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.”

Following her movement, Valentine shifted, eyes perusing the crowd again, always on the hunt for that flash of silver. Had enough time passed for him to take his leave? He still couldn’t see any sign of Bronwyn, and the dancing had started up again. A quadrille this time with every color in the rainbow except silver.

“Have you seen your niece?” he asked.

Her head cocked to the side as she tapped her lips with her fan. “Oh yes, but not for some time. Monsieur de Tremblay, that naughty opportunist, escorted her out on the terrace after the waltz for some air, or whatever it is these young devils do to court a lady.” She patted his arm, even as an unholy force nearly drove his body to the doors in question, and laughed at him. “Best not wait too long, Your Grace, or your prize will be snatched out from under you by a much wilier competitor.”

Frowning, he opened his mouth and shut it. Blast it, she’d distracted him on purpose, hadn’t she? Had Bronwyn said something to her aunt? Confided that she was running from a feared pursuer? Or was the Comtesse de Valois simply making mischief because she was bored and peeved that he’d come to her ball without an invitation?

“Excuse me, please,” he bit out.

Fisting his hands, he marched through the throng, nearly pushing people over in his haste. Cool air filled his lungs, but brought no reprieve as there was no sign of them on the terrace either!

And then he saw her.

Sitting on one of the marble benches with Lord Tremblay, much too close for comfort. Another young lady sat on her left, which gave him the barest modicum of relief, although not enough to deflate the instant surge of possessiveness. A pair of crystal-sharp eyes lifted to meet his as if she’d sensed his presence.

“Your Grace, is something amiss?” her soft voice called out, tinged with amusement. “You look rather tense. Surely you’re not still vexed about the mix-up with Monsieur de Tremblay. There’ll be other waltzes this evening.”

Tremblay—that lily-pated maggot—leaned in to whisper something in her ear that made her blush and smile, and then lifted her knuckles to his lips for a leisurely kiss. Valentine’s spine locked, a growl catching in his throat.

With a sweet grin to the marquis, Bronwyn rose and strolled over to him where he leaned against the stone balustrade leading down into the gardens. Her familiar perfume wafted upward as she stopped within arm’s reach and peered up at him, blue eyes gleaming silver with reflected moonlight. “What’s the matter, Your Grace?”