“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’t him 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. “We are 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 . . . ?”