us.”
She stepped around him. Allowing her lips to relax into an easy smile, she glided through the throng. Marjorie, Mme Thierry, wife of the Chevalier Thierry, a distant kinsman, was her nominal chaperone. Helena had glimpsed her across the room. She headed in that direction, conscious of the male eyes that tracked her progress. Relieved that, in this season with society caught up in a frantic whirl, her entrance upon it had been much less noticeable than it would otherwise have been. Clusters of tittering ladies and garrulous gentlemen filled the room, spirits soaring, flown on the combination of her ladyship’s mulled wine and the goodwill of the season; it was easy to slip past with a nod and a smile.
Fabien had arranged for Helena and Louis to stay with the Thierrys in lodgings in the best part of town. There was never any lack of funds where Fabien, or indeed, Helena, was concerned. The Thierrys, however, were not affluent and were exceedingly grateful to monsieur le comte de Vichesse for providing lodgings and board, servants, and an allowance permitting them to entertain the numerous friends and acquaintances they had made in their single, regrettably expensive year in London.
The Thierrys were well aware of the influence Fabien de Mordaunt wielded, even in England. Helena’s guardian had a notoriously long arm. They were eager to provide whatever services monsieur le comte required, perfectly happy to introduce his ward to the ton and assist her in securing an acceptable offer.
Helena had carefully nurtured the Thierrys’ gratitude. Despite the fact that Marjorie had a tendency to defer to Louis, she was nevertheless a fount of information on the eligibles within the English ton.
There had to be one who would suit.
She found Marjorie, a thin but elegant blonde of thirty, chatting animatedly with a lady and gentleman. She joined them. Later, they parted, and she drew Marjorie aside.
“Withersay?”
Helena shook her head. “Too old.” Too rigid, too demanding. “Louis said there was a duke present—St. Ives. What of him?”
“
Helena raised her brows, inviting further details.
Marjorie fluffed her shawl, then leaned closer still. “His reputation is of the most shocking. For years and years, so it has been. He is a duke, yes, and rich and possessed of estates the most extensive, but he has declared he will not marry.” Marjorie’s brief gesture indicated her incomprehension of such things. “This, the society accepts—they say he has three brothers, and the eldest of them is now married with a son . . .” Another Gallic shrug. “So the duke is not at all an eligible, and indeed, he is . . .” She paused, searching for the right word, then breathed,
Before Helena could speak, Marjorie glanced up, then closed her fingers about Helena’s wrist and hissed, “See!”
Helena followed Marjorie’s gaze to the gentleman who had just stepped through the archway from the main salon.
“Monsieur le duc de St. Ives.”
Her wild Englishman, he of the cool, forceful lips gentle in the moonlight.
A picture of elegance, of arrogance, of power, he stood on the threshold and surveyed the room. Before his gaze reached them, Marjorie drew Helena around to stroll in the opposite direction.
“Now you see.
Helena could indeed see, yet . . . she still remembered that kiss and the promise inherent within it, the sense that if she gave herself she would be forever cherished. Elementally seductive—more potent than any lover’s entreaties. He was a rake; he’d perfected his art, she had not a doubt. Dangerous—that she would admit and wisely leave him be.
She would never be fool enough to escape one powerful man only to put herself in the hands of another. Freedom had become far too precious to her.
Luckily, monsieur le duc had declared himself out of her race.
“Are there any others here I should consider?”
“You’ve met monsieur le marquess?”
“Tanqueray? Yes. I do not believe he would meet monsieur le comte’s stipulations. From what he let fall, he is in debt.”
“Very possibly. But he is a proud one, that, so I have not heard. Let us see . . .” Passing through a doorway into another salon, Marjorie paused and looked about. “I can see none here, but it’s too early for us to leave. It would give offense. We must circulate for another half hour at least.”
“Another half hour, then. No more.” Helena allowed Marjorie to lead her to a lively group. The conversation was entertaining, but as a newcomer she watched, observed, and remained for the most part silent. None knew her well enough to know that self-effacement was not her customary tack; tonight she was happy to hold her tongue and leave her mind free to wander.
She’d had more than enough of being Fabien’s pawn, yet the law and society consigned her to his control, leaving her powerless. This trip to London was her best and perhaps only chance to escape—a chance fate had thrown her, one she’d used her wits to enhance, one she was determined to seize. With Fabien’s declaration, in writing, signed and sealed, she could marry any English nobleman she chose, provided he met Fabien’s stipulations regarding station, estate, and income. To her mind the stipulations were reasonable; there were English noblemen who might fit her bill.
They had to be titled, established and rich—and manageable. The fourth criterion she’d added to Fabien’s three to define the perfect husband for her. She would not allow herself to continue as a puppet with any man pulling her strings. Henceforth, if any strings were to be pulled,
She would not marry only to become another man’s chattel, a thing with no feelings of consequence. Fabien cared nothing for others’ emotions beyond how they affected his schemes. He was a despot, a tyrant, ruthless in crushing any who resisted him. She’d had his measure from the first, and she had survived in his care with her spirit undaunted only because she understood him, his motives, and had learned to mute her independence.
She had never been foolish enough to embark on a crusade she could not win. This time, however, luck was on her side. Winning free of Fabien, free of all powerful men, was an attainable goal.
“Well met, my dear comtesse.”
Gaston Thierry appeared beside her. In deference to her rank he bowed low, smiling genially as he straightened. “If you are free, I have received a number of requests for introductions.”
The twinkle in his eye made Helena smile. The chevalier was a spendthrift, but an engaging one. She readily gave him her hand. “If madame your wife will excuse me . . .”
With gracious nods to Marjorie and the others of their group, she let Gaston lead her away.
As she’d suspected, the requests had come from a number of gentlemen, but if she had to spend time in Lady Morpleth’s rooms, then she might as well be entertained. They all did their best to accommodate her, putting themselves out to engage her, relating the latest
Inquiring as to her plans.
On that subject she remained vague, which only increased their interest, as she well knew.
“Ah, Thierry—do introduce me.”
The languid drawl came from behind her. Helena didn’t recognize his voice, yet she knew who it was. She had to fight not to whirl and face him. Slowly, smoothly, she turned, polite distance infusing her expression.
Sebastian looked down into the madonnalike countenance he had not forgotten despite the passage of seven long years. Her expression was as aloof, as self-contained as he remembered, a blatant challenge for such as he, although he doubted she knew it. Her eyes . . . he waited until her lids lifted and her gaze rose to his face.
Green. Palest green. Peridot eyes utterly startling in their crystal clarity. Eyes that tempted, that would allow a man to see into her soul.
If she permitted it.
