The Promise in a Kiss

  “I can’t see anyone you would wish to meet in furthering your goals.”

  To her surprise, he drew her on and then to the side, to where an alcove partially screened by potted palms looked out over gardens. The alcove was deserted.

  The day had been fine; the night was, too, cold and frosty. Beyond the glass, the shrubs and walks were bathed in silver-white moonlight, the barest touch of snow crystallizing like diamond frosting on each leaf, on each blade of grass. Helena drank in the view; it shimmered, touched by a natural brilliance infinitely more powerful, more evocative of the season, than the effort of mere mortals at her back. The scene, so reminiscent, whisked her back to that moment seven years before—the moment they’d first met.

  Quelling a shiver, she turned to find Sebastian regarding her, his expression indolent, his gaze intent.

  “It occurs to me, mignonne, that you have not yet favored me with a complete list of your guardian’s stipulations concerning the nobleman he will accept as your husband. You’ve told me this paragon must bear a title the equal of yours. What else?”

  She raised her brows, not at the question—one she was ready enough to answer—but at his tone, for him unusually clipped and definite, quite different from his customary social drawl. Much more like the voice in which he spoke to his sister.

  His lips quirked, more grimace than smile. “It would help in determining your most suitable suitor.”

  He’d softened his tone. Inwardly shrugging, she turned back to the windows. “Title I’ve mentioned. The other two stipulations my guardian made concerned the size of my suitor’s estate and his income.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian nod. “Eminently sensible conditions.”

  Hardly surprising he thought so; he and Fabien could be brothers in some respects—witness his despotic attitude to his sister, even if he was moved by caring rather than some colder reason. “Then, of course, there are my own inclinations.” She stopped. There was no need to tell him exactly in which direction her inclinations lay.

  A wolfish smile touched his lips. “Naturally.” He bowed his head. “Your inclinations should not be forgotten.”

  “Which is why,” she said, turning from the windows, “I wish to seek out Lord Were.”

  She intended to return to the room and do so.

  Sebastian stood in her way.

  Silence stretched, suddenly tense, unexpectedly fraught. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. His eyes were hooded, so blue they seemed to burn. Her nerves flickered, senses older than time screaming that she was baiting something wild, unpredictable—something well beyond her control.

  Dangereux.

  Marjorie’s warning whispered through her mind.

  “Were.”

  A statement uttered in a flat tone she had not before heard. He held her with his gaze; she couldn’t break free.

  Raising a hand, he slid one long finger beneath her chin and tipped her face to his. He studied her expression; his gaze fastened on her lips, then rose once more to her eyes. “Has it not yet occurred to you, mignonne,” he murmured, “that you could do a great deal better than a mere marquess?”

  Helena felt her eyes flare, in shock, in reaction to what she sensed rather than knew. His fingertip was cool beneath her chin; his blue eyes were hot, his gaze heated.

  Her heart thudded, racing—then a commotion behind him drew her gaze.

  At the edge of the crowd, Marjorie shook free of Louis’s restraining grip; from her frown and the quick word she threw him, he’d been holding her back. Twitching her shawl into place, Marjorie swept forward.

  Sebastian had turned his head and looked; his hand fell from her face.

  “Ma petite, it is time we left.” Marjorie shot him a censorious look, then turned to Helena, her expression determined. “Come.”

  With barely a nod to Sebastian, Marjorie swept away.

  Puzzled, Helena curtsied, then, with one last glance at Sebastian and a murmured adieu, she followed Marjorie.

  As she glided past him, Louis was scowling.

  Chapter Three

  HE was the only unmarried duke she’d met. Helena tried to make sense of his last comment; it kept her awake half the night. But he couldn’t mean himself. He’d declared years ago he would not wed. She couldn’t see why he would change his mind. He might want her—she accepted that, although she didn’t, truth be told, entirely understand such predatory desire—but to his mind, to his way of thinking—to society’s way of thinking—he could have all he wanted without marrying her.

  Not that she had any intention of allowing that to come to pass, but he didn’t know that.

  He must have meant something else, yet no matter how she twisted his words, no matter how much she discounted the effect he had on her and any consequent misconstruction, she still couldn’t explain the intensity that had flared—that had echoed in his tone and burned in his eyes.

  She was relieved that his appointment in Twickenham meant she’d be free of him for the day.

  It didn’t help. Evening arrived and she was still confused, still wary. Still feeling like a doe in a hunter’s sights.

  The argument between Louis and Marjorie on the way to Lady Hunterston’s ball was an added distraction.

  “You’re making too much of it.” Louis sat back, arms folded, and stared blackly at Marjorie. “If you meddle needlessly, you will damage her chance of making a proper match.”

  Marjorie sniffed and pointedly looked out the carriage window.

  Helena inwardly sighed. She was no longer so sure Majorie wasn’t right, despite what logic told her. Logic couldn’t explain the power she’d felt last night.

  On entering Lady Hunterston’s ballroom, Helena kept Marjorie with her and determinedly quartered the room. She found Lord Were by the card room; the group about him parted readily to allow them to join.

  The topic under discussion was the imminent demise of Lord Were’s uncle, the Marquess of Catterly.

  “I’ll have to head north tomorrow,” Were told them. “The old reprobate’s been asking after me. Seems the least I can do.”

  He grimaced as he said it; Helena considered his attitude as a black mark against him—then realized whom she was comparing him with. She thrust the comparison aside. However, to her satisfaction, as they chatted and the topic shifted to Christmas and the entertainments planned, she found herself much more in tune with Were’s views. He was an amiable if unexciting soul, solid and somewhat doggedly unassuming. That, she told herself, was a welcome relief from others who were too well aware of their worth.

  Catching Marjorie’s eyes, she let an unspoken question infuse hers. Marjorie smiled meaningfully and inclined her head. She, too, approved of Lord Were.

  Sebastian entered Lady Hunterston’s ballroom to be met by the sight of Helena smiling delightedly up at Were. He noted it, paused to sweep an elegant bow to her ladyship, then, for once ignoring the smiles directed his way, made straight for the group outside the card room.

  He walked through the crowd, his attention riveted on Helena; inwardly, he canvassed his options. He could tell her he wished to marry her, deliberately dazzle her and draw her to his side, but . . .

  That “but” held considerable weight. Any hint to the ton that he’d changed his mind and decided to make her his duchess would cause a sensation and focus all eyes, every last one, on them. And the thoughts going through the minds behind the eyes, and the consequent whispers, would not all be felicitious. Some, indeed, would choose to be blind and speculate that his intention wasn’t honorable at all. Such rumors would not be to his liking—nor hers, and even less her guardian’s.

  He’d received a report from his Parisian agent; her maternal uncle, Geoffre Daurent, had become her guardian on her father’s death. Thierry presumably stood in Daurent’s shoes, but calling formally in Green Street was impossible. Impossible to keep such a meeting secret, not in the heart of the ton.

  A discreet invitation to visit his principal estat
e, Somersham Place, when the ton dispersed from the capital in just under two weeks was his preferred way forward. No one beyond the Thierrys and Louis de Sèvres would need to know; he himself would tell only his aunt Clara, who acted as his hostess at his ancestral home. In privacy he could speak—and persuade if need be.

  That last grated. Helena enjoyed his company but did not, so her peridot eyes declared, consider him a potential husband.

  Yet.

  The fault might be his, with his antipathy to marriage so publicly declared; that didn’t prevent him from viewing her dismissal as a challenge.

  “Comtesse.” He halted by her side. She’d seen him approach but had feigned ignorance. Now she turned and, with a cool smile, held out her hand. He took it, bowed over it. Before she could retrieve her fingers, he locked his about them. “Madame.” He acknowledged Mme Thierry’s curtsy with a nod, then inclined his head to Were. “If you’ll excuse us, there’s a matter of some import I wish to convey to mademoiselle la comtesse.”

  Skepticism flared in Mme Thierry’s eyes, but none dared gainsay him—not even Helena. Her expression studiously serene, she allowed him to lead her away, down the long room.

  “And what is it you wish to tell me?”

  Her voice held a haughty chill. She glided beside him, her gaze fixed ahead, her expression betraying not the slightest perturbation.

  “That Were is not for you.”

  “Indeed? And why is that?”

  He could not lie about a friend. “Suffice to say I believe your guardian would not approve.”

  “How odd. From all I have learned, the estates Lord Were will shortly inherit are extensive and the income sound.”

  Not as extensive nor as sound as his own.

  “His lordship is all things amiable,” she continued. “I foresee no problem at all.”

  Sebastian bit back a retort to the effect that she didn’t foresee the half of it. Her dismissal of his caveat had been delivered with a regal air—an air few would attempt with him.

  The fact that she had done so did not surprise him; his agent’s report had confirmed his supposition. She and her sister were the last of the de Stansions, a very old aristocratic French family. Her mother had been a Daurent, another senior house of the French nobility. Helena’s birth was as good as his; she’d been reared, as had he, to know her worth. Their arrogance was a part of them, bred into them—she had her own brand, as did he.

  Unfortunately for her, such feminine arrogance brought out the conqueror in him.

  “You would do well to consider, mignonne, that there might be more to a gentleman than meets the eye.”

  “I am not a child, Your Grace—I am well aware that most men mask their true natures.”

  “Sebastian—and permit me to point out, mignonne, that not all women are as open as you.”

  How had they got onto that point? Helena barely had time for the thought before Sebastian whisked her through a pair of curtains she’d imagined were merely wall hangings. Instead, they’d concealed an archway leading into a small, luxuriously appointed salon.

  Finding herself in the middle of the room, cut off from the ballroom now that the curtains had fallen shut, she dropped her own mask and frowned—openly.

  “This is not, I am sure”—she gestured—“comme il faut.”

  She all but glared at Sebastian as he came to stand before her. The infuriating man did nothing more than raise one brow. Why she was so irritated with him she could not say, but she’d had a strong suspicion even before he’d arrived that he’d been deliberately steering her away from Lord Were.

  To her mind, Lord Were was looking more and more like the perfect avenue for her escape to freedom.

  “I appreciate your help in introducing me to the ton, Your Grace, but I am—how do you English say it?—more than eight, so I will be my own judge. And your veiled aspersions on Lord Were’s character I do not credit at all.”

  She capped her dismissal of his arguments with a contemptuous wave; she would have preferred to sweep back to the ballroom on that note, but he was standing directly in her way. She held his blue gaze belligerently.

  The aggravating man had the temerity to sigh.

  “I fear you will have to readjust your thinking, mignonne. The gentleman to whom I referred was not Were.”

  Helena frowned. It took her a moment to replay his statement: . . . there might be more to a gentleman than meets the eye. She looked at him, blinked.

  His lips quirked. “Indeed. The gentleman I referred to was me.”

  “You.” She couldn’t credit it—couldn’t believe what logic was telling her, nor what she could see in his eyes.

  She felt his hand at her waist, sliding, felt a quiver run the length of her spine.

  He drew her closer. “You remember that night in the moonlight in the gardens of the Convent des Jardinières de Marie.”

  His voice had taken on a mesmerizing cadence; the blue of his eyes was even more hypnotic.

  “I kissed you. Once, to thank you.”

  Trapped in his web, she was incapable of pulling back. Her hands rose to rest on the silk of his sleeves as he urged her nearer. And she went, lids falling as he bent his head.

  “Why?” she whispered as his lips neared hers. She moistened her own. “Why did you kiss me a second time?”

  The question to which she’d always wanted an answer.

  “The second time?” His breath brushed her lips. “I kissed you a second time . . . to savor you.”

  He did so again. His lips closed over hers, cool, firm, knowing. She knew she should resist, hold back; instead, she teetered on some invisible brink, then something inside her unlocked, gave. He sensed it. His hands locked about her waist, and he drew her to her toes. His lips hardened, firmed, became more demanding.

  And she was tumbling, falling . . .

  Why she would want to appease his arrogant demands she could not fathom, yet she did. Clinging to his strength, giving herself up to the thrill of the kiss was akin to madness, yet she did that, too.

  When his lips urged hers open, she complied; he swallowed her gasp as he surged in and took her mouth, took her breath, then gave her his. He was bold—blatantly, sensually evocative; her senses reeled as she struggled to absorb the sensations, to follow his lead. To satisfy one demand so they could progress to the next.

  Madness indeed. Her skin heated, her bodice grew tight, her breathing fractured. Her whole body felt alive, different, awake as it never had been before.

  She wanted more. Her fingers closed on his silk sleeves, holding him. His grip tightened; his head angled, and he deepened the kiss.

  Never had the urge to seize, to take, raged so powerfully. Sebastian fought to rein it in, yet he was hungry, so greedy, and she was luscious, so generous, so very much to his taste.

  Never before had he coveted the taste of innocence, but she was different, not entirely untutored but naively and naturally sensual—he was caught, enthralled, addicted. He’d sensed her worth seven years before and had never forgotten it—the promise in her kiss.

  Only experience, long steeped, hard won, allowed him to dam the welling tide, turn it back, let it subside.

  The time was not right; he’d already gone further than he’d intended, lured by her lips, by the surprise of his need. Her lips would be bruised as it was.

  He broke the kiss and shook with the effort of stopping himself from going back, from taking her mouth again. Touching his forehead to hers, he waited, listening to her breathing slow in time with the pounding in his blood.

  He forced his arms to function, to set her back on her feet.

  Her lids fluttered, then lifted. He drew back so he could see, watch puzzlement flow across her features, confusion invest her green eyes.

  “There are other criteria you should consider in your search for a husband.”

  He murmured the words, watched her brow furrow, then realized she might not even now correctly divine his meaning.

  Easing
his grip about her waist, he held her lightly with one hand, then raised the other. He looked down, knowing she would follow his gaze, then watched as he lifted his hand, trailing his fingertips from her throat, over her collarbone to the silken skin just above her scooped neckline.

  She caught her breath; one brief glance confirmed she was watching, fascinated more than horrified. He let his fingers trace over the silk, felt her flesh firm in response. Then he cupped her breast lightly.

  The quiver that raced through her made him ache. Deliberately slow, he circled her nipple with his thumb and watched it peak and pebble.

  “You want me, mignonne.”

  “No.” A sound of desperation. She didn’t want to want him; Helena was sure about that. On all else—what was happening between them, what he intended, what he wanted of her—she was confounded, utterly and completely at sea.

  His fingers touched her, traced, and she couldn’t think. She pulled back, pushed away. He let her go, but she sensed the brief clash between his desire and his will. Even if will won, she had to wonder if it would the next time.

  Dangereux.

  “No.” She sounded more definite the second time. “This will do us no good.”

  “On the contrary, mignonne, it will be very good indeed.”

  Pretending ignorance would be futile, disingenuousness worse. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a stubborn look and went to take another step back—only to feel his fingers tighten about her waist.

  “No. You cannot run from me. We need to talk, you and I, but before we go further, there’s something I want of you.”

  Searching his eyes, blue on blue, Helena was certain she didn’t need to hear what it was. “You have read my intentions wrongly, Your Grace.”

  “Sebastian.”

  “Very well—Sebastian. You misunderstand. If you think—”

  “No, mignonne. It is you who fail to realize—”

  The curtain over the archway rattled. They both looked. Sebastian’s hand fell from her waist as Were, smiling genially, looked in.