The Promise in a Kiss

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

  If 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.”

  “Ah. I see.” That, Sebastian realized, explained why she didn’t know of his invitation. Relieved his concern that she might indeed know but had decided to resist, to play even more difficult to win. Hard to imagine, but . . .

  “Why such an interest in Thierry?”

  He refocused to find Helena regarding him suspiciously. He smiled. “Merely an interest I have that concerns him. I will no doubt see him tonight.”

  The suspicious light didn’t leave her eyes, but her gaze suddenly moved past him.

  “There’s Lord Athlebright!”

  “No.”

  She looked at him. “No? No what?”

  “No, you cannot try to ascertain how his lordship’s touch affects you.” Lifting her hand, he turned her in the opposite direction. “Believe me, mignonne, you do not need to work on your list of prospective husbands any further.”

  She heard the steely note in his voice. Puzzled, she searched his face. “You are not making any sense—no, you are making even less sense than usual.”

  “Acquit me of any wish to confuse you, mignonne, but am I right in assuming you will not agree to leaving this uncomfortably overcrowded salon with me to seek a quieter place where we might talk?”

  She’d instantly stiffened. “You assume correctly, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian sighed. “You are the devil’s own daughter to sedu
ce, mignonne.”

  The smile that curved her lips suggested she approved of the epithet.

  “For all that, you’ll still be mine.”

  The smile vanished. She flashed him a look of righteous fury; if he hadn’t still held her hand, she would have whirled, curtsied, and flounced off. But the instant she started to move away, he drew her back. “No—don’t leave me.” He covered the simple, far-too-heartfelt plea with an easy smile. “You’re safer with me than with any other—and together we’re better entertained than we otherwise would be.” He caught her eye. “A truce, mignonne—until tonight.”

  He’d intended to speak with her of his intentions, the purpose behind his invitation. He’d counted on Thierry’s having received his letter and having told her of his request—she would have agreed readily to a private discussion after that. But . . . not knowing of his invitation, she would not go apart with him—and it was impossible for him to mention the word “marriage” in such a crowded place; he would bring all conversation to a halt.

  She was searching his eyes, well aware of the caveat—that when he said “until tonight,” he meant just that. That tonight he would come for her, and then they would see.

  She tilted her head, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace—a truce.”

  Sebastian smiled, raised her hand to his lips. “Until tonight.”

  Her cloak already wrapped about her, her mask already in place, Helena left her room and headed for the stairs, summoned by Marjorie’s call.

  “We will be late, ma petite! Such a wait we will have!”

  “I’m coming.”

  Helena started down the stairs just as the front door opened. Thierry, still in his morning coat, tired and weary, came in.

  Marjorie had whirled; now she rushed to her husband. “Mon Dieu! Thank God you are come—we must go immédiatement!”

  Thierry summoned a smile for her and for Helena. “You will have to permit me to change, chérie. Go ahead, and I will follow.”

  “But, Gaston—”

  “Madame, I cannot grace the masquerade in all my dirt. Let me get my costume”—Thierry’s glance took in the mail stacked on the side table—“and glance over these letters. Then I will follow tout de suite, chérie—that I promise.”

  Marjorie pouted, but accepted the assurance. She kissed Thierry’s cheek. “Tout de suite, oui?”

  Thierry returned the kiss. “Oui.”

  He beamed at Helena and kissed his fingers to her. “You look ravishing, ma petite. Have fun.”

  Scooping up his letters, he strode quickly for the stairs, passing Louis with a reassuring word.

  Louis helped Marjorie and Helena into the carriage, then joined them. The coach lurched and rumbled off toward Berkeley Square. As Marjorie had prophesied, there was a long line of carriages waiting to set their passengers down before Lowy House.

  The night was clear and bitingly cold, yet the sight of wave after wave of fantastically garbed guests arriving in costumes both outrageous and rich had drawn a large knot of onlookers. A plush red carpet laid from front door to pavement’s edge was flanked by banks of holly and ivy. Flares burned brightly, illuminating the arriving guests for all to see.

  When Helena was handed down from the carriage, there were no oohs and aahs. She appeared a gray mouse, draped in rich velvet, true enough, but hardly outstanding. Then she lifted her head and put back the hood of her cloak. Every eye fixed on her. The light from the flares caught the gold circlet of laurel leaves set amid her black curls, danced over the solid gold mask, also stamped with laurel leaves, that hid her face. Even though the cloak still concealed the rest of her costume, mouths dropped open as the onlookers stared.

  With every indication of proprietorial pride, Louis led both Helena and Marjorie up the sweep of red and on through the open front door. The moment they were inside, Helena retrieved her hand and tugged at the gold cloak strings at her throat.

  She’d worn the costume before, was well aware of its effect on susceptible males; as she handed the heavy cloak to a waiting footman, his eyes nearly started from his head. In the slim sheath of pale blue silk fashioned in a Roman toga, with telltale laurel leaves worked in gold thread at the neckline, hem, and along the fluttering border, she was every man’s fantasy of a Roman empress. Which was who she’d elected to be: St. Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine. Seduced by the dramatic tone that pervaded masquerades, everyone who knew her always assumed she would come as Helen of Troy.

  The silk sheath was anchored by a gold clasp on her right shoulder; the costume left most of her shoulders and arms bare. She wore gold amulets on both arms, gold bracelets on both wrists. There was gold dangling from her lobes and a heavy gold necklace encircling her throat. Her skin was whitest ivory, her hair blacker than black in contrast. With the gold and pale blue as a foil, she looked stunning and knew it. Drew confidence from the fact.

  Extremely high heels concealed beneath the long skirts added to her mystery—fully masked, her lack of height was the characteristic most searched for.

  Expecting to enjoy her evening thoroughly, spiced with the anticipation of a seminal and final victory over St. Ives, she walked beside Marjorie into the ballroom, head high, looking around boldly—as an empress, she could do as she pleased.

  She’d triumphed at masquerades at the French court in this costume—the flowers of the English nobility gathered tonight were to be her next conquests. Separating from Marjorie, who was rather too easy to spot with her auburn hair imperfectly concealed by her shepherdess’s hat, Helena moved into the crowd.

  The room was bedecked as a magical grotto with the symbols of yuletide the theme. Midnight blue silk scattered with gold and silver stars was draped across the ceiling; the walls were decorated with swags of green and brown velvet against which evergreen boughs, holly, and ivy had been fixed. Huge logs burned in the hearths, adding to the considerable heat; spiced champagne was being continuously served by footmen dressed as elves.

  Against this backdrop, the elite of the ton formed a rich tapestry of shifting colors and costumes, of fantastic wigs and amazing hats. At this early stage the revelers were looking about, weaving and reweaving through the crowd, some in groups but most moving indepen-dently, recognizing and noting others, searching for those they hoped to meet but had yet to identify.

  Helena spotted her first Paris within minutes. He stood tall, eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd, examining all the women in sight. His gaze rested on her for one instant, then moved on. Helena smiled behind her mask and turned away. Paris One was Lord Mortingdale. A good sign perhaps? Or did his choice of costume show a sad lack of appreciation of her wit?

  Continuing around the room, she found three more Parises; they all saw her—one looked interested but did not pursue her when she moved away. One of the three was Mr. Coke, a gentleman who had tried to pay her considerable attention. The other two she could not identify, but neither of them was Sebastian—of that she was sure.

  There were a number of Roman senators in the crowd. As was usually the case, they were gentlemen for whom the toga meant freedom from their corsets. To Helena’s relief, none had thought to array himself as an emperor. One of the portly crew, on spying her, came rustling up to suggest they were a pair. One glance and a cool word disabused him of the idea.

  “Oh, well, had to try, you know!” With a grin, the gentleman bowed and left her.

  Gaining the side of the room, Helena paused and turned to scan the throng. Even with her high heels, she couldn’t see far; the huge wigs and elaborate headdresses so many wore blocked her view. She’d covered nearly half the long room. Farther ahead she glimpsed an archway leading to another salon. She craned her neck, peering between bodies . . .

  And felt Sebastian’s presence materialize like a flame at her back.

  As she registered the fact and turned to face him, his fingers closed about her hand.

  “Mignonne, you are exquisite.”

  She felt the usual jolt as his lips bru
shed the backs of her fingers, was momentarily lost, adrift in the blue of his eyes, in the warmth that shone there, real appreciation tinged with desire, edging into . . .

  She blinked, and her conscious view expanded—to take in his gold half-mask, like her own embossed with laurel leaves. She blinked again, lifted her gaze—took in the gold wreath set amid the burnished brown of his hair. Sucking in a breath, eyes wide, she swept her gaze down—over the white toga edged with gold-embroidered laurel, topped with the purple robe of an emperor.

  “Who—” She had to stop to moisten her lips. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  He smiled. “Constantius Chlorus.” He raised her hand again, held her gaze as he turned it and pressed his lips to her palm. “Helena’s lover.” He changed his hold, touched his lips to her wrist, to where her pulse raced beneath her skin. “Ultimately her husband, the father of her son.”

  Breathing was increasingly difficult; Helena tried to find her temper—she couldn’t even summon a frown. “How did you know?”

  The curve of his lips was triumphant. “You do not like being taken for granted, mignonne.”

  He was right, so right she wanted to scream—or weep, she wasn’t sure which. Being with someone who knew her—could read her—so well was unnerving—and so appealing.

  She finally managed a slight frown. “You are an extremely difficult man to deal with, Your Grace.”

  He sighed, his fingers shifting over hers as he lowered her hand. “So I have often been told, mignonne, but you don’t truly find me so difficult, do you?”

  Her frown grew more definite. “I’m not sure.”

  There was so much about which she was unsure when it came to him.

  He’d been studying her face; now he said, “I take it Thierry has yet to return?”

  “He arrived home just as we were starting out. He will no doubt be here shortly.”

  “Good.”

  She tried to read Sebastian’s face. “You wish to talk with him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Come.” Sebastian took her hand and drew her on down the room. “Stroll with me.”

  She threw him a puzzled, slightly suspicious glance but consented to stroll by his side. Others had similarly found mates; they were stopped frequently as other guests tried to guess their identities.