Her lips parted beneath his; without hesitation, he took her mouth, captured her senses. Held them with a knowing hand.
Held her within his arms, soft, warm and vibrantly alive, the promise in her kiss echoed in the lushness of her firm flesh, the sensual tension in her spine. Held himself back from taking further advantage, from capitalizing on the fact that they’d come in half an hour early so no one would yet expect them, that the parlor was private and secluded. On the fact that she would be his if he wished, here and now.
Torment indeed—unslaked desire was not a demon he had any great experience in conquering. In this case, with her, conquering desire was out of the question—he’d settled for suppression, for caging the beast. For the moment. Promising himself that eventually, this way, she’d be his forever. All his.
His as he wished her to be.
To the depths of her sensual soul.
He was a connoisseur; he recognized the pinnacle of womanly perfection when he had her beneath him. Understood, too, enough of the possibilities to want them all. To want all of her.
Her passion. Her devotion. Her love.
All.
He wanted to seize, to simply take. Yet what he wanted could not be seized, taken.
It had to be given.
The clash of will and desire left his temper, never an amenable one, straining, tight, taut, ready to break.
On a gasp, he pulled back, drew back. Waiting for the drumming in his veins to subside, he watched her face as her senses, her wits, now that he’d freed them, returned.
Her lashes fluttered, then rose. She regarded him evenly through crystal-clear eyes. Puzzlement, and the fact that she was not yet sure of him, were easy to read.
Then she blinked; her gaze lowered.
His hand still lay beneath her chin; he tipped her face back up so he could see it.
Her eyes had dimmed. Even though she met his gaze calmly, the clouds had returned. With a gentle smile, she lifted her chin from his hand, then brushed a kiss across his fingers.
“Come.” She drew back from his embrace. “We had better join the others.”
He let her go. She turned to the door—he swallowed an urge to call her back—to ask outright what was troubling her. After an instant’s hesitation he followed her.
He wanted her trust, wanted her to confide in him; he couldn’t force either. And when all was said and done, while she might not yet be sure of him, he was even less sure of her.
In many ways Helena’s visit was proceeding better than he’d hoped. Thierry and Louis were both keen shooters; at this season his coverts were teeming—there was plenty to keep them amused and out of his way. Marjorie and Clara had struck up a friendship; happily distracted by their own entertainments, they were very ready to leave Helena’s entertainment up to him.
All of which should have been perfect. Unfortunately, the one person not falling in with his plans was Helena herself.
He wasn’t sure she was going to accept him—and he was at a loss to understand why.
But it had something to do with those damn letters.
“Do you spend most of your days here, then?”
He lifted his gaze from the page he’d supposedly been deciphering, looked at her as she idly wandered the room. The “here” was his study; she’d eschewed joining Marjorie and Clara in a comfortable coze by the drawing room fire in favor of distracting him while he tried to work. “Usually. It’s big enough, comfortable enough—and anything I’d want is generally to hand.”
“Indeed?” She glanced at the ledger he was holding.
Surrendering, he shut it, pushed it aside. It was nothing crucial. Not compared with her.
She smiled and glided around the desk, leaned back against it as he eased his chair back.
“You asked me why I was in the garden at the convent all those years ago, yet you never told me what you were doing there.”
“Falling from the wall.”
“After leaving Collette Marchand’s chamber.”
“Ah, yes—the inestimable Collette.” He smiled in reminiscence.
One black brow haughtily rose. “Well?”
“It was a wager, mignonne.”
“A wager?”
“You will remember that in the days I haunted Paris, I was much younger, and rather wilder.”
“The younger I will allow, but what was the subject of this wager that you needed to brave the convent’s walls?”
“I had to procure a particular earring, one of some uniqueness, from Mlle Marchand by the end of that week.”
“But she was due to leave two days later—in fact, she left the next day itself, after your visit.”
“Indeed—that was part of the challenge.”
“So you won?”
“Of course.”
“And what did you gain by winning?”
He smiled. “What else but a triumph? And, even better, one over a French noble.”
She humphed dismissively, yet her gaze was strangely distant. “Did you spend many years haunting Paris?”
“Eight, nine—all while you still wore pigtails.”
Hmm. She didn’t say it, but she thought it—he could see it in her face, could see the clouds gathering, darkening her eyes.
Did the letters have something to do with his past exploits in France? He couldn’t remember crossing swords with any of the Daurents.
He watched her for a moment longer, watched her struggle with her demon. She’d grown so used to being in his presence that when she wasn’t focused on him, aware of him, her mask slipped and he saw more. Saw enough to make him reach for her hand. “Mignonne—”
She started; she’d forgotten he was there. For a fleeting instant he glimpsed . . . horror, terror, but hanging over all a profound and pervasive sadness. Before he could react, she reassembled her mask and smiled—too brightly, too brittlely.
He tightened his grip on her hand, expecting her to rise and try to flee.
With barely a pause for thought, she trumped his ace. Pushing away from the desk, she slid onto his lap. “Eh, bien—if you have finished your work . . .”
His body reacted instantly; the soft, warm, distinctly feminine weight settling so trustingly, so confidently, had his demons slavering. While he struggled to rein them in, she freed her hand, turned his face to hers.
Set her lips to his.
She kissed him longingly, lingeringly—with a deep yearning that he knew was unfeigned because he felt it, too.
He’d given his word he would not manipulate her; as she drew him deeper into the kiss, into the pleasure of her mouth, he realized he would have been wise to demand a corresponding reassurance.
His arms closed around her; moments later his hand sought her breast.
He could reassure her, pleasure her, let her distract him. But he knew what he had seen and he wouldn’t forget.
Bittersweet. For Helena the days that followed were the definition of that. Bitter whenever she thought of Ariele, of Fabien, of the dagger she had to steal. Of the betrayal she had to practice. Sweet in the hours she spent with Sebastian; in his arms, for those fleeting moments, she felt safe, secure, free of Fabien’s black spell.
But as soon as she left Sebastian’s embrace, reality closed darkly about her. It took an ever-increasing effort to mask her leaden heart.
Sebastian had invited them for a week, but the week passed and no one cared or spoke of a departure. Winter tightened its grip on the fields and lanes, but at Somersham there were roaring fires and cozy rooms, and distractions aplenty to keep them amused.
Outside, the year died; inside, the great house seemed to stretch and come alive. Even though she wasn’t directly involved, Helena could not miss the building excitement, that anticipation of joy that flowed from the myriad preparations for the Yuletide celebrations and the consequent family gathering.
Clara rarely stopped smiling, eager to point out this custom or that, to explain where the boughs and holly decorating the rooms were gr
own, what the secret ingredients of her Christmas punch were.
Again and again Helena found herself outwardly expressing an expectation of joy while inwardly experiencing the certainty of despair.
To her surprise, after that unnerving moment in his study when she’d become so engrossed in wondering how and when he’d met Fabien and won the dagger—considering them both, that was the most likely avenue by which Sebastian had come to possess it—that he’d startled her to the point she’d nearly told him all, since that time Sebastian had set himself to entertain her with stories of his ancestors, of his family, of his childhood—of his personal life.
Tales she knew he had told no one else.
Like the time he’d got stuck in the huge oak by the stables and had had to fall to get down. How frightened he’d been. Like how much he’d loved his first pony, how distraught he’d been when it died.
Not that he’d told her of that last, not in words. Instead, he’d stopped and abruptly changed the subject.
If he hadn’t been trying so transparently hard to be transparent, she might have wondered if, despite his vow and even his intention not to manipulate her feelings, he simply couldn’t help himself. Instead, all he said he said directly, even sometimes reluctantly, as if he were laying all that he was, all his past and by inference his future, at her feet. The less-than-complimentary as well as the laudable, exposing all without restriction, trusting her to understand and judge him kindly.
As indeed she did.
The days rolled quietly past, and she fell ever more deeply under his spell, came to yearn even more desperately that all he was offering her she could claim.
Knowing she couldn’t.
She wished, beyond desperately, that she could tell him of Fabien’s plan, but gentle tales did not in any way disguise the sort of man he was. Ruthless, hard, and at some time he and Fabien must have been rivals—nothing was more likely. If she told him her story, showed him the letters . . . he would not be human if he didn’t wonder if all along she had been Fabien’s pawn but now, with the splendor of the life of his duchess spread before her, she’d chosen to change her allegiance.
He’d made it clear what level of commitment he sought from her, made it clear he did not want her agreeing because of all the material gains she would enjoy. After the trust he’d shown her, she couldn’t now accept his proposal, show him the letters, claim his protection, and leave him forever suspecting her motives.
And what if he declined to help her? What if she told him and he refused all aid? What if the nature of his relationship with Fabien was such that he rejected her utterly?
She would never get the dagger, and Ariele . . .
Telling him was a risk she could not take.
Instead, she watched each day fade, watched the time for taking the dagger inexorably approach. Stubbornly, she clung to her last gasp of defiance, refusing to deny herself her last precious moments in the warmth of Sebastian’s company, in the security of his embrace.
Her last hours of happiness.
Once she fled Somersham, betrayed him and left, one part of her life would be over. No other could ever mean as much to her as he now did; no other could take his place.
In her heart—he’d been right about that. The answer to his question was already engraved there—she knew what it was.
Knew she would never get a chance to tell him.
Guilt and a looming sense of incipient loss weighed on her spirits even through the hours she spent riding, laughing, talking, strolling the huge house by his side. She held the darkness at bay, shut it into a small corner of her mind, but it was still there.
Her one regret was that they would not love again. His stance was all that was noble, and she was not so unkind as to press him—she didn’t have that right. To take from him that which she only rightly could if she was intending to be his wife. No, his way was better, certainly wiser.
But she still mourned the loss of the closeness they’d shared. Only now did she truly understand the word “intimacy”; the act had affected her more deeply than she’d expected, bonded them in some way, on some other plane. Having experienced the joy once, she would always long to experience it again.
She knew she never would.
But she had no choice. Ariele was her sister, and her responsibility.
Sebastian watched her, undeceived by her laughs, by her smiles. Behind them she was increasingly fragile; the light in her eyes was growing dimmer by the day. He’d tried by all means he knew to encourage her to trust him; on all logical levels he knew she did. Emotionally . . .
Despite all, he couldn’t bring himself to press her, not any longer through any lack of self-assurance but simply because he—he who had never before drawn back from a necessary act because of another’s feelings—couldn’t bring himself to torture hers.
Any more than she already was.
He doubted she knew he knew, doubted she had any idea how much he saw every time her gaze grew distant, pensive—before she realized he was watching, put up her mask and put on her smile.
It was the letters, he was sure. They still sat on her dressing table tucked behind her jewel case; he’d entered her room and checked on a number of occasions while she was safely downstairs. Both letters showed evidence of being read and refolded countless times. He’d been tempted, sorely tempted, but he hadn’t read them.
Yet.
If she didn’t confide in him soon, he would.
He’d wanted her to trust him enough to tell him of her own accord, but she hadn’t. He now suspected she wouldn’t. Which left him wondering what—or who—was so powerful, had such a strong grip on her heart, that they could command such absolute obedience.
Such unswerving devotion.
“Villard says it is not in his chamber.”
Helena kept her gaze fixed on the winter landscape beyond the library windows. Shades of brown showed through the hoarfrost that had laid siege to the land. Louis had found her here, alone; she’d retreated here to allow Sebastian to finish in peace some business that he’d admitted was urgent.
Louis closed his hand about her upper arm, almost shook her. “I tell you, you must do it soon.” When she said nothing, he thrust his face close to hers. “Do you hear me?”
She’d stilled; now she turned her head and looked Louis in the eye. “Unhand me.”
Her voice was low, even, uninflected. Centuries of command lay behind it.
Louis shifted, then released her. “We are running out of time.” He glanced around, confirming they were still alone. “We have already been here longer than a week. I have heard there are family members expected in a few days. Who knows when St. Ives will run out of patience and decide we should go?”
“He will not.”
Louis humphed. “So you say. But once his family is here . . .” He glanced at Helena. “There is talk of a wedding, as one might expect, but I do not like it. It is tempting fate to dally. You must get the dagger soon—tonight.”
“I told you, it must be in his study.” Helena turned her head and regarded him coolly. “Why don’t you get it?”
“I would, but Uncle has declared it must be you, and”—he shrugged—“I can see his point.”
“His point?”
“If you steal it, St. Ives will not bruit the matter abroad. He will not make any public accusations nor seek to take any public revenge, because he will not want it known he was bested by a female.”
“I see.” Helena turned once more to her contemplation of the lawns. “So it must be me.”
“Oui—and it must be soon.”
Helena felt the net draw tight, felt its bite. She sighed. “I will look tonight.”
She waited until after the clocks had chimed midnight before she set out. Even then she wasn’t sure that Sebastian would have quit his study, but she could look over the banisters halfway down the stairs and see if light shone from beneath the study door. Determined, she stepped out—she wasn’t fool enough to skulk but wa
lked briskly, confidently, along the corridor, keeping to the runner so her footsteps were muffled.
The corridor led to the long gallery. She reached its end and turned into the foyer at the top of the stairs—
And walked into a wall of muscle and bone.
She gasped. Sebastian caught her before she staggered back.
“What . . .” In the weak light from the uncurtained windows, she took in the fact that he was dressed in a silk robe and, she suspected, little else. She felt her eyes widen; undirected, her hands spread over his chest as he drew her to him. She looked up and met his gaze.
Saw one brown brow arch. “Mignonne.”
Where are you going? He didn’t ask, but the words were there nonetheless, implicit in his quiet watchfulness.
She dragged in a breath, felt her breasts swell against his chest. “What are you doing here?”
He studied her face. “I was coming to see you.”
And you? his ensuing silence prompted.
The fact that, on one point at least, his patience had reached its limits was easy to read in the set of his features, the granite planes of his face. Limned by the pale light, they were etched with brutally reined desire. Beneath her hands, his body told the same tale; the wide, warm muscles were tense with need.
“I was . . .” Coming to see you? A lie. She moistened her lips, looked at his. “I wanted to see you.”
The words had barely passed her lips before he sealed them with his. The kiss was savage in its intensity, fair warning of what was to come.
She pushed her arms up, wrapped them about his neck, welcomed that kiss, kissed him back with equal fervor.
Damned Fabien’s scheme to one last night of delay.
Gladly gave herself—for one last night of passion—into Sebastian’s arms.
She had wanted to see him, exactly like this, precisely for this reason. She wanted one last chance to show him all he meant to her, even if she could never tell him, never give him the words he wanted to hear. She could tell him in other ways.
Sebastian broke from the kiss; it had already raged beyond his control. Control—what a joke. He’d thought, despite all, despite the roiling need that had him in its grip, that the accumulated years of experience would see him still master of his desire.