“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 an on-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.”
His mouth still open, Martin looked in the direction in which Helena had gone. “You’re looking for a wife.”
The glance Sebastian shot him could have cut glass. “I would greatly appreciate it if you could refrain from letting such words pass your lips. To anyone.”
Martin stared at him for a moment; then understanding dawned. “Hell’s bells, yes!” His grin returned. He glanced around at the glamorous throng, at the eyes, the smiles that even now were surreptitiously cast their way. “If that little tidbit ever gets out—”
“You’ll be even sorrier than I. Come.” Sebastian started for the door. “There’s a new hell opened in Pall Mall—I’ve an invitation if you’re interested.”
Martin fell in by his side, grinning even more widely than before.
“To my mind, mignonne, you could do much worse than Lord Montacute.”
Helena threw Sebastian a glance as they strolled beneath the trees. She and Marjorie had come to walk among the ton on what seemed likely to be the last fine afternoon of the year. Sebastian had joined them and offered her his arm. They’d left Marjorie chatting with friends to enjoy the Serpentine Walk. Along the way, Sebastian had introduced her to a number of potential husbands.
“I do not believe,” she said, “that I could stomach a gentleman who wears virulent pink coats and compounds the sin by adding pink lace.”
Her gaze swept Sebastian’s dark blue coat with its restrained use of gold at cuffs and pockets. His lace, as always, was pristine white and finely made.
“Besides”—she looked ahead—“there is the matter of his title.”
She felt Sebastian’s gaze touch her face. “He’s a baron.”
“Indeed. But my guardian has stipulated that any man I choose must be of a station at least the equal of mine.”
She glanced at Sebastian—he caught her gaze. “Earl or above.” He sighed, raised his head, looked around. “Mignonne, it would have been helpful if you had told me this before. There are not so many earls or marquesses, let alone dukes, languishing unwed among the ton.”
“There must be some—there are some.”
“But we have other criteria to satisfy, do we not?”
Her criteria weren’t the same as his, but unfortunately, satisfying her criteria would also satisfy his. An acquiescent husband who would allow her to rule their marriage would not raise a fuss should she decide to take a lover. Indeed, who knew? She might. But any lover she took would be of the same ilk—a man who pandered to her wishes rather than expecting her to pander to his.
In other words, not the man walking by her side.
“Let us start with the title first. It will narrow the field.”
“It will indeed.” He considered the knots of people scattered over the lawns as they strolled slowly along. “Will your guardian’s stipulations stretch to viscounts? In most cases they will, after all, eventually be earls.”
“Hmm—it is possible, I suppose. If all other criteria were met.”
“In that case let me introduce you to Viscount Digby. He’s the heir to the Earl of Quantock, who has considerable estates in the west of the country. An estimable man, so I hear.”
He led her to a group of gentlemen and ladies, introducing her generally, then, as only he could, “arranged” for her to stand beside the young viscount. After ten minutes coping with the viscount’s tongue-tied adoration, Helena caught Sebastian’s eye.
“Well?” he asked as they strolled away.
“He’s too young.”
That got her a stony glance. “I was not aware there was an age minimum.”
“There isn’t. He’s just too young.”
“Viscount Digby is twenty-six—older than you.”
Helena waved dismissively. She looked around. “Who else is here?”
After a moment Sebastian sighed. “Mignonne, you are not making a difficult task any easier.”
Nor was he. It occurred to Helena that spending so much time with him, with his often too-perceptive understanding and his accumulated experience in all manner of social intercourse, was not conducive to showing other men—younger, less experienced men—in any favorable light.
If one was accustomed to gold, one was unlikely to be dazzled by tin.
He introduced her to another viscount, a hedonistic youth almost too taken with his own beauty to notice hers. After listening to her opinion on that encounter with a resigned, somewhat paternal air, he led her to another group.
“Allow me to present Lord Were.” Sebastian waited until they’d exchanged bows, then asked Were, “Any news from Lincolnshire?”
Were was, Helena judged, close to Sebastian’s age. He was dressed well but soberly and had a pleasant countenance and a lively smile.
He grimaced. “Nothing yet, but the leeches tell me it’ll be any day.”
Sebastian turned to Helena. “Lord Were is heir to his uncle, the Marquess of Catterly.”
“Old devil’s about to pop off,” Were informed her.
“I see.” Helena spent the next ten minutes chatting on general subjects with his lordship. Beside her, she was conscious of Sebastian’s growing impatience. Eventually he drew her away.
She went reluctantly. “He seems a kind man.”
“He is.”
She glanced at Sebastian, unsure how to interpret the hard note in his voice. As usual, his face told her nothing.
He was looki
ng ahead. “I’d better return you to Mme Thierry before she starts imagining I’ve kidnapped you.”
Helena nodded, willing enough to return; they’d been strolling for about an hour.
Despite knowing his ulterior motive in finding her a complaisant husband, she had, on reflection, concluded that there was no point refusing his aid. Once she’d found the right candidate to fulfill Fabien’s stipulations and hers and married him, any subsequent relationship between herself and Sebastian would, after all, still be at her discretion.
She would still be able to say no.
She was far too wise to say yes.
Over the past week she’d spent enough time with him, seen how others reacted to him, to be confident that, regardless of all else, he would ultimately accept her refusal. Despite his reputation, he was not the type of man to force or even pressure a woman to his bed.
She glanced briefly his way, then looked down to hide her smile. The idea was laughable; he had too much pride and too much arrogant self-assurance to need always to win.
The thought reminded her of Fabien. Sebastian and he were much alike, yet there were indeed differences.
A bevy of ladies resplendent in elegant walking gowns hailed them. They stopped to chat. Helena was amused that as the last week had progressed, her acceptance by the female half of the ton had steadily increased. She was still viewed as a too-beautiful outsider by some—primarily the mamas with marriageable daughters to establish—yet many others had proved eager to welcome her into their circles. Contrary to Marjorie’s oft-stated opinion, St. Ives’s squiring of her had helped rather than hindered.
She chatted with the Ladies Elliot and Frome, then turned to Lady Hitchcock. The group formed and re-formed several times. Eventually Helena turned to find the Countess of Menteith turning her way.
The countess smiled; Helena had already accepted an invitation for a morning visit. The countess glanced across the group to where Sebastian stood talking with Mrs. Abigail Frith. “I’ll lay odds St. Ives will be driving out to Twickenham tomorrow. You don’t have any engagements planned with him, I hope?”
Helena blinked. “Pardon?”
Still smiling at Sebastian, Lady Menteith lowered her voice. “Abigail’s on the board of an orphanage, and the local squire’s threatening to force the magistrate to shut it. The squire claims the boys run wild and thieve. Of course, it isn’t so—he wants to buy the property. And, of course, the vile man has chosen this week to make his push, no doubt hoping to turn the orphans out into the snow while no one’s about to see. St. Ives is Abigail’s—and the orphans’—last hope.”