently, there’ll be but a few dances, and those most likely late.”
“Ah, I see.” Helena bided her time as they stopped and chatted, then moved on through the crowd. “I have to confess”—she leaned closer to Markham and lowered her voice—“that I find the English penchant for such crowded rooms somewhat . . . enervating.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “Dancing, that gives one a little space for a time, but . . .tiens, how is one to breathe?”
She made the question a laughing one, but Markham had already raised his head, looking over the crowd to scan the room. Then he looked down at her, his gaze unreadable. “If you would like to stroll in less crowded surrounds, there’s a conservatory just off the music room. We could repair there if you wish.”
There was an eagerness in his tone that alerted her, but she needed her list narrowed to one name by the end of tomorrow night—the night of Lady Lowy’s masquerade, the last night the ton would grace the capital. “You know the house well?” she asked, temporizing.
“Yes.” Markham smiled ingenuously. “My grandmother and Lady Castlereagh were bosom-bows. I was often dragged here to be shown off when I was young.”
“Ah.” Helena smiled back, feeling rather more comfortable. “Where is this music room?”
He led her into a side corridor, then down an intersecting corridor. The music room lay at its end; beyond, through glass-paneled doors, stood a room with walls and roof primarily composed of glass. Built out into the gardens, it was lit by weak moonlight.
Markham opened the door and ushered her in. Helena was entranced by the plethora of shadows, the odd shapes cast upon the green tiles. The air was cool but not chilly, the gentle splash of raindrops on the glass a curiously soothing sound.
She sighed. “It is very pleasant here.” She did find the crowds trying, the sense of being hemmed in with nothing but hot, heavily perfumed air all about her suffocating. But here . . . gratefully, she drew in a deep, deep breath. As she turned to Markham, she was surprised to find his gaze somewhat lower than her face.
He recovered swiftly and smiled. “There’s a pond—this way, from memory.”
His memory was good. The conservatory was bigger than she’d guessed; within a minute of leaving the area before the door and plunging down a series of narrow paths, she wasn’t sure which way led back.
“Ah—here it is.”
The pond, quite a large one, was set into the floor, its raised lip and the inside surface covered in bright blue tiles. It was filled to the level of the floor; against the tiles, Helena could see shapes drifting in the water.
“Fish!” Looking down, she leaned over the pool.
Markham leaned beside her. “There’s a fat one—look!”
Helena edged farther; Markham shifted. His shoulder bumped hers.
“Oh!”
She grabbed for Markham—he grabbed her.
“Helena! My dear, dear comtesse.”
He tried to kiss her.
Abruptly bracing her arms, Helena struggled to hold him off.
“Don’t fight me, sweet, or you’ll fall in the water.” Markham’s tone was warm and far too knowing, too amused.
Helena inwardly cursed. She’d been too trusting.
His hands shifted on her back and her nerves leaped—not pleasurably. He’d yet to touch her bare skin, but every sense she possessed was rebelling at the mere thought.
“Stop this!” She put all the command she could muster into her tone.
Markham chuckled. “Oh, I will—eventually.”
He tried again to draw her to him. She resisted. Struggled.“No!”
“Markham.”
He started so much he nearly dropped her. The single word—and its tone—sent relief pouring down Helena’s veins. She didn’t even care what the fact portended—she just wanted to get out of Markham’s arms.
They’d gone slack. She got her balance, then, with a wrench, pulled back. Stepped back, glanced around.
Markham shot her a frowning glance but immediately returned his gaze to her savior.
Sebastian stood half obscured by the shadows, yet no shadow could dim the menace he projected. It was there in his stance; it hung in the tense silence. Helena had experience aplenty of being in the presence of displeased powerful men. Sebastian’s displeasure rolled past her like a wave and broke over Markham.
Involuntarily, Markham stepped back, putting more space between himself and her.
“I believe you were about to apologize?”
Sebastian’s voice held the chill of hell, the promise of damnation.
Markham swallowed. Without taking his gaze from Sebastian, he bowed to Helena. “Pray accept my apologies, comtesse.”
She did nothing, said nothing, regarding him as coldly as Sebastian.
“As mademoiselle has grown weary of your company, I suggest you leave.” Sebastian, ever graceful, walked forward; Markham backed, glanced around wildly, then edged toward one path. “One thing—I take it I don’t need to explain how . . . unhappy I would be if any mention of this incident or, indeed, of mademoiselle la comtesse at all were to be traced to you?”
“No need at all.” His face set, Markham looked at them both, then nodded curtly. “Good night.”
He left; they heard his footsteps striding along, faster and faster, then they paused; the door opened, shut, and he was gone.
Helena let out a shuddering sigh of relief; crossing her arms, she shivered.
Sebastian had halted two feet away; he turned his head and his gaze to her. “I think,mignonne, that you had better tell me just what you are about.”
The evenness of his tone did not deceive her; behind his mask he was angry. She lifted her chin. “I do not like such crowds. I thought to walk in less stifling surrounds.”
“Perfectly understandable. What is somewhat less understandable is why you chose Markham as your escort.”
She threw a frowning glance in the direction the viscount had gone. “I thought he was trustworthy.”
“As you have discovered, he is not.”
When she didn’t respond but continued to frown distantly, Sebas-tian ventured, “Do I take it you’ve struck him off your list?”
That got her attention; she turned her frown on him. “Of course! I do not like to be mauled.”
He inclined his head. “Which brings me back to my original question—what are you about?”
She considered him, then drew herself up. “My actions are no concern of yours, Your Grace.”
“Except that I choose to be concerned. I repeat, what game are you playing with your prospective suitors?”
Her chin rose another notch; her eyes flashed. “It is none of your business!”
He merely arched a bored brow and waited.
“You cannot”—she gestured at him with both hands as she searched for the word—“compelme to tell you just because you wish to know!”
He said nothing, simply looked at her—let his intent reach her without words.
She met his gaze, read his eyes, then flung her hands in the air. “No! I am not some weak-willed pawn in some game. I am not part of any game of yours. This is not some battle you must win.”