nto the madonnalike countenance he had not forgotten despite the passage of seven long years. Her expression was as aloof, as self-contained as he remembered, a blatant challenge for such as he, although he doubted she knew it. Her eyes . . . he waited until her lids lifted and her gaze rose to his face.
Green. Palest green. Peridot eyes utterly startling in their crystal clarity. Eyes that tempted, that would allow a man to see into her soul.
If she permitted it.
He’d waited seven years to see those eyes. Not the slightest trace of recognition showed in them, or in her expression. He let his lips curve appreciatively; he’d seen her watching him, knew she’d recognized him. Just as surely as he’d recognized her.
It was her hair that had caught his attention. Black as night, a froth of thick locks framing her face, brushing her shoulders. His gaze had roved, taking in her figure, provocatively displayed in a sea green silk gown with brocade overskirt and petticoat. His mind had been assessing, considering . . . Then he’d seen her face.
The silence had grown strained. He glanced at Thierry and raised a brow fractionally, well aware of the reason for the man’s reticence. The chevalier shifted his weight like a cat on hot coals.
Then the lady threw Thierry a glance and raised a commanding, rather more pointed brow of her own.
“Ahem.” Thierry waved. “Monsieur le duc de St. Ives. Mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle.”
He held out his hand; she laid her fingers on his and sank into a deep curtsy.
“Monsieur le duc.”
“Comtesse.” He bowed, then raised her. Quelled an urge to close his hand about her slender fingers. “You have lately come from Paris?”
“A sennight since.” She glanced around, as assured as he remembered her. “It is my first visit to these shores.” Her glance touched his face. “To London.”
Helena assumed he’d recognized her, but there was nothing to confirm it in his face. His angular, chiseled features resembled a stony mask, eradicating all telltale expression; his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, impossibly innocent, yet framed by lashes so long and lush they dispelled any thought of innocence. His lips held a similar contradiction, long and thin, embodying more than a hint of ruthless will, yet, relaxed as they presently were, they suggested a subtle sense of humor, a dryly appreciative wit.
He was not young. Of those currently about her, he was unquestionably the most senior, definitely the most mature. Yet he exuded a vibrant, masculine vitality that threw the rest into the shade, made them fade into the wallpaper.
Dominant. She was accustomed to being in the presence of such a man, used to holding her own against a powerful will. She lifted her chin and regarded him calmly. “Have you visited Paris recently, my lord?”
Eyes and lips gave him away, but only because she was watching so closely. A gleam, a faint quirk, that was all.
“Not in recent years. There was a time when I spent part of every year there, some years ago.”
He placed subtle emphasis on the last three words; he had definitely recognized her. A frisson of awareness raced over Helena’s skin. As if he sensed it, his gaze left her eyes, lowered to brush her shoulders.
“I confess I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”
She waited until his gaze returned to her eyes. “I visit Paris infrequently. My estates lie in the South of France.”
The ends of his lips lifted; his gaze rose to her hair, then returned to her eyes, then lowered again. “So I had surmised.”
The comment was innocent enough—her coloring was indeed more indicative of the south rather than the north of France. His tone, however . . . it was deep enough, murmurous enough, to slide through her, striking some chord within, leaving it resonating.
She flicked a glance at Gaston, still nervously standing by. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but I believe it is time we left. Is it not so, monsieur?”
“Indeed, indeed.” Gaston bobbed like a jack-in-the-box. “If monsieur le duc will excuse us?”
“Of course.” Amusement lurked in the blue eyes as they returned to Helena’s face. She ignored it and curtsied. He bowed, raised her; before she could retrieve her hand, he murmured, “I take it you will be remaining in London, comtesse—at least for the present.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head. “For the present.”
“Then we will no doubt have the opportunity to further our acquaintance.” He raised her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. Releasing her smoothly, he inclined his head. “Once again, mademoiselle, au revoir.”
To Helena’s relief, Gaston did not pick up that “once again.” He and Marjorie were so exercised over her meeting St. Ives at all—at his requesting an introduction—that they also failed to notice her abstraction. Failed to notice her fingers trailing over her knuckles where his lips had pressed. By the time they reached Green Street and entered the tiled hall, she had her reactions under control.
“Another evening gone.” She sighed as her maid hurried forward to take her cloak. “Perhaps tomorrow we will meet with more success.”
Marjorie glanced at her face. “It’s Lady Montgomery’s drum—it will be packed to the rafters. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”