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“Of course it will. With the addition of your mask, and if you adopt an accent, no one will suspect you are Prince Sebastian. Already the servants are putting it about that you’ve taken ill and won’t be attending the Midwinter Masque.”

“Much to the relief of certain ladies, I’ve no doubt.” He narrowed his eyes, his reflection glaring back at him.

Last year had been a debacle, and he’d yet to shed the ridiculous nickname thetonhad saddled him with. The Ice Prince. A heart made of frost, they said, with a demeanor to match.

“Make sure you laugh often,” Reece said, as if reading his mind. “It will throw them off the scent, if anyone suspects.”

“I have very little to laugh about.”

The past fourteen months he’d spent in London had not gone particularly well. His mother wanted him to find a suitable English wife—not that she herself had been a good match for his stern Prussian father. As soon as Sebastian was old enough to be sent off to boarding school, she’d left the palace at Berleburg and returned to her noble family in England, taking Sebastian’s sister with her. Unfortunately, Sebastian’s father was in agreement, and so it was decided—quite without Sebastian’s input—that he was to wed an English heiress.

Unfortunately, his mother’s wishes were no secret to the nobility of London. At every social gathering he had to contend with an endless stream of eligible young ladies and their title-hungry relatives. Every potential bride looked at him with the hope she might call herself a princess. None of them bothered to look any deeper than that.

He had thought there might be one, but Lady Peony Talbot had proved as shallow as the rest. Sebastian let out a low breath that was not a sigh of discouragement. Of course not. Royals never voiced their emotions openly.

Reece gave him a wry smile, nonetheless.

“Don’t fret, highness. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of young ladies who’ll want to dance with you.”

“They would, even if I were not in disguise. Every eligible lady in London thinks she’ll be the one to melt the heart of the Ice Prince.” Sebastian’s lip curled as he said the words. Damnation, would he ever be free of that nickname?

“Noteverylady.” Reece coughed and busied himself with brushing out Sebastian’s coat.

It was as black as his newly dyed hair, and would help him blend in better than his signature cobalt blue.

“True,” Sebastian said. “Lady Peony certainly does not like me. Nor her dear friend, Miss Banning.”

“Then I think you ought to try and be particularly pleasant to Miss Banning. Since she never seeks you out, she won’t suspect your disguise.”

“As long as she isn’t keeping close company with Lady Peony, I admit I find that idea refreshing.” And rather ironic.

Miss Banning had been, briefly, under his consideration as a potential wife—but she was a flighty, empty-headed young lady, always the center of attention, and clearly quite content to be nothing but a preening flower beneath the sun of her many admirers. If anything, she wastoocharming. He needed a certain steadiness in a prospective wife—a fortitude he strongly doubted Miss Banning possessed.

Reece gave him a speculative look. “If thereareany young ladies you’re planning on courting, this would be your opportunity to find out what they really think of you. And who they are when not putting on airs for the prince.”

“I think not. One revelation a year is more than enough.”

He had thought, last year, that Lady Peony might be the one lady he could stand to marry. The daughter of an earl, she had an excellent pedigree, and she had not made herself an utter fool over him. As a result, he’d let down his guard and begun the first stages of a cautious courtship.

Only to have the lady immediately put the rumor about that he was planning to ask for her hand at the Midwinter Masque.

When he’d stepped into the ballroom last year, all eyes had turned to him, and a speculative buzz had risen. He took his first dance with Lady Peony, who’d been uncommonly subdued, before the rumor reached his ears that everyone was waiting for him to go down on one knee and make the grand gesture.

At that moment he supposed he’d earned his nickname, for an icy fury had gripped him. He had stalked out of the ball, enough shreds of his dignity left to depart without publicly confronting Lady Peony and making the scandal even worse.

Instead, he’d written her a cold note, telling her precisely what he thought of rumor mongers and ladies who imagined he was so easily manipulated, and informing her that their brief association was at an end.

Thetonwas abuzz, and he was scorned for a time—but a prince never fell far from grace. A handful of his acquaintances knew that Sebastian hadn’t intended to ask Lady Peony to marry him; not immediately, and certainly not at the Midwinter Masque. But his reputation could take the blow better than hers if it was known that she was a scheming, grasping liar, so he’d said little on that score. Only kept his distance.

“What name will you take?” Reece asked, pulling Sebastian out of his unpleasant memories.

“I need to choose something I’ll answer to.” Sebastian tilted his chin up so that his valet could tie his silky white neck cloth.

“Your middle name, perhaps?” Reece suggested.

“Indeed.” Sebastian thought a moment. “I’ll be Count Nikolai, a minor lord from Russia.”

He’d be able to manage the accent; one of his companions at boarding school had been the son of a Russian grand duke.