Helena spotted her first Paris within minutes. He stood tall, eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd, examining all the women in sight. His gaze rested on her for one instant, then moved on. Helena smiled behind her mask and turned away. Paris One was Lord Mortingdale. A good sign perhaps? Or did his choice of costume show a sad lack of appreciation of her wit?

Continuing around the room, she found three more Parises; they all saw her—one looked interested but did not pursue her when she moved away. One of the three was Mr. Coke, a gentleman who had tried to pay her considerable attention. The other two she could not identify, but neither of them was Sebastian—of that she was sure.

There were a number of Roman senators in the crowd. As was usually the case, they were gentlemen for whom the toga meant freedom from their corsets. To Helena’s relief, none had thought to array himself as an emperor. One of the portly crew, on spying her, came rustling up to suggest they were a pair. One glance and a cool word disabused him of the idea.

“Oh, well, had to try, you know!” With a grin, the gentleman bowed and left her.

Gaining the side of the room, Helena paused and turned to scan the throng. Even with her high heels, she couldn’t see far; the huge wigs and elaborate headdresses so many wore blocked her view. She’d covered nearly half the long room. Farther ahead she glimpsed an archway leading to another salon. She craned her neck, peering between bodies . . .

And felt Sebastian’s presence materialize like a flame at her back.

As she registered the fact and turned to face him, his fingers closed about her hand.

“Mignonne,you are exquisite.”

She felt the usual jolt as his lips brushed the backs of her fingers, was momentarily lost, adrift in the blue of his eyes, in the warmth that shone there, real appreciation tinged with desire, edging into . . .

She blinked, and her conscious view expanded—to take in his gold half-mask, like her own embossed with laurel leaves. She blinked again, lifted her gaze—took in the gold wreath set amid the burnished brown of his hair. Sucking in a breath, eyes wide, she swept her gaze down—over the white toga edged with gold-embroidered laurel, topped with the purple robe of an emperor.

“Who—” She had to stop to moisten her lips. “Who are you supposed to be?”

He smiled. “Constantius Chlorus.” He raised her hand again, held her gaze as he turned it and pressed his lips to her palm. “Helena’s lover.” He changed his hold, touched his lips to her wrist, to where her pulse raced beneath her skin. “Ultimately her husband, the father of her son.”

Breathing was increasingly difficult; Helena tried to find her temper—she couldn’t even summon a frown. “How did you know?”

The curve of his lips was triumphant. “You do not like being taken for granted,mignonne. ”

He was right, so right she wanted to scream—or weep, she wasn’t sure which. Being with someone who knew her—could read her—so well was unnerving—and so appealing.

She finally managed a slight frown. “You are an extremely difficult man to deal with, Your Grace.”

He sighed, his fingers shifting over hers as he lowered her hand. “So I have often been told,mignonne, but you don’t truly find me so difficult, do you?”

Her frown grew more definite. “I’m not sure.”

There was so much about which she was unsure when it came to him.

He’d been studying her face; now he said, “I take it Thierry has yet to return?”

“He arrived home just as we were starting out. He will no doubt be here shortly.”

“Good.”

She tried to read Sebastian’s face. “You wish to talk with him?”

“In a manner of speaking. Come.” Sebastian took her hand and drew her on down the room. “Stroll with me.”

She threw him a puzzled, slightly suspicious glance but consented to stroll by his side. Others had similarly found mates; they were stopped frequently as other guests tried to guess their identities.

“That Neptune is magnificent—and the Sun King, too.”

“Mme de Pompadour is Therese Osbaldestone, which is something of a surprise.”

“Did she recognize us, do you think?”

“I expect so. Very little misses those black eyes.”

They were nearly at the end of the room when Sebastian tightened his hold on her hand. He glanced down as she looked up questioningly. “Mignonne,I need to speak with you privately.”

Helena stopped walking. Started to frown. “I cannot—will not—be private with you. Not again.”

He exhaled through his teeth, glanced around, noted how close others were. “I cannot discuss what I wish to discuss in such surrounds—and it’s not possible to arrange to meet with you privately by any other means.” Not without tipping the wink to the gabblemongers.

She didn’t say anything. The stubborn set of her lips gave him her answer.

Sebastian knew he was close to losing his temper. It had been a very long time since anyone—let alone a slip of a woman—had dared deny him so stubbornly. And for once in his life, his intentions were honorable.

“Mignonne—”He instantly knew he’d chosen the wrong tone; her spine stiffened like a poker. He exhaled, then stated, “I give you my word that you will be safe with me. I do need to speak with you.”

The stubborn set of her chin eased; her lips shifted, twisted, grimaced lightly. But . . .

Briefly she returned the clasp of his fingers, then shook her beautiful head. “Non.I cannot . . .” She drew breath, lifted her chin. “I dare not go apart with you, Your Grace.”

Helena watched his eyes darken, although his face changed not at all.

“Do you question my word,mignonne ?”

The words were soft, steely.

She shook her head. “No—”

“You don’t trust me?”

“That is not it at all!” It wasn’thim she didn’t trust—but she couldn’t tell him that. Too revealing, too much an acknowledgment of her susceptibility, her vulnerability—her weakness over him. “It is just that . . . No. I cannot go apart with you, Your Grace.” She tugged. “Sebastian, let me go!”

“Helena—”

“No!”

Their altercation, albeit conducted in hissed whispers and low growls, was starting to attract attention. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian forced himself to release her. “We are not finished with this discussion.”

Her eyes blazed. “Weare finished entirely, Your Grace.”

She turned and stormed off—an imperial termagant leaving a conqueror, dismissed, in her wake.

Sebastian stood perfectly still for three minutes before he got his temper back under control. Even then he had to stop himself from snapping when some unfortunate lady thought to offer him solace. Then he glimpsed Martin, a corsair, through the crowd. He started to prowl, his mind fixed on one object—and on how to achieve his goal.

He hadn’t prowled far when he was approached by a pirate.

“Monsieur le duc, I do hope my cousin is not”—a vague gesture punctuated the pirate’s words—“being difficult?”

De Sèvres. Biting back the urge to articulate just how difficult his cousin was indeed being, Sebastian drawled, “Mademoiselle is an extremely stubborn woman.”

“Vraiment.”

De Sèvres was wearing a half-mask; Sebastian could see his worried frown.

“If I could help in any way . . . perhaps be of some assistance . . . ?”

Sebastian fought to keep his expression impassive. What was going on? He was tempted to pursue the matter—why a man supposedly sent to protect Helena was offering instead to assist in what, for all he knew, was to be her seduction—but at that precise moment, he had a more imperative goal.

“I wish to speak privately with mademoiselle la comtesse, but she is proving elusive.”

“I see, I see.” De Sèvres nodded, frowned harder.

“Perhaps if I were to set a location and wait there, you might endeavor to persuade her to join me?”

Looking into the crowd, de Sèvres considered, calculated; eyes narrowed, he chewed his lower lip. Sebastian would have taken an oath he wasn’t worrying over the propriety of his actions but rather how to persuade Helena to comply. Then de Sèvres nodded. “What location?”

Not why did he wish to speak with her—for how long, how privately . . . Sebastian made a mental note to investigate de Sèvres a great deal more closely once he’d secured Helena’s hand.

“The library.” A sufficiently formal setting, which would likely make Helena less suspicious; Sebastian had little faith in de Sèvres’s powers of obfuscation. He nodded to a doorway across the ballroom. “Go through there, turn right, then follow the hall to a long gallery. The library is the main room giving off that. If you wish to assist me, bring mademoiselle there in twenty minutes.”

At this hour the library should be empty, although as the evening progressed, others, too, would seek out its amenities.

De Sèvres tugged on his waistcoat. “I will bring her.” With a nod, he moved off in the direction Helena had gone.

Sebastian watched him go and inwardly shook his head. Later . . .

He turned—and found himself facing Martin.

One look into his eyes and his brother grinned. “Itis you! Now, where is she?” He glanced around. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve found three Helen of Troys so far, and none of them are she.”

“If you’re referring to mademoiselle la comtesse, she’s here, but not as Helen of Troy.”

“Oh?” Martin frowned. “Then who . . . ?”

He cocked a brow at Sebastian—who considered him, then shook his head. “I know for a fact that you received a classical education. I wouldn’t want to inhibit the exercising of your intellect.” He clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Think hard, and the answer will come to you.”

With that, Sebastian strolled on, leaving Martin scowling good-naturedly after him.

The library was indeed deserted when he reached it. He surveyed the long room, then strolled to the large desk set out from one corner. Beyond it, in the corner of the room, sat a commodious armchair. Sebastian sat, stretched out his legs, folded his hands, and waited for his duchess-to-be to appear.

elena didn’t notice Louis hovering until she turned from chatting to Therese Osbaldestone and saw him step toward her. She inclined her head, expecting to pass him by.

Instead, he put a hand on her arm. “You must come with me—quickly.”

Louis’s manner was agitated. He was glancing around.

“Why? What is it?”

“There is someone Uncle Fabien requires you to meet.”

“Fabien?What is this?” Thrown off balance, Helena allowed Louis to draw her to the side of the room. “Who does Fabien know here?”

“That is not important. I will explain all later. But I can tell you this—Fabien wishes you to meet with this gentleman and hear him out.”

“Hear him out?”

“Oui.”Louis continued tugging, surreptitiously dragging her to a doorway. “This man will have a request to make—an invitation. You are to listen, then accept!Comprends? ”

“I don’t understand anything,” Helena complained. “Stop pulling.” She wrenched her arm free, stopped Louis with a glare, then straightened her gown. “I do not know whom Fabien wishes me to meet, but I will not meet anyoneen déshabillé !”

Louis gritted his teeth. “Vite, vite!He will not wait forever.”

Helena heaved a resigned sigh. “Very well, where am I to meet him?” She followed Louis through the doorway into a corridor.

“In the library.”

“Allons!”Helena waved Louis on. She had little confidence in Louis, but set much more store in Fabien’s good sense. Her guardian was not a man to put at risk anything that was of value to him. If Fabien wished her to meet some gentleman, there would be some sane explanation. Although she railed against Fabien’s hold on her, she was too wise not to humor his wishes until she was free of him.

Louis led her to a long gallery, then somewhat hesitantly opened a door and peered in. He stood back. “Bon—this is it. The library.” He waved her in.

Helena glided forward.

Louis lowered his voice. “I will leave you together, but I will not be far, so I can conduct you back to the ballroom if you wish.”

Helena frowned, grateful for her mask as she stepped over the threshold. Whatwas Louis about? If she wished? Why . . . ?

The library door shut softly behind her. She scanned the room, expecting to see some gentleman waiting for her, but there was no one there. No one rose from the large armchairs before the hearth, no one sat behind the desk.