her arm through Ryder’s, towing him a discreet distance away.
“Helen, I thought I made it clear—” he began.
She flapped a jeweled hand. “Oh, I heard you before! You consider Rex a friend, would never betray him, blah blah. This isn’t about me getting my hands on you, although the invitation stands,” she added, dropping her lashes seductively.
“But Helen, dearest, if I were to take you to bed, I’m not sure I could ever bring myself to get out again,” he replied, his eyes wide and innocent.
She burst out laughing. “You are a maddening creature. I can’t even take your rejection seriously.”
“And that is why we are much better off as friends,” he said firmly.
“Perhaps.” The word was a purr. “But this isn’t about us, dear boy. Anthony Wickenden was practically begging me to introduce him to Jude. She is frightfully pretty if one can get past the appalling clothes.”
Ryder opened his mouth to disagree then thought better of it. Jude wasn’t pretty. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, the more so for never noticing how striking she was. She wore her beauty naturally, with no powder or paint to heighten it, no elegant coiffeur to enhance it. It was bone-deep, her beauty, with a promise to last a lifetime. She would be lovely at eighty, lovely in death, he had often thought. And she didn’t need good clothes or jewels to clutter it. All she needed was someone with the vision to see past her heavy bundle of hair and her shapeless sack of a dress.
And for the moment, Anthony Wickenden seemed like that man. Ryder felt a rush of affection for Helen. She had taken his rejection with better humor than he’d expected, and although he had used the friends line on almost every woman he’d refused, he was rather surprised to find he actually meant it with Helen.
He dropped a kiss to her startled cheek.
“Whatever was that for?”
“You might just be a good egg, Helen. Would you like to dance?”
She threw back her head in a theatrical gesture. “Would I? Just try and stop me.”
Chapter Two
After a lavish buffet supper, the dancing resumed. It was hectic and unbridled as any found in a Parisian nightclub, the dancing of people determined to enjoy themselves after the rigors of war. They drank and danced and fondled one another with deliberation, exchanging news and kisses as they found neighbors they had not seen for months and groped towards new friendships in the soft glow of the lowered lights.
Ryder had just returned his last partner—a besotted girl of eighteen he had no intention of partnering again—to her friends when Helen appeared at his side, towing with her a pair of newcomers.
“Ryder, I don’t believe you know the prince. Your Highness, may I present Julian Ryder White, one of our most distinguished settlers. Mademoiselle Gautier, Mr. White. Ryder, His Highness, Prince Frederick-Christian, seventeenth in the Danish line of succession, and his companion, Mademoiselle Liane Gautier of Paris.”
If not for the introduction, Ryder would have though Mademoiselle was the Dane and her friend French. He was small and dark and wiry, with a cruelly thin moustache and evening clothes so rigidly tailored he might have been wearing armor. She was a tall blonde, wearing a cool, Nordic sort of detachment that told him she thought she was above this sort of provincial entertainment. Then Ryder saw the assessment in her eyes as she flicked them over his body. She was French alright.
“Your Highness,” he said cordially. He didn’t bother to bow.
The prince gave him a thin smile. “I see like all Africans you are casual in your manners.” He attempted a chuckle to take the sting out of it, but Ryder knew he was piqued.
Ryder shrugged. “I am Canadian by birth and African by choice, and in neither of those places did I learn to bow and scrape.”
The woman put out her hand and with it the promise of a smile. “Monsieur.”
Ryder took it and bowed, flicking the prince a mischievous look. “I make exceptions for nature’s aristocrats.”
At this the woman laughed aloud, but the prince looked frankly astonished. “You think beauty matters more than lineage?”
“Why not? They’re both accidents of birth.”
Helen cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I am engaged for the next dance with Kit Parrymore. You must meet him, Your Highness. He’s a desperately talented artist.”
“Later,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I find Mr. White’s conversation most diverting.”
“As you wish,” Helen said, throwing out a bright smile. As she passed Ryder, she squeezed his arm. “Behave, pet. We don’t want an international incident on our hands.”
She slid through the crowd and Ryder turned back to the pair. “What brings you to Africa?”
Mademoiselle Gautier moved fractionally closer to her prince. “The press. They are ruthless in Europe and not very understanding of our friendship.”
“I see.” Ryder’s voice was deliberately neutral, but the prince bristled.
“My wife is unwell, and the press blame her poor health on my friendship with Mademoiselle. It is nonsense, of course.”
Mademoiselle flicked Ryder a quick glance, conspiratorial, as if to confirm that they both saw through the prince’s desperate attempts to convince himself if no one else that his infidelity had no victims.
She turned to her companion. “Freddie, I should like some properly chilled champagne. What the waiters are serving is far too warm. Is it possible to teach them how it ought to be done?”
The prince inclined his head. “Yes, of course.” He gave Ryder an appraising look and hurried off on his mission.
Ryder turned back to Mademoiselle. “I’m impressed. That was very neatly done.”
She favored him with a modest smile. “Freddie is not difficult to manage. He likes to instruct. If I can set him a task where he is above others, teaching them, he is happy. And it leaves me free to pursue my own interests.”
Ryder shook his head. “That’s my cue to ask ‘what interests?’ Not going to happen, Mademoiselle.”
She moved an inch closer. “Why? Don’t you want to flirt with me?”
“To what end?”
She lifted one shapely shoulder in a shrug. “Why must there be an end? You think like all Anglo-Saxons, Mr. White. Sometimes it is simply good to flirt for its own sake. It is pleasant to talk to someone attractive, is it not?”
“It is.”
“And I am attractive, am I not?”
Ryder gave her a lopsided grin. “There you go again, tossing bait in my direction. I’m not biting.”
“I am very naughty,” she admitted. “But I intrigue you, I think. No, do not answer. I do not wish to get you into trouble.” She tipped her head, running her gaze from his eyes to his earring. She put out one fingertip to touch it. “This must have hurt.”
“Like pleasure, pain is relative.”
Her eyes widened. “I was wrong about you, Mr. White. I think there may be something of the Frenchman about you after all.”
They were still smiling at each other when the prince arrived followed closely by a waiter with a bucket of icy cold champagne. “I claim victory,” the prince announced. He handed a glass to Mademoiselle and another to Ryder. “Come, let us toast my triumph.”
“Toujours,” Mademoiselle said. She sampled her champagne and praised him lavishly for his cleverness. The little prince preened.
“Tell