“Would you like another champagne?” Andre bent near to ask Marianne. The Setons’ London ballroom was a crush of society, every lady in their finest satins and each man in the stark black beauty of their formal suits and white cravats. None, however, seemed as arresting as the Duc de Remy, her Andre.

“Merci beaucoup but we are waltzing soon and I’ve a care not to step on your toes.”

He drained his own glass, put it aside and chided her with an arced brow. “Ma chou, you’ve never stepped on my toes.”

“No. As I recall, I tripped over them.”

“You’re finished with that,” he assured her. “As we should soon be finished with the formalities here.”

Stepping to one side, he indicated the approach of the Duke of Seton and his wife, the Duchess. The couple took to the center of the marbled expanse of their ballroom and offered a nod toward their daughter Elanna and her bridegroom, soon to be her husband, the earl of Carbury.

A more mis-matched pair Marianne had not seen in years. Not since my own wedding, in fact. Carbury, since she’d last seen him at the Opera, was suddenly running to fat, jowly and paunched. His predatory nature surfaced with his eagle-eyed vigilance, stalking his intended wife minute by minute. Elanna, twenty and impossibly lovely with her slim form and excellent carriage and pile of rosewood hair, once warm and sweet, had, since her engagement, become a shrew.

The duke introduced the two to polite applause. Carbury, taking his due, gave a slight incline of his head in thanks, while Elanna offered only a lowering of her long lashes and a stiff lip.

Marianne might have once thought that Elanna’s demeanor was the norm for well-brought up daughters of the English aristocracy. Since she’d overheard Elanna’s encounter with Pierce in the Piccadilly garden, however, she tended toward the belief that this future bride had little to smile about. She smarted at her station in life and hated the horrendous bargain she was about to make tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.

The duke glanced at the orchestra and the maestro struck up a Viennese melody. The two couples took their partners and led off the dancing, round the chalked floor. Of the four, the Setons appeared to be relishing their turn more than Carbury who took small steps and huffed, while Elanna placed her lifeless hand on his shoulder and gazed off as if she saw hell in the distance.

“I fear for her,” Andre whispered as he turned away from the sight of them.

“As do I. I wish I could reassure myself there’s some saving grace for the two of them but I doubt it.”

“Julian is furious that she accepted him. He wanted her to wait. He wished to give her at least another Season to find someone she might care for, but he was too late. She had already committed herself.”

“I know the Setons have financial issues.” Marianne hated talking of such sensitive matters, but she and Andre had passed the point of politesse. They were friends. Over the past two weeks in Paris, they had passed each afternoon and many evenings in each other’s company.

The day they’d arrived in Paris, he had come to call and brought an armful of white roses, the color of new butter. Though he said they were for all the ladies in the house, he’d told her the next day when he called for tea that they reminded him of the color of her hair. “Pale and silken,” he’d murmured when Ada had left the salon for a few minutes.

Nor was that his only gift or his only compliment. He came the next day, and as promised, he’d arrived in his own landau, his coachman at the reins. Pierce and Killian had claimed a business meeting but Ada had come along with them to the gardens of the Tuileries. Andre’s chef had packed a basket with charcuterie, cheeses and breads, white wine and for dessert, macarons from Ladurée.

Seducing Marianne with flowers and food and picnics in the gardens were preludes to his arrival the next day and the next, this time in a sleek red lacquer barouche. Off they went, his coachman at the reins, two matched grey geldings trotting onward, Ada next to her and Andre opposite them. The day was sunny without a cloud in the perfect blue sky as they made their way to the Bois de Boulogne, a glorious expanse of greenery and water, rocks and fauna in the middle of Paris. Ada by now was tuned to the attraction between Andre and her. Throwing all her social training to the winds, Ada remarked that she thought them both charming in their restraint.

But the drives, the picnics, the scenery, the food, the wine were nothing to compare to the glory of going to Andre’s Paris home in the Rue de Rivoli and waltzing in his own ballroom.

Ada, impressionable and gushing over the opulence of his house, had clapped her hands and sighed at the sight of the vermeil-covered ballroom walls and the profusion of crystal chandeliers.

“How do you dust all that?” she’d asked him, her gaze turned up to admire the glittering lights dangling from the ceiling. “Forgive me. I would guess you don’t dust it.”

He’d laughed. “I know the three downstairs maids take two days each month to accomplish it.”

“Worth it,” Ada concluded, hands on her hips, gazing at the lights.

“I wonder, Remy,” Pierce said as he bent to examine the wainscotting. “How old is this house?”

Andre looked pained. “Would you like the long or short version?”

“Long, definitely.”

“Oh, Pierce,” Ada complained and extended a hand toward the four musicians Andre had hired for the afternoon. “You will pre-occupy the Duc de Remy with that for hours. Can you not come another day or at least wait until after we waltz?”

Pierce flapped his arms. “I bow to necessity. I’ll ask you for the detailed version soon. I think city planning such as your Baron Haussmann did depends on saving gems of private dwellings, too. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I do, Pierce,” Andre said with a smile, “I am at your disposal for another day. Choose it.”

“Thank you, Remy. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“At ten o’clock?”

“Agreed.” Pierce stepped toward Ada. “When you are ready, I am.”

“Finally.” Ada rolled her eyes at him. “Do know, Monsieur, that my brother has never favored dancing.”

Pierce shook his head. “Not with you, my pet. But I am improved. I’ll show you.”

Marianne struggled to quell her laughter. “These two, Remy, have bated each other since childhood. She loves to dance. He loves to torment her and usually challenges her to make up for his intended clumsiness.”

“Today we shall all be superb.” Andre lifted his chin and spoke to the musicians upon the dais. “We can begin, eh?”

She licked her lips, put one hand to his shoulder and another in his own and when the musicians began their tune, off she and Andre went round the long pink marbled floor. Outside, the day was grey. Clouds were heavy and the air thick. Inside, the room was cool, brightly lit and sparkling from the refracted rays of crystals in the chandeliers.

Most delightful of all were the lights in Andre’s eyes as his gaze caressed her and told her tales of charms to come. In his arms, she was weightless. In his care, she was a creature of the air. He was graceful and decisive. She was flexible, agile, well-tutored by his instructions. Enchanted by his devotion to improving her skills on the floor. Rediscovering that she could be gay, frivolous and dance in a man’s embrace and be proud of her conquest, eager to hold him.

They’d practiced for an hour or more that day. And twice more, they’d gone to his home. Once solely to feed Pierce’s desire to learn more about the house. The day before they’d all left Paris to travel to London for Elanna’s wedding, they’d practiced again with Andre’s musicians in attendance.

Ada marched up to them as they waited for Lily and Julian to take the floor with the rest of his family.

“Honestly, will you two show them how well you practiced or stand here all night?”

Andre gazed down at her. The two of them had become fast friends, Andre treating her almost as irreverently as Pierce did. “We must find you a beau, Ada.”

She waved her fan and sighed. “Please don’t bother. I haven’t seen anyone here who in the least appeals.”

“I see someone who might,” he said as he raised his chin to acknowledge someone across the Seton’s ballroom. “At least try to talk to him. Then Marianne and I can leave you here.”

“Fine. Introduce me and then shoo.”

The tall, blond elegant man who joined them resembled da Vinci’s David. His jaw was square. His eyes liquid gold. His shoulders broad. His hands massive. His attire impeccable. His demeanor, attention, polite. His burnished hair perfectly combed back from his high forehead. Yet when he spoke, Marianne was shocked. The man stammered.

“He virtually quakes when he talks to her,” she whispered to Andre as they left the Ada to muddle on with him.

“Lord Henry Drake is noteworthy.” Andre led her out to the edge of the circle. “He’s the second son of the Duke of Stratton.”

“That earns him favor,” Marianne chuckled as she placed her hand in Andre’s. “But only with Uncle Killian. Ada is bored to tears.”

Andre slid his hand around her waist, his long fingers strong and insistent on her back. “Perhaps she can teach him a thing or two about spontaneity.”

“You know her.” Marianne laughed. “She won’t take the time.”

“He wants to enter politics.”

She blinked. “He’s devilishly good looking. An arc angel, really. But to win votes, he’ll need a social reformation.”

“She could inspire him.”

“Or shock him and leave him where he stands.”

Andre frowned. “Harry’s loss. Shall we dance, ma cherie?”

He led her off and the world opened up for her. They’d danced in his ballroom and he’d held her like this before. But this in front of others was so different from ever other time she’d danced with him. She was his partner, a natural element of him, and he of her. He took her into the turns gracefully, lithe as a feather and she floated, as enchanted with him in the middle of a dance floor as in private beside him on a blanket on the lawn near the cascading waterfall in the Bois.

The others in the room fell from view. Only he existed for her. Only the music lifted them up and sent them on their way. Even in the faster movement of the chase, she was his, mesmerized by his command of her body. Thrilled by his desire for her.

All too soon the orchestra stopped and the two of them stood facing each other, breathless, smiling like clowns at each other.

“Come for a ride with me now alone.”

She opened her mouth, wishing she might. “They’ll notice we’ve gone.”

“Please.” He held her hand, his fingers urgent on her palm.

She nodded. “We must tell my uncle.”

“Darling, you are old enough—”

“And wise enough to tell him so that he’s prepared for the gossip.”

Andre sighed and nodded. “We’ll go now.”

Marianne glanced around to find Uncle Killian in deep conversation with Ada and a young man whom Ada had met before and dismissed as a bore.

“Yes, let’s.”

But the gentleman asked Ada to dance and led her away.

“I’m stunned she accepted him,” Killian said to Andre and her.

“Can she bear him for five minutes?” Marianne asked, as Ada went into Lord Gerald Winton’s embrace looking like a sleep walker.

“When I came upon them,” Killian said, “she was giving him what-for about whatever he’d said about Apache Indians.”

“What does he know about our Indians?” Marianne asked her uncle.

“Not much.” Killian shrugged. “I gather he must’ve said something about indigenous people needing an understanding of economics. She was setting him straight about how some tribes of Apaches did raise their own crops and traded farm goods.”

Andre and she chuckled.

The three of them watched, glued to the sight of handsome Lord Winton sweeping Ada into the line of those on the floor.

“One good thing, the man can dance,” Killian said, shock on his face.

“Ada looks like she’s as surprised as we are,” Andre offered.

“If he can’t converse, it won’t save him,” Marianne said.

“He’d better not damage her reputation,” Killian said. “She’d not tolerate the wallflower chairs.”

“I doubt she’ll have problems, sir,” Andre said.

Killian snorted. “There must be a few Englishmen who can dance and talk. Maybe even a man who can joke. Ada needs a man with wit.”

Andre turned around to face her uncle. “Sir, this evening I take Marianne home in my carriage.”

Killian’s silver eyes shot to hers. “You know what you’re doing.”

“We’ve come to know each other well, Uncle.”

He stared into Andre’s eyes. “Remy, I ask that you honor the commitment you made to me.”

Marianne blushed.

“I will, Mr. Hanniford.”

* * *

Andre glanced at Marianne as she left him to join Lily and Ada. The guests for Elanna Ash and the earl of Carbury’s wedding milled about the duke and duchess of Seton’s drawing room. Andre had eyes only for Marianne who looked particularly luscious this morning in a gown of yellow and ivory. Last night, alone with him in his hired carriage, she’d been more appealing, her lips ripe strawberry temptations. Though he had kissed her only once, that was all he would permit himself. Playful and yearning, she tried for more and placed her mouth on his even as she begged for more kisses.

“I cannot do it, ma cherie.” He’d pushed her away but nestled her against his chest, safely in his arms. “You return to Paris in a few days and then we shall see.”

She’d jerked away, frustrated and peeved. “Maybe you should go back to your mistress.”

He barked in laughter. “She is gone for good.”

“I would fight for you if I were sophisticated enough.”

“Come here.” He’d pulled her back into his embrace, settled her securely there and kissed her fragrant hair. “No more talk of other women, s’il vous plait. They are not your equal. You are the only one I wish to hold.”

The only one I wish to keep. Gazing at her in her wedding finery, he thought he saw contentment in her demeanor. Her cheeks were pink. Her green eyes danced. She radiated happiness. That warmed him, inspired him to thoughts of what he would propose to her once they were both in Paris again.

“I say, you look chipper.” Julian approached him.

Andre noted the weariness in his friend’s eyes. “Better than you, I dare say. What’s wrong?”

Julian inhaled sharply and indicated with a tip of his head his sister who spoke with her groom. The newly married couple stood nose-to-nose hotly whispering. “An hour into this arrangement and we have challenges.”

“We could intervene. But to what end?” Andre put a hand to Julian’s arm. “She’s smart. She’ll find a way to deal with him.”

“Not if he won’t compromise.”

“The mark of any sound relationship,” Andre offered.

“What I don’t understand is that we’ve known Carbury for years. I saw him with his first wife and I never suspected he could be such a bully.”

Andre considered the woman who had changed his own thinking about women…and marriage. The very thought of waking up each morning to see her, touch her, laugh with her filled his body with adolescent expectation and his heart with comfort. “Some people change us.”

Julian’s gaze turned to consider his own bride of three weeks. “Very true. And for the better.”

“You’re happy. You wear it like a glove.” Andre lifted his glass to toast his friend.

“Delightfully shocked too.” Julian arched his dark brows. “But I’m here to discuss your relationship.”

“Ah. Sent by your father-in-law, I assume.”

“He’s worried about Marianne’s reputation.”

Was the millionaire worried about his niece’s image or his own? “I have reassured him twice. What more can I do?”

“I understand you have sent your mistress packing.”

“You hear correctly. Is there a question in your statement?”

Julian smiled at him. “You know there is.”

Andre’s mood fell. “I court her. She is reluctant. I move slowly because I must, not because I wish it.”

“I would venture that I know what that challenge is.”

“Oh?” Andre considered the sparkling wine in his goblet.

“Lily tells me Marianne never speaks of her husband.”

“And there you have it. My challenge is to chase him from her mind. I see before me a woman who wishes to emerge from her old life. But that is as strong as marble, and I see her as she is meant to be free in her fullness. Effervescent. Gay. I wish her to emerge and she wants it too. She chips away at her prison and I help her remove her facade. I show her how to trust me. And come to me. One day soon, please God.” He drained his glass of wine.

Julian marveled at him. “I never thought to see you fall in love.”

“Nor I.” And I’m impatient to enjoy her. “Not to worry. After tomorrow, we go to Paris. The Hannifords and I. Next week, Marianne and I—”

“I will not, I tell you!” a woman yelled.

All in the room froze. The silence turned everyone to ice.

“You cannot force me.”

Julian and Andre pivoted toward the sound of Elanna addressing Carbury, each word a bomb.

“But I will, my dear.” Carbury tried to cover his sneer and took his bride by the wrist.

Hatred on her lips, she yanked free. She clenched her fists, triumph in the tilt of her head as she marched away.

Pierce came abreast of Lily. “Bastard. I could kill him.”

“Stop!” Lily caught his arm. “Dear god,” she whispered to her brother, “don’t move.”

Carbury’s eyes bulged from his head as he whirled on Pierce.

Julian stepped between the earl and Pierce. “Come now.”

“Nerves, nerves.” The duchess of Seton fluttered among them, her lips quivering with restrained anger and chagrin. “Nothing more. Do play on,” she encouraged the cellist who had been giving forth some Bach or Beethoven.

Carbury glared at Julian. Straightening his waistcoat, he reddened. “I’ll see to my bride.”

Julian turned aside.

The duke hastened behind Carbury, muttering to himself.

“Forgive me, Andre,” Julian said and followed his sister, parents and Carbury out the far door.

Andre stepped to join Marianne and her three cousins. Pierce fumed but the three women appeared stunned.

Marianne took his arm. “This marriage was never going to work.”

Ada glanced from Marianne to Lily. “They never liked each other?”

“Like?” Pierce gave a joyless laugh. “She loathes him.”

With a flick of her eyes, Lily warned her brother and sister to say no more.

“Should you go?” Marianne asked Lily as they watched the duchess scurry from the ballroom.

“Do not.” Remy stood beside them, his attention riveted on the vacant doorway. The duchess would cringe at the interference, jealous of her reputation as she was.

Down the marbled corridor from some far room, voices rose and rushed toward the reception in echoes of hate. Male, female, high-pitched, accusatory.

“I’ll get the butler,” murmured Remy to the assembled group. “I know him well. He must close all the doors. Excuse me.”

Out in the hall, the butler and two footmen stood gazing down the hall where the others had disappeared. Paralyzed in horror, the servants swung their attention to Remy.

“Let’s close the doors,” he told them.

“Monsieur le duc?” The butler looked fevered. “Shall we offer more champagne?”

“The doors, please. The guests need not hear this row.”

“No, Monsieur.” The portly butler shooed the two footmen to the task. They went so quickly, they were slamming the doors as they passed them. Farther down the hall, the screaming of insults and crying rent the air. Closed doors would not diminish the din.

Remy turned on his heel for the drawing room. But as he entered, a crash of china and a woman’s scream tore through the house.

With a wide-eyed look at Marianne, Remy pivoted toward the sounds.

Julian ran toward him. “Come, come quickly.”

At a jog, he followed Julian down the corridor. At the entrance, he came to a halt. The duke of Seton lay upon the bright red Axminster carpet, shards of a Ming vase lying about him, his arms out, jaw slack.

“No, no.” Julian knelt beside the body of his father. He pressed two fingers to his brow and picked up his wrist. “Oh, hell.”

“You did this,” the duchess seethed, rushing toward her daughter, hands out to grab her and shake her.

Elanna eluded her mother. Eyes blazing with fear and superiority, she barked. “Touch me and you will have the same from me.”

“You killed him! You ungrateful twit.”

“Stop it,” Julian yelled at them. “Remy, get me Lily and Marianne.”

He spun for the hall and the drawing room. He found them standing precisely where he’d left them. “Come quickly. They need you.”

Pierce sprang forward too, but Remy grabbed his arms. “Don’t move.”

“What’s happened?” Pierce demanded of him.

“The duke has had a stroke.”

Minutes later, Marianne and Lily gazed at each other over the body of the Duke of Seton.

Marianne shook her head.

Lily gazed up at her husband, tears in her eyes. “Your father is dead.”