The Promise in a Kiss (12 page)

His eyes remained on hers; she caught a glimpse, unexpected, of sudden turmoil.

“Yes!”
He flung the word at her; it struck her, left her reeling. She immediately sensed him soften, rein in his temper. “In your case . . . yes.”

Her heart had leaped to her throat. Shocked, she searched his eyes. He wasn't lying, even though his temper still prowled, as did hers. But she knew truth when she heard it; he had no reason to lie. But what reason could he have? . . .

“Why?” She searched his hard features, hoping to catch some hint.

Sebastian knew the answer—could feel the power rise through his anger, shading it, controlling it.

She'd refused to go apart with him—to let him talk with her privately, feel his way with her—even though his intentions were, this time, of the most honorable. Instead, she'd tapped Markham on the shoulder and slipped away with him.

He'd been coldly furious. Why? Because she meant more to him than any other woman ever had.

He'd been watching when she and Markham had left the ballroom. He'd followed to ensure nothing came of the incident. Only to learn . . .

The idea that she might willingly put herself in the way of the type of insult Markham had offered was not to be borne.

Why? Because he cared.

The realization left him shaken—left him, for once, without any glib words, any drawling phrase to turn her mind away from what he'd only just realized and didn't yet want her to see.

Her eyes were wide green pools, easy to read, easy to drown in. She was caught, tempted . . . fascinated.

So was he.

He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, trying to think.

Her skin had heated, courtesy of his nearness; her perfume, French, elementally exotic, rose and wreathed his senses.

Their faces were close, as were their bodies—close enough for her to sense the change in his intent. Her eyes widened fractionally, then her lids fell as her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips.

He closed the distance between them, slowly, unthreateningly.

She lifted her face, tipped back her head.

Their lips brushed. Touched.

Met.

Fused.

The power flared—like a spark set to dry grass, it flamed, then raced, taking them both, drawing them in, sucking them into its heat.

It was like nothing he knew. No kiss he'd ever experienced had caught him as this did, held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, so focused on her, on her lips, on her mouth, on the dark thrill of sliding deep, caressing her intimately, on the sensual mating of their tongues.

She followed his lead, matching him step for step, fearless in her innocence. He'd kissed her deeply before, but this time she wanted more, lured him on.

Unknowingly—or knowingly? He couldn't tell.

He couldn't think. Couldn't reason. Couldn't draw back from the conflagration.

His senses were reveling, in her, in the honeyed taste of her, the warm haven of her mouth, the supple softness of her breasts firm against his chest, the flagrant promise in the body arching lightly to meet his.

He could do nothing more than take all she offered and return all she demanded. Fall more deeply under her spell.

Helena had stopped thinking some instants before their lips had met. The knowledge that he was going to kiss her was enough, of itself, to focus her mind on one thing and that alone.

Him.

She wished it weren't so, but it was. Her mind, her senses—her very heartbeat—seemed to be his to claim. And no matter how much she might lecture herself when apart from him, she couldn't hold back from this part of his game.

Dangereux.

The word whispered through her mind but she no longer believed it, at least not in the physical sense. He would not harm her—he'd told her she could trust him. In truth, she already did.

He might prey on her mind and lay waste to the defenses she'd erected against powerful men, but while in his arms with his lips on hers, she knew, and understood, only one thing.

He was hers.

Hers to command at least in this arena—hers to claim if she wished. He was in control, but it was she he sought to please—a conundrum perhaps, but the thought of having a powerful man at her feet was too tantalizing, too tempting, too elementally enthralling to forgo.

His pleasure was hers. She sensed it through his kiss, through his immediate response to any demand she chose to make. Any hint of trepidation and he would ease back, soothe her, wait for her sign he could take her mouth again, that she was ready again to sink deep into the kiss, let his tongue probe, caress, slide about hers, seductively tangling.

He hadn't released her hands; instead, his fingers had locked, not painfully, but his grip was unbreakable, his forearms outside hers against the wall, holding his weight from her. She wanted his weight on her. Her whole body had come alive, heated, nerves afire. She wanted him against her, chest to breast, thighs to hips. Wanted him.

She arched, touched him. For one glorious instant, she let her body caress him.

Sensed his immediate response—sensed the depth of the fire she hadn't yet walked through. Felt his control quake.

They broke the kiss.

Both of them. They needed to breathe, needed to think. Had to pull back from the brink.

They were both breathing rapidly, each one's gaze locked on the other's lips.

Simultaneously, they lifted their eyes; their gazes met, held.

They searched each other's eyes; her thoughts were reflected in his—she felt as if he could see into her soul.

This was not the right place, not the right time.

Whether there would ever be a right place, a right time, neither knew, but they could not go further tonight.

They both knew it. Recognized the fact.

When the pounding in her ears eased enough for her to hear, Helena drew in a deep breath and softly said, “Let me go.”

Not an order, but a simple direction.

He hesitated. Then his grip eased, bit by bit. As his touch left her skin, she eased her hands from under his, lowered her arms. She ducked under his arm, stepped away from the wall, out of the cage of his arms.

He turned his head but didn't otherwise move.

She took another step away, already missing—regretting the loss of—his heat. Then she lifted her head; without turning around, she said, “For your help with Markham—thank you.”

She hesitated for an instant, then walked to the door.

Her hand was on the knob when she heard him murmur, soft and low, “Until later,
mignonne.
”

S
ebastian let himself into his house in Grosvenor Square in the small hours. After leaving Lady Castlereagh's, he'd repaired to his club, then gone with friends to a hell. No game of chance had been able to distract him from his thoughts; the hours had served only to crystallize his resolution.

Leaving his cloak and cane in the front hall, he went into the library. After lighting a lamp, he settled behind his desk—settled to the letter he'd decided to write.

He addressed it to Thierry. Helena was staying under Thierry's roof, nominally in his care; his wife had introduced her to society. De Sèvres's relationship to Helena he was less sure of, and when all was said and done, he didn't trust the man. Thierry, despite being a Frenchman, was a straightforward soul.

The scritch-scratch of his pen across the page was the only sound discernible; the silence of the huge house, his home from birth, lay like a comfortable blanket about him.

He paused, looking down, considering what he'd written, what he had yet to say. Then he bent and wrote again, until he reached the end and closed with his flourishing signature: St. Ives.

Sanding the letter, he sat back. Looked across the room to where the embers of the fire glowed in the grate.

He didn't know if he could do it—if he could make the concessions she'd demand, the concessions she might indeed need in order to become his duchess. But he would try. He had accepted that he must, that he had to do everything within his considerable power to ensure she became his.

His wife.

The equation was a simple one. He had to marry. And at the last moment, he'd met her, the only woman he'd ever wished to possess for all time.

It was she or no one.

He'd wanted, waited for, some sign that she wanted him, that she recognized the fact that she did. Tonight . . . tonight they'd come very close to stepping over that invisible line, taking what had thus far been an acceptable interaction into another arena, an illicit one.

They'd drawn back, but only just, and she'd known it, realized the truth as well as he.

It was enough—sign enough. Confirmation enough, if he'd needed any reassurance.

She wanted him in precisely the same way he wanted her.

He glanced at the letter, let his eyes run over his careful phrases inviting the Thierrys, mademoiselle la comtesse d'Lisle and M. de Sèvres to spend the next week at Somersham Place. He had made it clear that this was to be a private visit, that the only others at his principal estate would be Cynster family members.

That last should make his direction patently clear; such a summons, couched in such terms, could mean only one thing. But with that “thing” unstated, it could not be taken for granted.

He smiled as he considered how Helena might react—he couldn't, even now, predict it. But he would see her tomorrow night, at Lady Lowy's masquerade. Whatever her reaction, he was sure he'd learn of it then.

Tipping the sand aside, he folded the parchment, lit the candle, and melted a stub of wax, then set his seal to the letter. Rising, he turned down the lamp, then crossed to the door.

In the front hall, he dropped the letter on the salver on the side table.

Done.

He paused, then headed for the stairs and his bed.

T
HE
following morning at nine o'clock, Villard pulled back the curtains about his master's bed. Louis started awake, then scowled.

Villard hurried into speech. “M'sieur, I knew you would wish to have these immediately.” He deposited a package on the bed beside Louis.

Louis frowned at the package, then his face cleared.
“Bon, Villard. Très bon.”
Louis struggled free of the covers. “Bring me my chocolate, and I will read my uncle's dispatches.”

Settling against the pillows, Louis ripped open the package addressed in Fabien's distinctive hand. Three letters wrapped in a single sheet of parchment spilled onto the sheets. There was writing on the parchment, an order:
Read my letter to you before you do anything else. F.

Louis studied the three letters. One was for him; another, also from Fabien, was addressed to Helena. The third was also for Helena, but addressed in a girlish hand. After a moment of pondering, Louis decided it must be from Ariele. He set aside Helena's letters and opened his.

There were two sheets closely covered in Fabien's forceful black script. Smiling in anticipation, Louis smoothed them out—he looked up as Villard reappeared with his chocolate on a tray. He nodded, picked up the cup, took a sip, then held up the letter and started to read.

Villard saw the smile fade from his master's face, saw it pale. Louis's hand shook. Chocolate spattered the sheets, and he swore. Villard jumped to mop the spill. Scowling, Louis set the cup back on the tray. He returned to his letter.

Under pretext of readying Louis's clothes, Villard watched. When Louis set down the letter and stared blankly across the room, he deferentially murmured, “Monsieur le comte was not pleased?”

“Eh?” Louis blinked, then waved the letter. “No, no—he was pleased with the progress. Thus far.
But
.” Louis looked at the letter again, then carefully folded it. Villard said nothing; he would read it later.

Some minutes passed, then Louis ruminated, “There is, it seems, more to my uncle's plans than meets the eye, Villard.”

“It has ever been so, m'sieur.”

“He says we have done well but we must move faster. I was not aware—it seems the English nobility invariably adjourn to their estates in but a few days. I was anticipating another week.”

“The Thierrys have not mentioned this.”

“No, indeed. I will take it up with Thierry when he returns. But for now there is a great challenge facing us, Villard. We must somehow ensure that St. Ives is sufficiently taken with Helena to invite her to visit at his country house. The dagger Uncle Fabien seeks to reclaim is apparently kept there.”

Shaking out a coat, Villard frowned. “Do you think monsieur le duc is liable to issue such an invitation?”

Louis snorted. “He's been hot after Helena since we arrived, just as Uncle predicted. Don't forget, these English ape our ways, so yes, as Helena has successfully held him at bay, then the natural course would be for him, a powerful nobleman, to invite her and the Thierrys and myself to stay, with a few others to generate the necessary camouflage, then seduce Helena into his bed. It is the way things are done at home—it will be the same here.”

“Is there not a certain danger there?”

Reaching for his chocolate, Louis smirked. “That is what is most entertaining. It is Helena against St. Ives, and my money is on Helena. She is a prude, that one.” Louis shrugged. “Twenty-three and a virgin yet—what would you do? She isn't likely to succumb to St. Ives's blandishments, and you and I, Villard, will be there to ensure he has no chance to force her.”

“I see.” Villard turned to the wardrobe. “So the plan now is . . . ?”

Louis drained his chocolate, then frowned. “The first thing will be to secure this invitation, and that
must
be done tonight.” He glanced at the folded letter. “Uncle Fabien makes it very clear we are to do everything needful—
everything
—to ensure that Helena is invited to St. Ives's estate.”

“And once the invitation is in our hands?”

“We ensure Helena accepts, and goes.”

“But will she?”

Louis's gaze went to the two letters addressed to Helena. “Uncle instructs that I use my best endeavors, but if she proves stubborn . . . I am to give her these letters.”

“Do we know what they contain?”

“No—only that once she reads them, Helena will do as he has ordered.” Louis drew in a breath and dragged his gaze from the fascinating letters. “However, Uncle strongly advises that I wait until we are at St. Ives's estate before giving the letters to Helena. He says I should not show his hand too soon, not unless she balks entirely at the first fence.”

Louis stared unseeing across the room. “So! We must secure this invitation tonight. I will need to make sure that Helena plays the game hard with St. Ives—that she inflames him and leaves him no choice but to act as we wish. That is the first thing.” Louis glanced at the letters. “For the rest, we will see.”

Villard laid a waistcoat on the dressing tree. “And what of m'sieur's own plans?”

Louis grinned as he threw back the covers. “Those have not changed. Helena should have been wed long ago. The matter of her marriage is now a difficulty for Uncle Fabien—a liability. The solution I propose is one I'm sure he will support, once he sees its brilliance. It would be nonsensical to lose the de Stansion wealth to another family when we can keep it for ourselves.”

Standing, Louis allowed Villard to help him into his dressing robe. His gaze was distant as he recited what was clearly an oft-rehearsed plan. “When we have Uncle's dagger safe in our possession and have crossed once more to France, I will marry Helena—by force, if necessary. In Calais there is a notary who will do as I ask for a price. Once our marriage is a reality, we will travel to Le Roc. Uncle Fabien is too much the strategist not to appreciate the beauty of my plan. As soon as he grasps that there is no longer any desirable marriage for the factions to squabble over and that thus I have freed him from their threats, he will fall on my neck and thank me.”

Behind Louis, Villard's expression betrayed his contempt, yet he quietly murmured, “As you say, m'sieur.”

I
f Helena had had her way, she would not have attended that morning's gathering at the Duchess of Richmond's house. Unfortunately, so Marjorie informed her, it was a tradition as venerated as the masquerade to be held that evening and, therefore, impossible to miss. Helena had had half a mind to appeal to Thierry, more easygoing than his lady, but her host had been absent for the past day.

“He has gone to Bristol,” Marjorie confessed as the carriage rattled toward Richmond.

“Bristol?” Helena looked her surprise.

Marjorie's lips thinned; she looked out the window. “He has gone to look into some business opportunity.”

“Business? He—” Helena broke off, sensitive to the connotations.

Marjorie shrugged. “What would you do? We are currently monsieur le comte's pensioners—what is to become of us when you marry and leave?”

Helena hadn't thought, didn't know, but thereafter she held her tongue and carped at Marjorie no more.

“Eh, bien,”
Marjorie murmured when the carriage eventually drew to a halt and they descended. “Thierry will return later. He will escort us to Lady Lowy's tonight. Then we will see.”

Helena held to Marjorie's side as they entered and greeted their hostess. An unexpected tension, an apprehension, stretched her nerves taut. Moving into the considerable crowd, awash with laughter and good cheer, she searched with her eyes, with her senses, and breathed a tight, small sigh of relief when she could detect no glimmer of Sebastian's presence.

After some minutes of chatting, then moving on, she parted from Marjorie and ventured on alone. She was assured enough, now well known enough, to make her way with confidence. Although unmarried, she was so much older, so much more experienced than girls in their first or even second season, that she was accorded a different status, one permitting her greater social freedom. Speaking to this one, then that, she worked her way through the crowd.

She still had three names on her list, but only Were was confirmed. Were Athlebright and Mortingdale present? Quite how she might engage with them to assess the effect of their touch in the middle of a crowded salon where talk and not dancing, certainly not touching, was the principal aim was a problem—one at which her mind boggled and failed.

Turned too readily aside. After last night, her mind had more troubling thoughts to ponder.

Damn Sebastian!
She had constantly, throughout the night, through the silent hours in which she'd tossed and turned and tried to forget, tried to wipe from her mind the sensation of his lips on hers, the warmth of his nearness, the allure of his touch.

Impossible.

She'd spent hours lecturing herself, pointing out how directly against her careful plans falling victim to such a man would be—only to wake from lustful dreams of doing precisely that.

Shocked, she'd sat up, risen from her bed, washed her face and hands in cold water, then stood before her window staring out at the black night until the cold had forced her back to her quilts.

Madness. He had sworn never to marry. What was she thinking of?

It was impossible, more than impossible, for a woman such as herself—an unmarried noblewoman of old family—to become his mistress. Yet to marry a complaisant husband knowing herself driven by a need to be free to engage in an illicit but socially acceptable liaison with another—that, too, was unthinkable. At least to her.

Sebastian, she was sure, had thought of it, but that had never been part of her plans.

Still wasn't.

Which left her with one very large problem—he surprised her by appearing in the doorway to an adjoining salon just as she approached it.

“Mignonne.”
He took the hand she instinctively raised to ward him off, bowed, and raised it to his lips.

Her eyes met his over her knuckles as she belatedly bobbed a curtsy; what she saw in the blue depths made her lungs seize.

“Your Grace.” Cursing her breathlessness, she struggled to marshal her wits as, still holding her hand, he urged her back from the doorway toward the side of the room. Forced to comply, she reminded herself of how dangerous he was—only to have another part of her mind airily point out that with him, she knew she was safe.

Dangereux
on the one hand, knight-protector on the other. Was it any wonder she was confused?

“Indeed, I am very glad I met you.” Attack suited her more than defense. She faced him, head high. “I wished to say good-bye and to thank you for your assistance through these past weeks.”

She could tell nothing from his expression—the polite mask he so often wore—but she saw his eyes widen a fraction. At least she'd surprised him. “I understand that the masquerade tonight will be very crowded, so it's possible we will not meet again.”

She stopped there, bit her tongue against a nervous urge to babble on. If what she'd already said didn't put him in his place—didn't tell him how she'd decided to react after last night—nothing would.

He was silent for some minutes, his unnerving blue gaze locked on her eyes, then his lips curved, just enough to tell her that the smile was indeed genuine.

“Mignonne,
you never fail to surprise me.”

Briefly, she glared. “I am honored that I amuse you, Your Grace.”

His smile only deepened. “You should be. There's so little these days that amuses such a jaded soul as I.”

There was sufficient self-deprecation in his tone to make it difficult to take offense. Helena contented herself with another glare—then felt heat shoot up her arm as his fingers shifted and one stroked her palm. He'd lowered their hands but hadn't released hers; his fingers curled protectively around hers, their linked hands hidden from all by her wide skirts.

“But there's no reason to bid me farewell. I'll be by your side tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You will have to find me in all that crowd, and then be sure it is me.”

“I will know you,
mignonne
—in exactly the same way you will know me.”

His confidence grated. “I will not tell you my costume.”

“No need.” He continued to smile. “I can guess.”

He'd guess wrong, along with all the others. She'd been to masquerades before. Supremely confident, she looked about at the crowd.
“Eh, bien
—we shall see.”

After a moment she glanced at him. He was studying her face. He hesitated, then asked, “Have you spoken with Thierry this morning?”

She blinked. “No. He is out of town but should return this evening.”