Where St. Ives arranged for his sister to return to the country for her own good, Fabien would do the same for his own purposes, irrespective of whether that benefited or indeed even harmed his pawn.
She continued to study Sebastian’s face. He raised one brown brow. “Which would you rather, if you could choose—your guardian, or me?”
And that, she knew, was the question he’d sought this interview to ask. A single, simple question that, as he’d correctly seen, was the central, crucial issue in deciding what she did next.
“Neither would be my first choice.”
His lips lifted lightly. He inclined his head. “That I accept. However, as you’ve now realized, that choice will not free you of powerful men. If not your guardian, if not me, then it will be some other like us.”
He hesitated, then lifted a hand and traced her face, his fingertips lightly touching. “You are extremely beautiful, mignonne, extremely wealthy and of the highest echelons of the nobility. You are a prize and a woman—that combination will always determine your fate.”
“That combination is not something I can change.” She stated it flatly, knowing it as a truth—one she disliked but had long ago accepted.
“No.” His gaze held hers. “All you can do is choose the best of the options it leaves you.”
Which would she rather?
She blinked, drew in a breath, allowed herself to imagine, to speculate. “You are saying that if I accept you, you will become my champion, that you will protect me from others, even my guardian.”
His eyes were very blue. “Mignonne, if you were mine, I would protect you with my life.”
That was no idle statement, not from him.
She studied him, aware that all he’d said was true. And wondering, now that she’d been brought to face the choice, whether there truly were no other options.
“The only freedom you will ever know, mignonne, will be under the protection of a powerful man.”
He had, once again, read her mind, her eyes, her soul. “How do I know that you won’t seek to use me as he has—to play with my future, my life, as if they are your possessions to dispose of as it suits your whim?”
Her words had flowed without thought or hesitation; his answer was just as swift.
“I can promise that I won’t—and I do. But you can never know absolutely; you can only trust, and trust that your trust will be honored. But on that matter there’s little point denying that, at some level at least, you already trust me.” He held her gaze. “You wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t.”
That also was true. She trusted him, while she trusted Fabien not at all. Perched on his knees, face-to-face, gaze to gaze, Helena knew she was being managed by a master. Every minute of their interaction thus far had been staged and played to foster not just her trust but her belief in his sincerity.
And beneath all else was her awareness of him, of the blatantly sexual connection that had from the first moment they’d met each other all those years ago flared between them.
He hadn’t sought to hide it, to pretend it didn’t exist, to draw a veil over that part of their interaction.
“If I agreed to . . .” She paused, searched his eyes, then lifted her chin. “Accept your protection, what would you ask in return?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You know what I would ask—what I wish.”
“Tell me.”
He studied her eyes, her face, then murmured, “I think, mignonne, that we have had enough words. I think it’s time I showed you.”
A shiver skittered up her spine, but when he arched a brow at her, she haughtily arched one back. She had to know if she could do this—if becoming his, placing herself under his protection, was an option for her. If she could withstand the fire of his touch, if she could become his and still be herself.
She said nothing, simply waited, coolly expectant. He read the determination in her eyes, then his gaze lowered. Washed over her bare shoulders, drifted lower, rose again—she felt it like a physical sensation, the brush of an ephemeral touch. Then his gaze fixed on the gold clasp at her shoulder.
With his habitual languor, he raised one hand; extending one finger, he nudged, then pushed the clasp sideways until it and the gathered silk it held slipped over the arc of her shoulder. His finger followed the upper curve of her arm, trailing down the smooth skin. Just a few inches.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift as he slowly leaned forward, bent his head and set his lips like a brand to her shoulder.
To the very spot he’d uncovered—the only spot on her shoulders that had been concealed, the only place where she felt vulnerable, now it had been exposed. Bared. To him. By him.
She closed her eyes, concentrated, caught by the shift of his lips on her skin, seduced by the hot sweep of his tongue. Opening her eyes, she watched, fascinated, as he pressed his lips again to the sensitized spot; she felt her spine shake, quake, felt his hand close about her waist, fingers pressing in response.
Driven by an inner force she didn’t recognize, she lifted her hand to his nape, slid and spread her fingers into his silky hair. His lips firmed on her skin. She turned her head as he lifted his. Their lips met.
That balancing power she’d experienced before still operated between them. As they kissed—taking, giving, pausing to savor, to entice, to indulge—she felt it like a constraint, some limit on a tipping scale that prevented him, or her, from taking too much without giving, from conquering without first surrendering.
Again and again that power tipped the scales. He took her mouth in a hot, heated rush, a primitive ravishment that left her senses reeling. Then she gathered herself and boldly pressed her own demands, and he was the one giving way, laying himself open to her conquest. Shuddering when she pressed deep. Following when she retreated.
The wave washed back and forth; the hot tide steadily rose be-tween them.
They broke for an instant to breathe. She lifted her lids, met his blue eyes, only inches distant. One hard hand framed her jaw; the other was locked at her waist, fingers burning through layers of silk. Her own hand cradled his skull, holding him to her; her other arm circled him, hand splayed on his back.
Her lids fell; their lips met again, and the tide rose higher.
Ten yards away, on the other side of the connecting door, Louis frowned. Lifting his ear from the crack of the open door, he stared at the panels.
He could see nothing more than a sliver of bookcase, but he didn’t dare push the door farther open. Unable to see, he’d listened. He’d heard Helena and St. Ives talking but hadn’t been able to catch many words. Nevertheless, he’d heard enough to know that matters were proceeding in the direction Fabien had predicted. Wanted.
But he’d yet to hear St. Ives issue the invitation that was so critical to their plan’s success.
And now they’d stopped talking.
If it had been any woman but Helena, he’d have known what to think, but he’d been her shadow for years—she was cold, remote. As far as Louis knew, she’d never allowed men to maul her.
But if not that, then what was going on in the all-but-silent library?
Perhaps some haughty standoff—that he could imagine. And the English, they were unpredictable at best. So much more laissez-faire than the French over some things, yet such high sticklers on other matters—and there seemed no logical distinction over which matter would be what.
The English were confusing, but Helena was much more reliable, at least in her temper.
A low murmur reached him; Louis quickly put his ear to the crack again and waited for them to resume talking.
Helena felt sure she was on fire, that flames were licking her skin. Head back, fingers sinking into Sebastian’s shoulders, she gasped, felt his lips slide from her jaw to her throat.
Gasped again as they pressed heat into her veins, then slid lower. Found the pulse at the base of her throat and pressed there, too. Then he licked, laved; a fierce shiver rushed over her ski
n.
A low sound of satisfaction rumbled from him. His hands had shifted to her waist; they tightened, letting her feel their strength, then both slid upward, brushed, then closed about her breasts.
Her body arched, eager for his touch, eager for more. She turned wildly and caught his lips as he raised his head—tasted his satisfaction, his triumph as his thumbs cruised over the silk, over and about her nipples, tight and hard as pebbles. He teased, squeezed, kneaded; she squirmed, gasped—then kissed him desperately.
“Ssshh.” He drew back from the kiss and looked down.
She did, too; a tremor of elemental sensation racked her as she watched his long fingers stroke, caress, fondle.
She felt him glance at her face, then his hands eased. His fingers shifted, reached for her neckline, slipped beneath.
Her breath strangled in her throat. One tiny part of her brain screamed for her to protest; she shut it out, locked it out—she wasn’t interested in stopping him. He’d said he would show her. She wanted to see, know, feel it all—all that he would demonstrate.
She needed to know, needed to be certain just how difficult it would be, how dangerous. Before she agreed to be his.
Once she was . . .
Her breasts had swollen; the gown was now tight.
She helped him ease down the silk, lifting her arm free of the gown’s shoulder, breathing out as he held the material away from her breasts, then edged it lower bit by bit until her breasts were free. That freedom was a relief; she drew in a quick breath as he released the gown and pressed it down about her waist. She was conscious of his gaze again touching her face as he reached for the bow securing the drawstring of her chemise. One tug and the bow slithered free.
He hesitated, his hand falling from the dangling ribbon. She looked up, caught his gaze, burning blue under heavy lids. She read the challenge in his eyes, dragged in a breath, looked down. Eased open the neckline of the chemise, then drew it down.
She glanced up, but he’d already looked down. She saw the concentration in his face as he raised one hand and trailed his fingers over her breast.
Over and around, between, but never touching the tightly ruched peaks. Until she was panting, aching, so hot she was burning.
“Touch me.” She shifted one hand and closed it over the back of one of his, pressing it to her heated flesh.
He complied, filling his hands, closing his fingers about her nipples, gently at first, then tighter, tighter, until she gasped.
He kissed her then, deeply, deeper than before, or so it seemed. As if he would devour her, as if their earlier kisses had been a mere prelude to this deeper, richer intimacy.
When he drew back, her head was reeling. She reached to draw him back, but he swooped on the instant. His hand cupped her breast, his lips closed about her nipple.
Her gasp filled the room, then shattered.
Spine rigid, head back, she struggled to breathe, struggled to hold on to her whirling senses—her wits she’d lost long ago.
He feasted; her hand tight on his skull, she urged him on. Urged him, when sensation at that breast became too great to bear, to turn his attention to the other.
Then he suckled, and she could have sworn she lost consciousness, just for one second, for that moment when sensation overwhelmed her and swept her into some black void. But he drew her back again, into the world of the living, the sensate, where feeling—exquisite and enthralling—ruled.
She’d wanted to see, and he’d opened her eyes; she was grateful, very ready to let him kiss, caress, lick, and fondle to their mutual satisfaction. Untried she might be, but she was no man’s fool. He was demanding, commanding, but generous, too, more than willing—indeed, insisting—that they share. He didn’t leave her behind, overwhelmed, buffeted by sensation, as he certainly could have done. He was patient, encouraging, ready to give her the time to brace her hands on his chest, spread her fingers, flex them, sink her fingertips into the heavy muscles, then trace them. The silk of his toga muted her touch; his gown was caught at both shoulders—there was little bare skin for her to stroke. Much to her dissatisfaction.
Before she could press any further demands, he kissed her hard, then drew back and shifted her, drawing one knee up and over his thighs. His hands were on her breasts, his lips on hers again, before she could think.
Then she couldn’t think at all.
Their kisses had been hot before; now they turned incendiary. They burned—with desire, passion, with all the primitive emotions she’d never before felt, never had a chance to feel, to experience, to lose herself in. He gave them to her, pressed them on her, and she drank them in.
Gloried in the moment.
Wondered, in the instant she heard his soft murmur, felt his hand slide from her breast to her bare stomach, pressing aside the silk folds, felt his fingers reach deeper, why.
Why she did nothing but cling, eyes closed, as she reveled in his touch, as his fingers brushed her curls, then pressed farther and touched her. Parted her, stroked, caressed, gently probed.
She’d stopped breathing. Stopped thinking long ago. Nevertheless, even now, she was sure. As she shivered, shuddered, let him slide one finger into her body, felt him catch his breath, hold it, too, she knew.
With him, in this arena, it was her wishes that prevailed, his will that drove them. He was dominant, she submissive, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Her surrender could only be bought with his devotion.
Fair exchange.
She shuddered again as he stroked, touching her so intimately her mind couldn’t quite complete the thought, envision the reality. She gulped in air, turned her head, found his lips.
Sensed his need.
Power—elemental, primitive, passionate—flowed between them freely. She felt it swirl around them; she could call on it as easily as he. It was that that kept the balance.
She kissed him hungrily, fed his need, fed the power.
Felt it rise.
Who held it, commanded it? Him? Her?
Neither.
It was intangible, forged between them, brought into this world, then set free.
She could feel it building, rising inside her as he rhythmically stroked, his tongue mimicking the play of his fingers. A cry built in her throat; she pulled away from the kiss—
He pulled her back, drank her cry as she broke, shattered. The power imploded, then surged through her, through her veins, along her nerves. It dazzled her senses, then engulfed her in brilliance, in heat, in exquisite pleasure.
Louis stood staring at the connecting door, his hand over his mouth, horror in his eyes. He couldn’t believe what his ears were telling him. Couldn’t believe . . .
If St. Ives gained all he wished tonight, would he bother inviting Helena to his country house?
Did he, Louis, dare take the chance?
How would he explain . . . ?
Swallowing a yelp of sheer panic, he whirled, raced for the gallery and yanked open the door.
And came face-to-face with two couples—one a merman and mermaid, the other a Dresden milkmaid and an improbable Tyrolean shepherd.
He’d surprised them; they blinked at him bemusedly, then the milkmaid giggled.
Louis dragged in a breath, closed the door behind him, tugged down his waistcoat, and gestured to the door along the gallery. “The library is through there.”
The milkmaid giggled; the mermaid gave him a sly look. Both men smiled their thanks—man to man—and steered their partners on.
Louis watched them go, watched the merman open the door, watched them all disappear inside.
Better they than he. He could barely think.
He breathed deeply, then again.
It suddenly occurred to him that this way things might fall out even better. If St. Ives were prevented—and surely he would be—then he would only be more determined, more insistent that Helena journey to his country home.
But why, after all these years of glacial frigidity, had Helena suddenly melted? He
hadn’t heard a single gasp of outrage, let alone a protest. She’d permitted St. Ives to take liberties.
Frowning, wondering how that unexpected and unwelcome development would affect his plans, Louis headed for the ballroom.
“Oh, look! It’s such a large room. And a desk! Darling, do let’s.”
Sebastian jerked to attention—jerked out of the state of deep desire and reined lust that had overwhelmed his senses, tried to shake his wits free from their drugging coils.
Felt the jolt of alarm that flashed through Helena as she lay slumped on his chest, until then boneless in repletion.
His hand was still between her thighs. Before he could retrieve it and grab her, she did exactly what she shouldn’t.
She bobbed up, looked over the chair back, then gasped and ducked down.
Too late.
“Ooh!” The woman who had entered gave a little scream, cut off—Sebastian could imagine her hand clapped over her lips, her eyes like saucers.
Grasping Helena, still naked to the waist, he did the only thing he could; he stood, letting her slide down until her feet touched the floor, then he turned his head, keeping his body, his broad shoulders, between her and the new arrivals.
All four of them. As he glanced at their faces, already unmasked, and saw their eyes widen, he inwardly cursed. He was unmasked—and Helena was, too.
“St. Ives.” The merman recovered first; shock held the others silent. “We . . . ah . . .” He suddenly seemed to realize the full magnitude of the situation. “We’ll leave . . .” He tried to urge his mermaid to the door, but the woman didn’t move, her saucerlike eyes trained disbelievingly on Sebastian.
“St. Ives,” she said. Then her gaze shifted past him. “And mademoiselle la comtesse . . .”
Mademoiselle la comtesse was muttering French curses he hadn’t imagined she would know. Luckily, only he could hear. Reaching blindly, he found her arm, slid his fingers down to lock about her wrist, holding her, anchoring her, where she couldn’t be seen.
With his other hand, he waved languidly. “Mademoiselle la comtesse has just done me the honor of consenting to be my duchess.” Beneath his fingers he felt Helena’s pulse leap, then race wildly. “We were . . . celebrating.”