He cleared his throat. “Then be sure to set your attentions on the least smelly suitor. I wouldn’t want my only sister to perish because of sensitive nostrils.”

Both ladies stared at him in astonishment, Sarani pinning her lips to stop from grinning and Ravenna gaping, but their responses disappeared as his mother neared with her usual entourage. Lady Penelope, rather surprisingly, was on the arm of Lord Talbot. Rhystan did not miss the earl’s lustful stare trailing over Sarani, and he fought a spike of anger. He frowned, scanning the crowd. Would Markham dare to show his face as well?

The bastard wouldn’t be far off, and God knew that he’d been persistent in his efforts to gain another audience. He hadn’t heard from Gideon about Finn Driscoll, but it was only a matter of time. And Markham was desperate enough not to risk the bird he thought he had well in hand.

Rhystan’s gaze flicked to Sarani, but if she noticed her former betrothed with her archenemy on his arm, she did not show it. Her expression was unruffled, eyes displaying none of the sparkling humor from earlier. One wouldn’t guess that she’d been in a knife fight with an assassin just a handful of days before. Princess on the surface, warrior beneath.

He hoped she would consider maintaining a friendship, but he knew it wasn’t likely. She deserved better than a half-life with a duke who could not marry her. She deserved a chance at a loving husband, children, and a home full of laughter.

Not a man who didn’t even know who he was.

“Embry,” someone said, interrupting his thoughts.

Rhystan inclined his head to an old acquaintance, a Frenchman, who had approached with another gentleman. “Lord Marchand. Fishing for prospects on this side of the channel?”

The marquis grinned. “I cast my nets where I can, Your Grace.”

Introductions were made, including the young buck who’d been angling to meet the Huntley heiress. He watched as Ravenna and Sarani were led off by Marchand and the hopeful suitor for the start of the next dance and suppressed his groan when his mother arrived at his side where he’d walked to stand in a quieter corner of the ballroom.

“Ravenna is in good spirits tonight,” she said. “The gentleman she is dancing with is the son of an earl, and the one dancing with…”—she broke off, lip curling—“and the other is a French marquis.”

It wasn’t the time or the place, but Rhystan did not care. His blood boiled, but for civility’s sake, he kept his voice low. “What is your problem with Sarani?”

“I beg your pardon?” She looked startled for a moment at the brusque question, but her mouth firmed at his expression, eyes going wintry. “She’s…not a suitable match, Embry.”