The Promise in a Kiss

  Fabien de Mordaunt, comte de Vichesse, the aristocrat who’d exploited various family connections to have himself declared her guardian, exuded the same aura. The last seven years had left her both weary and wary of powerful men.

  “Eh, bien. How goes it, ma cousine?”

  Helena turned; she nodded coldly. “Bon soir, Louis.” He wasn’t her cousin, not even distantly related; she refrained from haughtily reminding him of the fact. Louis was less than nothing; he was her keeper, no more than an extension of his uncle and master, Fabien de Mordaunt.

  She could ignore Louis. Fabien she’d learned never to forget.

  Louis’s dark eyes were roving the room. “There are some likely prospects here.” He leaned his powdered head closer to murmur, “I’ve heard there’s an English duke present. Unmarried. St. Ives. You would do well to garner an introduction.”

  Helena raised her brows faintly and glanced about the salon. A duke? Louis did have his uses. He was devoted to his uncle’s schemes, and in this instance she and Fabien were pursuing the same agenda, albeit for different reasons.

  For the past seven years—almost from the time the Englishman had kissed her—Fabien had used her as a pawn in his games. Her hand was a prize much sought after by the powerful and wealthy families of France; she’d been almost betrothed more times than she could recall. But the volatility of the French state and the vicissitudes in the fortunes of the aristocratic families, so dependent on the king’s whims, had meant cementing an alliance through her marriage had never been an option sufficiently attractive to Fabien. More attractive had been the game of dangling her fortune and person as a lure to draw those with influence into his net. Once he’d gained from them all he wanted, he would cast them out and again send her into the Paris salons to catch the attention of his next conquest.

  How long the game would have gone on she dreaded to think—until she was too gray to be a lure? Luckily, at least for her, the increasing disaffection in France, the groundswell of discontent, had given Fabien pause. A natural predator, his instincts were sound—he didn’t like the scent on the wind. She’d been certain he was considering a shift in his tactics even before the attempt to kidnap her.

  That had been frightening. Even now, standing beside Louis in the middle of a fashionable salon in a different country, she had to fight to quell a shiver. She’d been walking in the orchards of Le Roc, Fabien’s fortress in the Loire, when three men had ridden up and tried to take her.

  They must have been watching, biding their time. She’d fought, struggled—to no avail. They would have kidnapped her if it hadn’t been for Fabien. He’d been riding past, had heard her screams and come galloping to her aid.

  She might rail against Fabien’s hold over her, but he protected what he regarded as his. At thirty-nine, he was still in his prime. One man had died; the other two had fled. Fabien had chased them, but they’d escaped.

  That evening she and Fabien had discussed her future. Every minute of that private interview was engraved in her memory. Fabien had informed her the men had been hirelings of the Rouchefoulds. Like Fabien, the most powerful intrigants knew that a storm was coming; each family, each powerful man, was intent on seizing all estates, titles, and alliances they could. The more they built their power, the more likely they would be to weather the storm.

  She’d become a target. Not just for the Rouchefoulds.

  “I have received strongly worded requests for your hand from all four of the major families. All four.” Fabien had fixed his dark eyes on her. “As you perceive, I am not aux anges. All four constitutes an unwelcome problem.”

  A problem indeed, one fraught with risk. Fabien did not want to choose, to commit her fortune and by inference his support to any of the four. Favor one and the other three would slit his throat at the first opportunity. Metaphorically, definitely; possibly literally. All that, she’d understood; the observation that Fabien’s manipulative schemes had come home to roost with a vengeance she had kept to herself.

  “It is no longer an option to approve an alliance for you inside France, yet the pressure to bestow your hand will only increase.” Fabien had eyed her thoughtfully, then continued in his silken purr, “I am therefore of a mind to leave this now-unsatisfactory arena and move to potentially more productive fields.”

  She’d blinked at him. He’d smiled, more to himself than her.

  “In these troubling times it would, I feel, be in the best interests of the family to develop stronger connections with our distant relatives across the Channel.”

  “You wish me to marry an émigré?” She’d been shocked. Émigrés were generally of low social standing, those with no estates.

  A frown had flitted through Fabien’s eyes. “No. I meant that if you were to attract the attentions of an English nobleman, one of station and estates equal to your own, it would provide not only a solution to our present dilemma but also a valuable connection against the uncertain future.”

  She’d continued to stare, stunned, surprised, her mind racing.

  Misinterpreting her silence, Fabien had drawled, “Pray recall that the English nobility is largely if not exclusively composed of families descended from William. You might be forced to learn their ghastly language, but all of any consequence speak French and ape our ways. It would not be so uncivilized as to be insupportable.”

  “I already know the language.” It had been all she could think of to say, as a vista she’d never thought to see had opened before her. Escape. Freedom.

  Seven years of dealing with Fabien had taught her well. She had held her excitement in, kept it from her expression, her eyes. She’d refocused on him. “You are saying you wish me to go to London and seek an alliance with an Englishman?”

  “Not any Englishman—one of station and estates at least equal to your own. In their terms, an earl, marquess, or duke, with considerable wealth. I need hardly remind you of your worth.”

  All her life she’d never been allowed to forget that. She’d frowned at Fabien, letting him believe it was because she didn’t wish to go to England and consort with the English, while she’d assembled her plan. There’d been one very large hurdle in her path. She’d let disillusionment and disgruntlement color her face, her voice. “So I go to London and glide about their salons, being oh-so-nice to the English milords, and then what? You decide you do not after all wish me to marry this one. And then later, maybe not that one, either.”

  She’d given a dismissive humph, folded her arms and looked away. “There is no point. I would rather go home to Cameralle.”

  She hadn’t dared peek to see how Fabien responded to her performance, yet she’d felt his dark gaze on her, intent as always.

  After a long moment, to her considerable surprise, he had laughed. “Very well. I will give you a letter. A declaration.” He had sat at his desk, drawn forth a piece of parchment, then picked up his pen. He spoke as he wrote. “I hereby confirm that as your legal guardian I agree to your marrying a member of the English nobility of station equal to your own, of estates more extensive than your own, and with income greater than your own.”

  She’d watched him sign and hadn’t been able to believe her luck. He’d sanded the paper, then rolled it and held it out to her; she’d managed not to snatch it. She’d accepted the document with a resigned air and agreed to come to London and search for an English husband.

  The document was secreted in her trunk, sewn into the lining. It was her passport to freedom and the rest of her life.

  “The Earl of Withersay is an amiable man.” Louis’s dark eyes had fixed on the portly earl in the group she had recently left. “Did you speak with him?”

  “He’s old enough to be my father.” And not the right sort of man. Helena searched the crowd. “I will find Marjorie and learn about this duke. There is no one else here suitable.”

  Louis snorted. “For a week you’ve been surrounded by the flower of the English nobility—I think you’re becoming too nice in your requirements.
Given Uncle’s wishes, I believe I can find any number of candidates for your hand.”

  Helena shifted her gaze to Louis’s face. “Fabien and I have discussed his wishes. I do not need you to—how do they say it?—scupper my plans.” Her voice had grown cold. Holding Louis’s stubborn gaze, she haughtily inclined her head. “I will return to Green Street with Marjorie. There is no reason you need feel obliged to accompany us.”

  She stepped around him. Allowing her lips to relax into an easy smile, she glided through the throng. Marjorie, Mme Thierry, wife of the Chevalier Thierry, a distant kinsman, was her nominal chaperone. Helena had glimpsed her across the room. She headed in that direction, conscious of the male eyes that tracked her progress. Relieved that, in this season with society caught up in a frantic whirl, her entrance upon it had been much less noticeable than it would otherwise have been. Clusters of tittering ladies and garrulous gentlemen filled the room, spirits soaring, flown on the combination of her ladyship’s mulled wine and the goodwill of the season; it was easy to slip past with a nod and a smile.

  Fabien had arranged for Helena and Louis to stay with the Thierrys in lodgings in the best part of town. There was never any lack of funds where Fabien, or indeed, Helena, was concerned. The Thierrys, however, were not affluent and were exceedingly grateful to monsieur le comte de Vichesse for providing lodgings and board, servants, and an allowance permitting them to entertain the numerous friends and acquaintances they had made in their single, regrettably expensive year in London.

  The Thierrys were well aware of the influence Fabien de Mordaunt wielded, even in England. Helena’s guardian had a notoriously long arm. They were eager to provide whatever services monsieur le comte required, perfectly happy to introduce his ward to the ton and assist her in securing an acceptable offer.

  Helena had carefully nurtured the Thierrys’ gratitude. Despite the fact that Marjorie had a tendency to defer to Louis, she was nevertheless a fount of information on the eligibles within the English ton.

  There had to be one who would suit.

  She found Marjorie, a thin but elegant blonde of thirty, chatting animatedly with a lady and gentleman. She joined them. Later, they parted, and she drew Marjorie aside.

  “Withersay?”

  Helena shook her head. “Too old.” Too rigid, too demanding. “Louis said there was a duke present—St. Ives. What of him?”

  “St. Ives? Oh, no, no, no.” Eyes wide, Marjorie waggled her head and shook her hands for good measure. She glanced around, then leaned closer to whisper, “Not St. Ives, ma petite. He is not for you—indeed, he is not for any gently reared mademoiselle.”

  Helena raised her brows, inviting further details.

  Marjorie fluffed her shawl, then leaned closer still. “His reputation is of the most shocking. For years and years, so it has been. He is a duke, yes, and rich and possessed of estates the most extensive, but he has declared he will not marry.” Marjorie’s brief gesture indicated her incomprehension of such things. “This, the society accepts—they say he has three brothers, and the eldest of them is now married with a son . . .” Another Gallic shrug. “So the duke is not at all an eligible, and indeed, he is . . .” She paused, searching for the right word, then breathed, “Dangereux.”

  Before Helena could speak, Marjorie glanced up, then closed her fingers about Helena’s wrist and hissed, “See!”

  Helena followed Marjorie’s gaze to the gentleman who had just stepped through the archway from the main salon.

  “Monsieur le duc de St. Ives.”

  Her wild Englishman, he of the cool, forceful lips gentle in the moonlight.

  A picture of elegance, of arrogance, of power, he stood on the threshold and surveyed the room. Before his gaze reached them, Marjorie drew Helena around to stroll in the opposite direction.

  “Now you see. Dangereux.”

  Helena could indeed see, yet . . . she still remembered that kiss and the promise inherent within it, the sense that if she gave herself she would be forever cherished. Elementally seductive—more potent than any lover’s entreaties. He was a rake; he’d perfected his art, she had not a doubt. Dangerous—that she would admit and wisely leave him be.

  She would never be fool enough to escape one powerful man only to put herself in the hands of another. Freedom had become far too precious to her.

  Luckily, monsieur le duc had declared himself out of her race.

  “Are there any others here I should consider?”

  “You’ve met monsieur le marquess?”

  “Tanqueray? Yes. I do not believe he would meet monsieur le comte’s stipulations. From what he let fall, he is in debt.”

  “Very possibly. But he is a proud one, that, so I have not heard. Let us see . . .” Passing through a doorway into another salon, Marjorie paused and looked about. “I can see none here, but it’s too early for us to leave. It would give offense. We must circulate for another half hour at least.”

  “Another half hour, then. No more.” Helena allowed Marjorie to lead her to a lively group. The conversation was entertaining, but as a newcomer she watched, observed, and remained for the most part silent. None knew her well enough to know that self-effacement was not her customary tack; tonight she was happy to hold her tongue and leave her mind free to wander.

  She’d had more than enough of being Fabien’s pawn, yet the law and society consigned her to his control, leaving her powerless. This trip to London was her best and perhaps only chance to escape—a chance fate had thrown her, one she’d used her wits to enhance, one she was determined to seize. With Fabien’s declaration, in writing, signed and sealed, she could marry any English nobleman she chose, provided he met Fabien’s stipulations regarding station, estate, and income. To her mind the stipulations were reasonable; there were English noblemen who might fit her bill.

  They had to be titled, established and rich—and manageable. The fourth criterion she’d added to Fabien’s three to define the perfect husband for her. She would not allow herself to continue as a puppet with any man pulling her strings. Henceforth, if any strings were to be pulled, she would do the pulling.

  She would not marry only to become another man’s chattel, a thing with no feelings of consequence. Fabien cared nothing for others’ emotions beyond how they affected his schemes. He was a despot, a tyrant, ruthless in crushing any who resisted him. She’d had his measure from the first, and she had survived in his care with her spirit undaunted only because she understood him, his motives, and had learned to mute her independence.

  She had never been foolish enough to embark on a crusade she could not win. This time, however, luck was on her side. Winning free of Fabien, free of all powerful men, was an attainable goal.

  “Well met, my dear comtesse.”

  Gaston Thierry appeared beside her. In deference to her rank he bowed low, smiling genially as he straightened. “If you are free, I have received a number of requests for introductions.”

  The twinkle in his eye made Helena smile. The chevalier was a spendthrift, but an engaging one. She readily gave him her hand. “If madame your wife will excuse me . . .”

  With gracious nods to Marjorie and the others of their group, she let Gaston lead her away.

  As she’d suspected, the requests had come from a number of gentlemen, but if she had to spend time in Lady Morpleth’s rooms, then she might as well be entertained. They all did their best to accommodate her, putting themselves out to engage her, relating the latest on-dits, describing the most recent Christmas extravaganza planned by some inventive hostess.

  Inquiring as to her plans.

  On that subject she remained vague, which only increased their interest, as she well knew.

  “Ah, Thierry—do introduce me.”

  The languid drawl came from behind her. Helena didn’t recognize his voice, yet she knew who it was. She had to fight not to whirl and face him. Slowly, smoothly, she turned, polite distance infusing her expression.

  Sebastian looked down i
nto the madonnalike countenance he had not forgotten despite the passage of seven long years. Her expression was as aloof, as self-contained as he remembered, a blatant challenge for such as he, although he doubted she knew it. Her eyes . . . he waited until her lids lifted and her gaze rose to his face.

  Green. Palest green. Peridot eyes utterly startling in their crystal clarity. Eyes that tempted, that would allow a man to see into her soul.

  If she permitted it.

  He’d waited seven years to see those eyes. Not the slightest trace of recognition showed in them, or in her expression. He let his lips curve appreciatively; he’d seen her watching him, knew she’d recognized him. Just as surely as he’d recognized her.

  It was her hair that had caught his attention. Black as night, a froth of thick locks framing her face, brushing her shoulders. His gaze had roved, taking in her figure, provocatively displayed in a sea green silk gown with brocade overskirt and petticoat. His mind had been assessing, considering . . . Then he’d seen her face.

  The silence had grown strained. He glanced at Thierry and raised a brow fractionally, well aware of the reason for the man’s reticence. The chevalier shifted his weight like a cat on hot coals.

  Then the lady threw Thierry a glance and raised a commanding, rather more pointed brow of her own.

  “Ahem.” Thierry waved. “Monsieur le duc de St. Ives. Mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle.”

  He held out his hand; she laid her fingers on his and sank into a deep curtsy.

  “Monsieur le duc.”

  “Comtesse.” He bowed, then raised her. Quelled an urge to close his hand about her slender fingers. “You have lately come from Paris?”

  “A sennight since.” She glanced around, as assured as he remembered her. “It is my first visit to these shores.” Her glance touched his face. “To London.”

  Helena assumed he’d recognized her, but there was nothing to confirm it in his face. His angular, chiseled features resembled a stony mask, eradicating all telltale expression; his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, impossibly innocent, yet framed by lashes so long and lush they dispelled any thought of innocence. His lips held a similar contradiction, long and thin, embodying more than a hint of ruthless will, yet, relaxed as they presently were, they suggested a subtle sense of humor, a dryly appreciative wit.