“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 suitable parti. 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.”
“Finally—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.
“I will write to him tomorrow—he will want to hear the good news.”
“Rest assured, m’sieur, that I will make certain your missive is dispatched with all speed.”
“Remind me of it tomorrow.” Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Louis murmured, “Now for the next stage.”
Helena met monsieur le duc de St. Ives at Lady Montgomery’s drum, at Lady Furness’s rout-party, and at the Rawleighs’ ball. When she went walking in the park, by sheer chance he was there, strolling with two friends.
Indeed, wherever she went in the next four days, it seemed he was present.
She was, consequently, not the least bit surprised when he joined the group with whom she was conversing in the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom. He loomed on her right, and the other gentlemen spinelessly gave way, as if he had some claim to the position. Hiding her irritation—at them as well as him—Helena smiled serenely and gave him her hand. And steeled herself against the reaction that streaked from her fingers to her toes when, his eyes on hers, he pressed his lips to her knuckles.
“Bon soir, my dear.”
How such simple, innocent words could be made to sound so wicked was a mystery. Was it the light in his blue eyes, the seductive tenor of his voice, or the reined strength in his touch? Helena didn’t know, but she did not approve of having her sensual strings so skillfully plucked.
But she continued to smile, and let him stand by her side and join them. When the group dispersed to mingle, she dallied. She knew he was watching, always alert. When, after a fractional hesitation, he offered his hand, she laid her fingers across his with a genuine smile.
They strolled; they had gone only a few yards when she murmured, “I wish to talk with you.”
She didn’t look at his face but was quite sure his lips would have quirked.
“So I had supposed.”
“Is there some place here—in this room—in view of all but where no one will hear?”
“There are open alcoves along one side.”
He led her to one containing an S-shaped love seat, currently empty. He handed her to the seat facing the room, then lounged in the other.
“You perceive me all ears, mignonne.”
Helena narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you about?”
His finely arched brows rose. “About?”
“Precisely what do you hope to gain by hounding me in this fashion?”
His eyes held hers, gaze-to-gaze direct, but his lips were not straight. He raised a hand, languidly laid it across his heart. “Mignonne, you wound me deeply.”
“Would that I could.” Helena held on to her temper—just. “And I am not your mignonne!”
Not his pet, not his darling.