And in such a position he’d be doubly hard to resist.

A thrill of awareness—a presentiment of danger—flashed through her. Once he’d helped her to a marriage such as the one she sought, he’d be even more dangerous to her.

Then he was there, bowing over her hand, speaking politely to Marjorie, then asking her to stroll. She agreed; danger or not, she was already committed and could not easily draw back.

Easily escape his net.

The realization opened her eyes, had her attending more closely. He sensed it; she felt it in his glance, the brush of his blue eyes over her face.

“I have no intention of biting,mignonne —not yet.”

She slanted him a glance, saw the amusement in his beautiful eyes, and humphed. “Marjorie is worried.”

“Why? I have said I’ll help you find a husband. What is there to concern her in that?”

Helena narrowed her eyes at him. “You would be wise not to attempt ingenuousness, Your Grace. It does not become you.”

Sebastian laughed. She continued to delight him, continued, at some level few had ever touched, to engage him. He steered her through the crowd, stopping to chat here and there, to point out this one or that, to admire the ice sculpture of an angel standing in a bower of holly on the terrace, the pièce de résistance of her ladyship’s decor.

He wished he could increase the pace, curtail this phase and hurry on to the stage where he could touch her, caress her, kiss her again, but given his intent, that wouldn’t be wise. He was a past master at playing society’s games, and the outcome of this particular game was of far greater moment than that of any previous dalliance.

Once they’d circled the room, he steered her to one side. “Tell me,mignonne, why were you still at the convent all those years ago?”

“My sister was ill, so I stayed behind to help nurse her.” She hesitated, then added, “We’re close, and I didn’t want to leave her.”

“How much younger is she?”

“Eight years. She was only eight then.”

“So she is now fifteen. Is she here in London with you?”

She shook her head. “Ariele was sickly as a child. Although her chest is much improved and grows better with the years, it seemed foolish to risk bringing her to England in winter. Our winters are much milder at home.”

“And where is home?”

“Cameralle is our major estate. It’s in the Camargue.”

“Ariele. A pretty name. Is she pretty, too?”

Two ladies rose from a nearby chaise, leaving it empty. Sebastian guided Helena to it, waited until she settled her amber skirts, then sat beside her. Given the difference in their heights, if she became pensive and looked down, he couldn’t catch her expression. Couldn’t follow her thoughts.

“Ariele is fairer than I.”

“Fairer in coloring. She could not be fairer of face or form.”

Her lips twitched. “You seem very certain of that, Your Grace.”

“My name is Sebastian, and, given my reputation, I’m amazed you dare question my judgment.”

She laughed, then looked around them. “Now you may tell me, why is it that, given your reputation, they—the mesdames, the hostesses—are not . . .” She gestured.

“Overreacting to my interest in you?”

“Exactement.”

Because they couldn’t imagine what he was about and had given up trying to guess. Sebastian leaned back, studying her profile. “They’re still watching, but thus far there’s been nothing worthy of anon-dit to be seen.”

The softly drawled words sank into Helena’s brain. Another premonition of danger skittered over her skin. Slowly, smoothly, she turned her head and looked into his blue eyes. “Because you’ve ensured that that’s so.”

He returned her regard with an enigmatic gaze, steady, direct, but unreadable.

“You’re lulling them, waiting them out, until they grow bored and stop watching.”

It could have been a question, yet even in her mind there was no doubt. Her chest felt suddenly tight. It was difficult to breathe, difficult to say, “You are playing a game with me.”

A hint of what that meant to her must have colored her tone; something flickered in his eyes. His face grew harder. “No,mignonne —this is no game.”

She hated and abhorred the games of powerful men, yet here she was, having escaped one such man, entangled in a game with another. How had it happened—so quickly, so totally against her will?

Although he remained relaxed, elegantly at ease, a frown had darkened his eyes. They searched hers, but she’d learned long ago to keep her secrets.

His gaze sharpened; he reached for her hand.“Mignonne—”

“There you are, Sebastian.”

He looked up; Helena did, too. She felt his fingers close about her hand—he didn’t let go as a lady, a large English lady with a round face framed by brown ringlets, swept forward. She was so weighted down by jewelry one barely noticed the odd shade of her gown. Helena thought she heard Sebastian sigh.

The lady halted before the chaise. Slowly, his very slowness an indication of his displeasure, Sebastian uncrossed his long legs and rose. Helena rose with him.

“Good evening, Almira.” He waited. Somewhat belatedly, Almira bobbed him a curtsy. Inclining his head in reply, he glanced at Helena. “My dear comtesse, allow me to present Lady Almira Cynster. My sister-in-law.”

Helena met his gaze, read his irritation very clearly, then looked to the lady.

“Almira—the comtesse d’Lisle.”

Again Sebastian waited; so did Helena. With ill-concealed annoyance and little grace, Almira curtsied again. Her temper prodded, Helena smiled sweetly and showed her how the curtsy should have been performed.

Straightening, she caught an appreciative gleam in Sebastian’s eyes.

“I understand St. Ives has been introducing you around.” Her gaze flat and cold, Lady Almira surveyed her—blatantly, rudely.

“Monsieur le duc has been most kind.”

Lady Almira’s lips tightened. “Indeed. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting monsieur le comte d’Lisle.”

Helena smiled serenely. “I am not married.”

“Oh. I thought—“ Lady Almira broke off, genuinely puzzled.

“Under French law, in the absence of male heirs, the comtesse inherited the title from her father.”

“Ah.” If anything, Almira looked even more puzzled. “So you’re not married?”

Helena shook her head.

Almira’s face darkened; she turned to Sebastian. “Lady Orcott is asking after you.”

Sebastian raised one brow. “Indeed?”

His retort made it clear he was totally uninterested.

“She’s been searching for you.”

“Dear me. If you come across her, do point her this way.”

Helena bit her tongue. Sebastian’s caustic retort had no discernible effect on his sister-in-law.

Almira shifted, facing Sebastian fully, giving Helena her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you—Charles has started climbing stairs. He’s growing sturdier by the day. You must call and see him.”

“How fascinating.” Sebastian shifted his hold on Helena’s fingers; raising her hand, he glanced her way. “I believe, my dear, that Lady March is signaling us.” He flicked a glance at Almira. “You must excuse us, Almira.”

It was a command not even Almira could miss. Disgruntlement clear in her face, she bobbed a curtsy to them both and stepped back. “I’ll expect you in the next few days.”

With that piece of impertinence, she turned on her heel and swept away.

Along with Sebastian, Helena watched her go. “Is Lady March—whom I have never met—truly signaling us?”

“No. Come, let’s go this way.”

They strolled again; Helena glanced at his face, at his politely bored mask. “Lady Almira’s son—is he the one who will eventually inherit your title?”

Not a flicker of emotion showed in his face. He glanced down at her, then looked ahead. And said nothing.

Helena raised her brows faintly and asked no more.

They merged with the throng, then another large, lean, darkly elegant gentleman spied them and moved to intercept them. Or rather, he spied Sebastian. Only when he stepped free of the crowd did he see her.

The gentleman’s eyes lit; he smiled and swept her a leg almost as graceful as Sebastian’s.

Sebastian sighed. “My dear comtesse, allow me to present my brother, Lord Martin Cynster.”

“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” Martin took the hand she offered and raised it to his lips. “Little wonder my brother’s been so hard to find.”

His smile was open, amused, and devil-may-care. Helena smiled back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

Martin was considerably younger than Sebastian, yet from his manner it was clear he stood in no awe of one whom all others she’d thus far met approached with a degree of circumspection.

“I had meant to ask,” Sebastian drawled, drawing Martin’s gaze from her, “whether you had recovered from your night at Fanny’s.”

Martin flushed. “How the dev—deuce—did you hear about that?”

Sebastian merely smiled.

“If you must know,” Martin continued, “I ended the night ahead. Dashed woman marks the cards, though—take my word for it.”

“She always has.”

Martin blinked. “Well, you might have warned me.”

“And spoil your fun? I’m not such a curmudgeon and am no longer, thank God, your keeper.”

Martin grinned. “It was fun, I must admit. Took me awhile to see through her tricks.”

“Indeed.” Sebastian glanced at Helena. “But I fear we’re boring Mlle d’Lisle.”

“Well, this isn’t exactly a scintillating venue.” Martin turned to Helena. “It’s a pity you’ve arrived so late in the year, too late for Vauxhall or Ranelagh. Mind you, there’s old Lady Lowy’s masquerade coming up—that’s always a night to remember.”

“Ah, yes, I believe we have a card. The costumes will be intriguing.”

“What character will you be masquerading as?” Martin asked.

Helena laughed. “Oh, no, I’ve been warned not to tell.”

Martin took a step back, eyeing her as if committing her physical characteristics to memory.

“You needn’t bother,” Sebastian informed him.

“How else am I to find her?”

“Simple. Find me.”

Martin blinked twice. His lips formed an “Oh.”

“Ah, there you are,ma petite .” Marjorie came up, smiling but, as always, wary in Sebastian’s presence. She smiled more easily at Martin and gave him her hand, then turned again to Helena. “We must go.”

Reluctantly, Helena made her adieus. Sebastian bowed over her hand. “Until tomorrow night,mignonne .”

His murmur was too low for the others to hear; the look in his eyes was likewise for her alone.

Helena rose from her curtsy, inclined her head, then turned and, wondering, left him. Joining Marjorie, she glided into the crowd.

Martin stepped to Sebastian’s side. “I’m glad I found you.” All levity had flown. “I don’t know how much more of Almira’s nonsense you can stomach, but George and I have had enough. Her behavior’s insupportable! The way she’s carrying on, you’re already underground, and Arthur, too, come to that. God knows why he ever married her.”

“We know why.” Sebastian looked down, straightening the lace at one cuff.

Martin snorted. “But the why never eventuated, did it? She never was pregnant—”

“Look on the bright side. We do therefore know that Charles is indeed Arthur’s son.”

“He may be Arthur’s get, but it’s Almira who has him in hand. Good God—the lad’s been hearing nothing but Almira’s rantings from the moment of his birth. You know how she hates us.”

“She doesn’t hate us.”

“She hates all we are. She’s the most bigoted person I’ve ever met. If you and Arthur go, and Charles inherits as a minor . . .” Martin blew out a breath and looked away. “Let’s just say that neither George nor I sleep all that well o’nights.”

Sebastian looked up, studied his brother’s face. “I didn’t realize . . .” He hesitated, then said, “Neither you nor George need worry.” He grimaced. “Nor Arthur, come to that.”

Martin frowned. “What . . .?” Then his face cleared; light returned to his eyes. “You’re going to do something about it?”

“Disabuse your mind of the notion that I approve of Almira as the next Duchess of St. Ives.”

Martin’s jaw dropped; his eyes widened. “I don’t believe it. You’re truly serious?”

“I used to believe I had an iron constitution—Almira proved me wrong. I had hoped that motherhood would improve her.” Sebastian shrugged. “It appears I was overly optimistic there, too.”