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William merely arched one brow. The butler opened the front door, and out her brother went, letting in a chilly blast of air.

“My, it’s cold.” Eliana rubbed her arms. “I wonder if it might snow.”

“It might,” the butler agreed. “What time would you like the carriage brought around this evening?”

“Eight, I think.” With a shiver, she retreated from the hallway and went upstairs, where Hetty waited to help transform her into Red Riding Hood for the Midwinter Masque.

It took well over an hour to finish fitting the red velvet cloak Eliana had chosen. She’d kept the mask a simple affair, however, just a plain red satin half-mask over her eyes, unlike some ladies of her acquaintance. Her best friend, Lady Peony Talbot, was going as a swan, and her elaborate headpiece included sequins, satin, and a ridiculously tall plume of white feathers.

Now Eliana sat quietly, trying to be patient as Hetty curled her hair into careful ringlets.

“You look a trifle melancholy,” Hetty said, pausing in her pursuit of the perfect curl. “Is anything the matter?”

Eliana smoothed her palm over the silver skirts of her gown and cast about for a reasonable answer. She wasn’t about to admit that she felt a bit adrift, not to mention lonely for some gentleman she had yet to meet.

“I miss Selene,” she finally said. “Now that she’s married, we hardly see her anymore.”

Hetty smiled. “Being a duchess is keeping your sister busy, indeed. But I’m sure she misses you as well.”

Eliana frowned. “I think she’s too happy being wed to the Duke of Ashford to pay us any mind.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Jealousy was unbecoming in a lady, and it was not like her to be so petty.

Hetty gave her a sympathetic look. “You’ll find your own happy ending, Eliana, of that I’m certain. Now, turn your head a bit more so I might fix this last curl properly.”

Eliana was not nearly so sure. Had someone asked her a year ago if she’d any doubts about making a match, she would have laughed at them quite merrily. But something had changed. She had grown up a little, perhaps—no longer quite the flighty girl she had been. Even more than that, she’d seen the depth of the bond between Selene and Lord Ashford, and realized that she could settle for nothing less than that for herself.

It was unfortunate, in some ways, that her standards had risen so high. Several gentlemen of her acquaintance whom she might have found satisfactory a year ago now failed to come up to the mark her sister’s husband had set.

She let out a sigh, and Hetty gave her another look.

“No more moping about, miss. Aren’t you looking forward to the Midwinter Masque? It’s only the most anticipated ball of the winter season. I’m sure you’ll have your pick of gentlemen.”

A pity she didn’t want her pick of them. She only wanted therightone—but as of yet, he was nowhere to be found.

“After last year’s scandal, I’m sure the masque will be a horrid crush. Perhaps I shouldn’t attend.”

“Nonsense.” Hetty set the curling tongs down. “You look particularly pretty tonight, and besides, you can’t disappoint Lady Peony. She needs her friends’ support tonight, more than ever.”

Eliana glanced at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She supposed she looked well, with her golden hair perfectly coiffed and the gauzy silver of her gown complementing her complexion. And Hetty was right. Peony was one of her dearest friends and could not be left to face the gossips alone.

“It’s very brave of her to go,” Hetty added. “After what happened with Prince Sebastian…” She trailed off and began sorting through Eliana’s jewelry box.

“The Ice Prince.” Eliana spoke the name all of London had begun calling the nobleman after he’d so coldly and publicly spurned Lady Peony at last year’s Midwinter Masque. “I’ll never forgive him for breaking Peony’s heart.”

“Then make a point of refusing him a dance tonight,” Hetty said. “Here, I think the pearls will go very nicely, don’t you?”

It was hardly a satisfactory revenge, to spurn the prince, but it would have to do. Perhaps, if all the other ladies in London followed her lead, he might feel some shame and run off back to his ancestral family in Sayn-Wittgenstein.

Righteous indignation still glowed through her when she thought of the prince’s despicable actions last year. It was plain the barbaric blood of the Visigoths ran in his frost-ridden veins. England would be better off without him gracing their shores, that much was certain.

CHAPTER TWO

Prince Sebastian Nikolai Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohensteinglanced at his dye-blackened fingertips and frowned.

“Don’t fret, your highness,” his valet, Reece, said, clearly noting the direction of Sebastian’s gaze. “We’ll scrub your skin clean enough. Besides, you’ll be wearing gloves during the ball. No one will notice.”

“I hope not.” Sebastian looked up to study his reflection in the tall looking glass at the end of his dressing room. It was strange to see his normally pale hair turned jet black. His light blue eyes seemed very intense in contrast. “Are you certain this will fool people?”