.

the emerald sheen of the satin confection she wore. Shadowed by the ghost of a smile, her lips were slightly parted and Sebastian longed to press his mouth to them, to see if their kiss would be as explosive as he’d imagined over the years.

      However, this was not the time or place for such a first. He wanted it to be perfect. And he wanted them to be alone. For now, he would settle for the joy of simply holding her in his arms. That, and the knowledge that he was the luckiest man in the room.

      “Your twenty-first birthday was yesterday, no?”

      Marie-Claire’s gaze shot to his. “How did you know?”

      “Math.”

      “Math?” Her smile was quizzical.

      “On this day, five years ago, you had been sixteen for a whole day.”

      A charming flush crawled up her slender neck and settled in her cheeks. “You remember that day?”

      “Vaguely.” Someday, when they’d been long married, he’d confess how the memory had plagued him, ruining subsequent relationships and making sport of his sleep. “Happy Birthday.”

      “Thank you.”

      “What did you do to celebrate this time?”

      “For one thing, I stayed out of the pond.”

      “Too bad.”

      Again, the endearing blush. “Papa took me to Paris for the day. I went shopping for this gown.”

      “Excellent choice.”

      “You think so?”

      “Mmm. I think you are easily the most beautiful cheerleader in the room.”

      Marie-Claire heaved a heavy sigh and stared down at the floor. “So you heard that?”

      Unable to restrain the grin that tugged at his lips, Sebastian ducked his head so that he could peer into her face. “Marie-Claire, thanks to the wonders of cable television, the entire world heard that.”

      “How singularly mortifying.”

      “I thought it was charming. Cute.”

      “Cute?” She made a face. “Now everyone thinks I have a schoolgirl crush on you.”

      He tipped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. “And do you?”

      Suddenly seeming to forget her mission to prove herself the sedate lady, her candid laughter had his pulse surging.

      “Well, since the entire world knows, I suppose there is no point in lying to you. I guess you could say I have an…infatuation, where you’re concerned. But…” she held up a finger, smiled brightly and blathered on, “I’m struggling to overcome that. I’m thinking of joining a twelve-step program. Not that I’m a stalker or anything—”

      “Don’t do that on my account.”

      “What?”

      “Don’t abandon your…addiction.”

      She stumbled over his foot. “No?”

      “No.”

      “Oh.” She stared up at him and smiled.

      He smiled back, and her heart took wing. This moment was perfect. The musical medley picked up pace and segued into a driving rumba. Marie-Claire loved to rumba.

      “May I cut in?”

      Marie-Claire froze.

      Eduardo, his teeth pointing at Marie-Claire from behind his eager smile, tapped Sebastian on the shoulder. His wild, rusty head of hair had been tamed with what looked like an entire bottle of styling gel and his tuxedo was inches too short in the sleeve and cuff. Fingers itching, he fairly pried Marie-Claire from Sebastian’s grasp.

      She wanted to scream as Sebastian stepped aside and with obvious reluctance handed her over to the young Eduardo Van Groober’s arms. Darn! Just as things were getting interesting. Eduardo clutched her close and her back already ached from the pressure he exerted.

      “Save another dance for me?” Sebastian called as Eduardo jerked her away, rattling her teeth in the process.

      Marie-Claire nodded dumbly and watched with longing as Sebastian backed across the room and straight into the voluptuous—and morally emancipated—Baroness Veronike Schroeder of Germany.

      Before Sebastian had time to react, Veronike cast out her web, snared him, and then dragged him out to the dance floor for the kill.

      Eduardo made an awkward attempt at conversation and Marie-Claire listened with half an ear. And, when he wasn’t trying to impress her with his prowess on the high-school golf team, his nose was buried in her hair. Marie-Claire batted at him in a distracted fashion, straining to keep her sights on Sebastian.

      And Veronike.

      Euro-trash with pretensions to the Hapsburg dynasty, Veronike was a formidable personality and when she wanted something, she usually got it. And Veronike did enjoy the occasional dalliance with a handsome playboy.

      Jealousy seared like a hot knife through Marie-Claire’s heart. Compared to Veronike, Marie-Claire felt quite the underdeveloped adolescent. Insecurity assailed her as she watched Veronike swivel seductively to the pounding beat. Veronike draped over Sebastian like a skimpy chiffon window dressing, all fluttering lashes and fat, blood-red lips.

      The dress the German siren wore tonight seemed less a gown and more a figment of the imagination. Smashed against Sebastian’s firm chest, Veronike’s ample bosom strained to be set free of its wispy confines and her hips ground against Sebastian’s in a way that would have Marie-Claire’s molars reduced to dust before the end of the evening if she didn’t make a concerted effort to change her train of thought.

      Ooo.

      Wilhelm tapped Eduardo on the shoulder and cut in, no doubt feeling it was time to put in the appearance of caring, Marie-Claire thought churlishly. Eduardo obviously hated to let her go and there was an awkward scuffle as Wilhelm dismissed the hormone-ravaged boy. Where Eduardo was chatty, Wilhelm was stony, allowing Marie-Claire to drift.

      She winced as she retraced the inane conversation she’d made just now with Sebastian, and wondered if she wasn’t better off eating her heart out over Veronike’s physical charms.

      I’m joining a twelve-step program for stalkers.

      Her sisters were right. She was certifiable. During her next dance with Sebastian, she hoped—if there was a next dance with Sebastian—she’d be able to control her idiotic tongue before she blurted out that she wanted to snatch Veronike bald.

      Oh.

      Marie-Claire’s eyes slid closed as she reflected on how unbelievably right it had felt to have Sebastian’s arms around her. She knew he’d felt it, too. She moaned, and an involuntary shiver wracked her body. Head back, she clutched Wilhelm a little tighter at the memory of Sebastian’s powerful body steering her around the dance floor. She immediately regretted the impulse as the rigid Wilhelm looked down at her with a curious frown.

      “Stiff knee,” she fibbed.

      After a frightfully dull turn on the dreary Wilhelm’s arm, her father at last rescued her, just before Eduardo could reach her again. The boy’s disappointment was plain.

      “You are looking well tonight, daughter. This gown suits you.”

      Coming from her father, this was high praise. Though King Philippe was not effusive in speech, Marie-Claire knew she was loved. Cherished. And, because she was the youngest of three daughters by his first—and now deceased—wife a tad favored.

      “Thank you, sir. You’re looking rather dapper tonight, yourself.” She gave his satin cummerbund a playful tug.

      “Oh, I know you’re simply trying to put a bit of a bounce in an old man’s step.”

      “Fifty-one