Standing, Louis allowed Villard to help him into his dressing robe. His gaze was distant as he recited what was clearly an oft-rehearsed plan. “When we have Uncle’s dagger safe in our possession and have crossed once more to France, I will marry Helena—by force, if necessary. In Calais there is a notary who will do as I ask for a price. Once our marriage is a reality, we will travel to Le Roc. Uncle Fabien is too much the strategist not to appreciate the beauty of my plan. As soon as he grasps that there is no longer any desirable marriage for the factions to squabble over and that thus I have freed him from their threats, he will fall on my neck and thank me.”
Behind Louis, Villard’s expression betrayed his contempt, yet he quietly murmured, “As you say, m’sieur.”
f Helena had had her way, she would not have attended that morning’s gathering at the Duchess of Richmond’s house. Unfortunately, so Marjorie informed her, it was a tradition as venerated as the masquerade to be held that evening and, therefore, impossible to miss. Helena had had half a mind to appeal to Thierry, more easygoing than his lady, but her host had been absent for the past day.
“He has gone to Bristol,” Marjorie confessed as the carriage rattled toward Richmond.
“Bristol?” Helena looked her surprise.
Marjorie’s lips thinned; she looked out the window. “He has gone to look into some business opportunity.”
“Business? He—” Helena broke off, sensitive to the connotations.
Marjorie shrugged. “What would you do? We are currently monsieur le comte’s pensioners—what is to become of us when you marry and leave?”
Helena hadn’t thought, didn’t know, but thereafter she held her tongue and carped at Marjorie no more.
“Eh, bien,”Marjorie murmured when the carriage eventually drew to a halt and they descended. “Thierry will return later. He will escort us to Lady Lowy’s tonight. Then we will see.”
Helena held to Marjorie’s side as they entered and greeted their hostess. An unexpected tension, an apprehension, stretched her nerves taut. Moving into the considerable crowd, awash with laughter and good cheer, she searched with her eyes, with her senses, and breathed a tight, small sigh of relief when she could detect no glimmer of Sebastian’s presence.
After some minutes of chatting, then moving on, she parted from Marjorie and ventured on alone. She was assured enough, now well known enough, to make her way with confidence. Although unmarried, she was so much older, so much more experienced than girls in their first or even second season, that she was accorded a different status, one permitting her greater social freedom. Speaking to this one, then that, she worked her way through the crowd.
She still had three names on her list, but only Were was confirmed. Were Athlebright and Mortingdale present? Quite how she might engage with them to assess the effect of their touch in the middle of a crowded salon where talk and not dancing, certainly not touching, was the principal aim was a problem—one at which her mind boggled and failed.
Turned too readily aside. After last night, her mind had more troubling thoughts to ponder.
Damn Sebastian!She had constantly, throughout the night, through the silent hours in which she’d tossed and turned and tried to forget, tried to wipe from her mind the sensation of his lips on hers, the warmth of his nearness, the allure of his touch.
Impossible.
She’d spent hours lecturing herself, pointing out how directly against her careful plans falling victim to such a man would be—only to wake from lustful dreams of doing precisely that.
Shocked, she’d sat up, risen from her bed, washed her face and hands in cold water, then stood before her window staring out at the black night until the cold had forced her back to her quilts.
Madness. He had sworn never to marry. What was she thinking of?
It was impossible, more than impossible, for a woman such as herself—an unmarried noblewoman of old family—to become his mistress. Yet to marry a complaisant husband knowing herself driven by a need to be free to engage in an illicit but socially acceptable liaison with another—that, too, was unthinkable. At least to her.
Sebastian, she was sure, had thought of it, but that had never been part of her plans.
Still wasn’t.
Which left her with one very large problem—he surprised her by appearing in the doorway to an adjoining salon just as she approached it.
“Mignonne.”He took the hand she instinctively raised to ward him off, bowed, and raised it to his lips.
Her eyes met his over her knuckles as she belatedly bobbed a curtsy; what she saw in the blue depths made her lungs seize.
“Your Grace.” Cursing her breathlessness, she struggled to marshal her wits as, still holding her hand, he urged her back from the doorway toward the side of the room. Forced to comply, she reminded herself of how dangerous he was—only to have another part of her mind airily point out that with him, she knew she was safe.
Dangereuxon the one hand, knight-protector on the other. Was it any wonder she was confused?
“Indeed, I am very glad I met you.” Attack suited her more than defense. She faced him, head high. “I wished to say good-bye and to thank you for your assistance through these past weeks.”
She could tell nothing from his expression—the polite mask he so often wore—but she saw his eyes widen a fraction. At least she’d surprised him. “I understand that the masquerade tonight will be very crowded, so it’s possible we will not meet again.”
She stopped there, bit her tongue against a nervous urge to babble on. If what she’d already said didn’t put him in his place—didn’t tell him how she’d decided to react after last night—nothing would.
He was silent for some minutes, his unnerving blue gaze locked on her eyes, then his lips curved, just enough to tell her that the smile was indeed genuine.
“Mignonne,you never fail to surprise me.”
Briefly, she glared. “I am honored that I amuse you, Your Grace.”
His smile only deepened. “You should be. There’s so little these days that amuses such a jaded soul as I.”
There was sufficient self-deprecation in his tone to make it difficult to take offense. Helena contented herself with another glare—then felt heat shoot up her arm as his fingers shifted and one stroked her palm. He’d lowered their hands but hadn’t released hers; his fingers curled protectively around hers, their linked hands hidden from all by her wide skirts.
“But there’s no reason to bid me farewell. I’ll be by your side tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You will have to find me in all that crowd, and then be sure it is me.”
“I will know you,mignonne —in exactly the same way you will know me.”
His confidence grated. “I will not tell you my costume.”
“No need.” He continued to smile. “I can guess.”
He’d guess wrong, along with all the others. She’d been to masquerades before. Supremely confident, she looked about at the crowd.“Eh, bien —we shall see.”
After a moment she glanced at him. He was studying her face. He hesitated, then asked, “Have you spoken with Thierry this morning?”
She blinked. “No. He is out of town but should return this evening.”
“Ah. I see.” That, Sebastian realized, explained why she didn’t know of his invitation. Relieved his concern that she might indeed know but had decided to resist, to play even more difficult to win. Hard to imagine, but . . .
“Why such an interest in Thierry?”
He refocused to find Helena regarding him suspiciously. He smiled. “Merely an interest I have that concerns him. I will no doubt see him tonight.”