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He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d come to Paris, whether she would even be here. Part of him had thought she would have found some nook on the ship until they got to England. It was what he would have done in her shoes. Half hoping that Lisbeth was wrong, he’d quickly learned that Lady Bronwyn coincidentally had a very real aunt in Paris, the sister to the Marchioness of Borne, unlike the fabricated one in Philadelphia.
His eyes darted to the woman in question. Unlike her fastidious and unlikable sister, Comtesse Esther de Valois, an enormously wealthy widow, was the undisputed queen of the ball, surrounded by gentlemen and ladies of all ages.
Perhaps that was where Bronwyn had inherited that easy, irritating charm.
Even now, she had that sly marquis curled around her fingers.
Displeasure was quick to follow.
He glanced back to the ballroom floor and froze. Where the hell were they? His eyes combed the dancers, some leaving and others being replaced by new ones as the waltz ended. Perhaps she’d gone to the refreshments room. He quickly made his way over there, perusing the guests near the tables, but the gleam of silver skirts did not catch his eye.
Where could she have gone? The retiring room? His gaze focused on the women crowding that area. She could be inside, meaning to thwart him yet again. Annoyance pulsed through him. She wasn’t getting away so easily this time.
But before he could march off in that direction, he was blocked by a very ample figure with blue eyes so familiar that he nearly staggered when they speared him in place. He almost thought it was the Marchioness of Borne, though her face wasn’t quite as pinched or looking as if she were perpetually ingesting a lemon. He hadn’t realized they were twins.
The resemblance was extraordinary, both to the marchioness as well as her niece, but the Comtesse de Valois had laugh lines around her eyes and bracketing her lips while her sister did not. Bronwyn had inherited the same eyes, stubborn chin, and pale coloring, though she had her late father’s brow and cheekbones.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He bowed. “The Duke of Thornbury, at your service, Madame la Comtesse.”
A sniff left her red lips as she regarded him from head to toe in frank perusal. “I do not recall sending you an invitation, Thornbury.”
“I am a guest of Lady Bronwyn.”
Instead of softening, those cornflower-blue eyes hardened. “My niece whom you’ve been staring at like a dog waiting at the scullery stairs for scraps?”
God but she was direct. Bronwyn got that from her, too. His brain whirled with an acceptable story that would appease the shrewd old woman who he sensed wouldn’t let him off the hook that easily. “Not scraps, Madame. I intend to offer for her.”
The lie rolled so easily off his tongue, it could be truth for how natural it felt. Ashvale would refuse his offer, but she wouldn’t know that.
To his surprise, the comtesse cackled. “Along with half of the gents in this room by the end of the evening.”
“I am aware,” he said.
“Walk with me,” she said, as she extended an arm that he had to take to avoid causing offense to the lady in her own home.
While his skin needled and burned to find Bronwyn, he might need to be in the Comtesse de Valois’s good graces, if he could not get his target alone. She was clever, he’d give her that. Out of respect for his friendship to the Duke of Ashvale, he’d never cause a scene in public. Now that he knew where Bronwyn was, it was simply a matter of getting her alone in his custody and taking her back to England.
They strolled around the ballroom, and irritation streaked through his veins when after nearly a full promenade around the perimeter, the lady did not speak. Valentine cleared his throat, but that did not make one whit of difference. Bronwyn’s aunt remained utterly oblivious. He was just about to make up some excuse when she came to an abrupt stop. “Were you not married?”
He blinked. “Yes, but no longer. Parliament granted a divorce.”
“Why?”
Valentine debated not answering, but then went with the truth. “The lady wanted other things and our paths diverged. It was amicable.”
Bright blue eyes glittered at him, a cunning intelligence shining in their depths, and Valentine had the feeling that she knew more than she was letting on. Then again, maybe he was just on edge and wanted to know where the hell his little bird had gone. And what she wasdoingand withwhom. Heat crawled through his veins and he resisted the urge to tug at his collar.
“And now you’ve set your sights on my niece.”
“Yes,” he said.
She gave a sniff. “I suppose my sister will find you acceptable, considering you’re a duke since your uncle died.” A grin graced her lips. “I’m sorry for your loss. Bucky and I were friends, you know. Good friends. In my youth, I had hoped he would approach my father before Monsieur de Valois did, but no, it was not meant to be. I was rather saddened to hear of his death.”
Valentine’s eyes widened. The thought of his old, sedate Uncle Bucky—the previous Duke of Thornbury—with this spitfire of a woman nearly made him chuckle. “He lived out his last years in peace and quiet, doing what he loved. He enjoyed fishing on his country seat in the Highlands, mostly.”
The Comtesse de Valois wrinkled her nose. “He spoke of his castle and his loch with such fondness. I always told myself I would visit him there.” She waved an arm. “Then again, I could not see myself leaving all this.”
