“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 do the pulling.

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 lateston-dits , describing the most recent Christmas extravaganza planned by some inventive hostess.

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.

He’d waited seven years to see those eyes. Not the slightest trace of recognition showed in them, or in her expression. He let his lips curve appreciatively; he’d seen her watching him, knew she’d recognized him. Just as surely as he’d recognized her.

It was her hair that had caught his attention. Black as night, a froth of thick locks framing her face, brushing her shoulders. His gaze had roved, taking in her figure, provocatively displayed in a sea green silk gown with brocade overskirt and petticoat. His mind had been assessing, considering . . . Then he’d seen her face.

The silence had grown strained. He glanced at Thierry and raised a brow fractionally, well aware of the reason for the man’s reticence. The chevalier shifted his weight like a cat on hot coals.

Then the lady threw Thierry a glance and raised a commanding, rather more pointed brow of her own.

“Ahem.” Thierry waved. “Monsieur le duc de St. Ives. Mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle.”

He held out his hand; she laid her fingers on his and sank into a deep curtsy.

“Monsieur le duc.”

“Comtesse.” He bowed, then raised her. Quelled an urge to close his hand about her slender fingers. “You have lately come from Paris?”

“A sennight since.” She glanced around, as assured as he remembered her. “It is my first visit to these shores.” Her glance touched his face. “To London.”

Helena assumed he’d recognized her, but there was nothing to confirm it in his face. His angular, chiseled features resembled a stony mask, eradicating all telltale expression; his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, impossibly innocent, yet framed by lashes so long and lush they dispelled any thought of innocence. His lips held a similar contradiction, long and thin, embodying more than a hint of ruthless will, yet, relaxed as they presently were, they suggested a subtle sense of humor, a dryly appreciative wit.

He was not young. Of those currently about her, he was unquestionably the most senior, definitely the most mature. Yet he exuded a vibrant, masculine vitality that threw the rest into the shade, made them fade into the wallpaper.

Dominant. She was accustomed to being in the presence of such a man, used to holding her own against a powerful will. She lifted her chin and regarded him calmly. “Have you visited Paris recently, my lord?”

Eyes and lips gave him away, but only because she was watching so closely. A gleam, a faint quirk, that was all.

“Not in recent years. There was a time when I spent part of every year there, some years ago.”

He placed subtle emphasis on the last three words; he had definitely recognized her. A frisson of awareness raced over Helena’s skin. As if he sensed it, his gaze left her eyes, lowered to brush her shoulders.

“I confess I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

She waited until his gaze returned to her eyes. “I visit Paris infrequently. My estates lie in the South of France.”

The ends of his lips lifted; his gaze rose to her hair, then returned to her eyes, then lowered again. “So I had surmised.”

The comment was innocent enough—her coloring was indeed more indicative of the south rather than the north of France. His tone, however . . . it was deep enough, murmurous enough, to slide through her, striking some chord within, leaving it resonating.

She flicked a glance at Gaston, still nervously standing by. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but I believe it is time we left. Is it not so, monsieur?”

“Indeed, indeed.” Gaston bobbed like a jack-in-the-box. “If monsieur le duc will excuse us?”

“Of course.” Amusement lurked in the blue eyes as they returned to Helena’s face. She ignored it and curtsied. He bowed, raised her; before she could retrieve her hand, he murmured, “I take it you will be remaining in London, comtesse—at least for the present.”

She hesitated, then inclined her head. “For the present.”

“Then we will no doubt have the opportunity to further our acquaintance.” He raised her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. Releasing her smoothly, he inclined his head. “Once again, mademoiselle, au revoir.”

o Helena’s relief, Gaston did not pick up that “once again.” He and Marjorie were so exercised over her meeting St. Ives at all—at his requesting an introduction—that they also failed to notice her abstraction. Failed to notice her fingers trailing over her knuckles where his lips had pressed. By the time they reached Green Street and entered the tiled hall, she had her reactions under control.

“Another evening gone.” She sighed as her maid hurried forward to take her cloak. “Perhaps tomorrow we will meet with more success.”

Marjorie glanced at her face. “It’s Lady Montgomery’s drum—it will be packed to the rafters. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”

“Bon.”Helena turned to the stairs. “It will be a good venue to go hunting, I think.”

She bade Gaston good night. Marjorie joined her as she climbed the stairs.

“My dear . . . monsieur le duc—he is not a suitableparti . It would not do to encourage him to dally by your side. I am sure you understand.”

“Monsieur le duc de St. Ives?” When Marjorie nodded, Helena waved dismissively. “He was merely amusing himself—and I think he enjoyed discomfiting Thierry.”

“Eh, bien—that is possible, I grant you. Such as he . . . well, you are forewarned and thus forearmed.”

“Indeed.” Helena paused by her door. “Do not trouble yourself, madame. I am not such a fool as to waste my time on a man such as His Grace of St. Ives.”

inally—they have met!” Louis dragged his cravat from about his throat, threw it to his waiting valet, then loosened his collar. “I was starting to worry that I would have to make the introduction myself, but she finally crossed his path. It went as Uncle Fabien predicted—he came to her.”

“Indeed, m’sieur. Your uncle is uncannily prescient in such matters.” Villard came to help Louis out of his coat.