“I find that I lack the energy,” she said half-heartedly.
The stranger frowned, studying her for a moment. “But I see—it is an affair of the heart! What has your beloved done to anger you?” A mischievous gleam entered his eyes as he added, “Perhaps you should dance with me, just once, so that he will see how wrong he was.”
Something about this man broke through Hélène’s self-pity. “You’re very bold…” She trailed off, not sure of his name.
“Emanuele Filiberto, at your service.” Before she could protest, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her wrist. A chivalrous gesture, except that Hélène was wearing wrist-length gloves instead of elbow-length, so his lips landed on her bare skin.
He hadn’t used his titles, a lack of pretension that Hélène always found refreshing, but she knew who he was. Emanuele Filiberto, the nephew of King Umberto of Italy, and second in line for the Italian throne. Emanuele’s father, the king’s younger brother, had died tragically years ago; Emanuele lived in Piedmont with his mother and siblings.
In other words, he was exactly the sort of good Catholic prince her parents had wanted her to marry, before she got entangled with Eddy.
“Hélène of France,” she said, belatedly remembering to introduce herself.
“Yes, I know.” He winked and released her hand.
If she weren’t so depressed, Hélène might have enjoyed talking to Emanuele. He had a restless energy that crackled just below the surface—it reminded her of Eddy, except that Eddy was never so overtly irreverent. But then, Emanuele was only a spare, not an heir; he was allowed liberties that Eddy could only dream of.
Would she ever stop doing this, comparing every man she met to Eddy?
Probably not. Hélène would always regret the way things had ended with Eddy. She would always hate herself for her own carelessness, for the fact that she hadn’t figured out a way to protect them both.
“I’m sorry,” she told Emanuele, before grabbing her skirts with both hands and fleeing the ballroom.
Hélène blinked back angry tears as she ran, hardly lookingwhere she was going. Her heeled slippers left scuff marks on the polished wood floors, but she didn’t slow down; her heart beat wildly against her chest. The faces of various Greek ancestors stared disapprovingly down at her from portraits on the walls, matching the very real, shocked faces of staff members who stepped aside as she whirled past.
It wasn’t until she burst out the front doors that Hélène realized where she’d been headed. Apparently her feet had carried her here, to where the carriages were—where the horses were.
As always, the sound of their shuffling hooves was calming. Hélène took a step forward, studying the eclectic mix of carriages that lined the great paving stones of the palace’s circle drive. While there were still a few people gathered outside the gates, most of the crowds from earlier had dispersed, heading toward the waterfront to watch the upcoming pyrotechnics. The sky overhead was turning a deep purple, fireflies winking in the dusk. Except that they weren’t fireflies at all, she realized: the orange glow came from several dozen cigarettes.
That was the nice thing about coachmen. No matter what country you were in, you could always count on them to smoke.
“Excuse me,” Hélène called out, starting toward the nearest cluster of drivers. “Could I have a cigarette?”
One of them turned to her with a lopsided grin. He said something in Greek and lifted his hands in a universal gestureof confusion. Hélène tried French, then gave up and tried toconvey her meaning with gestures.
“Ah! Éna tsigáro!”He laughed, seemingly delighted by the incongruity of the situation—of Hélène, in her lavish cranberry-colored gown, asking him for a cigarette.
He handed one over and leaned forward to light it. Hélène inhaled deeply, relishing the small act of rebellion, though the smoke was sharper than she’d expected. This was a cheap, factory-produced paper cigarette, nothing like the cigars she’d stolen from her father’s office.
“Hélène?”
She turned around slowly, shocked beyond belief that Alix of Hesse was out here.
Behind Alix, the windows of the palace were ablaze with the light of countless gas lamps. The honeycombed light gilded Alix from behind, casting her face in shadow.
“What are you doing here, Alix?”
“I saw you in the ballroom. You seemed distraught.” Alix’s hair was falling loose from its twist; she tucked a strand nervously behind one ear. “Forgive me if I overstepped, following you. I was just worried.”
Hélène knew she should say something to make the other girl go away. Yet she felt dangerously like she might shatter into a million pieces.
Holding out the cigarette, she heard herself ask, “Want to smoke?”
Alix’s eyes widened, and Hélène stifled a bizarre urge to laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you.”
“Actually, I find that I am quite unshockable right now.”
To Hélène’s surprise, Alix accepted the proffered cigarette and drew in a breath—only to immediately burst into a fit of coughing.
