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.”