The promise in a kiss

Chapter Three

HEwas 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—tosociety’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 estate, 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.

“There you are, m’dear. It’s time for our dance.”

They could hear music wafting from behind him. One glance at his open expression was enough to tell them both that he suspected nothing scandalous. Helena stepped around Sebastian and swept forward. “Indeed, my lord. My apologies for keeping you.” She paused as she reached Were’s side and looked back at Sebastian. “Your Grace.” She curtsied deeply, then rose, placed her fingers on Were’s hand, and let him lead her out.

Were grinned at Sebastian over her head. Despite all, Sebastian smiled and nodded back. He and Helena had not been apart, alone, for long enough to give the gossips sufficient cause to speculate, and Were had, intentionally or otherwise, covered the lapse.

The curtain fell closed; Sebastian stared at its folds.

And frowned.

She was resisting—more than he’d anticipated. He wasn’t sure he understood why. But he was certain he didn’t approve. And he definitely did not appreciate her quick-wittedness in avoiding him.

Society had grown used to seeing them together—they were now growing used to seeing them apart. That was not part ofhis plan.

From the shadows of his carriage drawn up by the verge in the park, Sebastian watched his future duchess animatedly holding court. She’d grown more confident, even more assured; she controlled the gentlemen around her, with a laugh, with a grimace, with one look from those wonderful eyes.

He couldn’t help but smile, watching her listen to some anecdote, watching her manipulate the strings that made her would-be cavaliers extend themselves to entertain her. It was a skill he recognized and appreciated.

But he’d seen enough.

Raising his cane, he rapped on the door. A footman appeared and opened it, then let down the steps. Sebastian descended to the ground. The carriage he’d used was not his town carriage; this one was plain black and bore no crest on its panels. His coachman and footman were also in black, not his livery.

Which explained why he’d been able to sit and watch Helena without her noting him and taking flight.

She saw him now, but too late to take evasive action, to discreetly avoid him. Social constraint was, for once, working to his advantage—she was too proud to create a public scene.

So she had to smile and offer him her hand. She curtsied deeply, and he bowed, raised her. Then raised her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

Temper flared briefly in her eyes. She fought to quell her reaction, but he felt it. Increasingly haughty, she inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Have you come to take the air?”

“No, my dear comtesse, I came for the pleasure of your company.”

“Indeed?” She was waiting for him to release her hand, too wise, after their recent meetings, to tug.

He looked around the circle of gentlemen, all younger, far less powerful than he. “Indeed.” He glanced at Helena, met her gaze. “I believe these gentlemen will excuse us, my dear. I have a wish to view the Serpentine in your fair company.”

He saw her breasts swell—with indignation and a hot-bloodedness he found unexpectedly alluring. Glancing around the circle again, he nodded generally, confident none would be game to cross swords with him.

Then he saw Mme Thierry. She’d been part of the group but until then blocked from his sight. To his surprise, she smiled at him, then turned to Helena. “Indeed,ma petite, we have stood here in the breeze long enough. I’m sure monsieur le duc will escort you back to our carriage. I’ll wait for you there.”

Sebastian could not have said who was the more surprised—he or Helena. He glanced at her, but she’d masked her reaction to the unexpected defection. However, her lovely lips set in a rather grim line as, after making her adieus to her cavaliers, she let him turn her down the walk to the water.

“Smile,mignonne, or those interested will believe we have had a falling-out.”

“We have. I am not pleased with you.”

“Alas, alack. What can I do to make you smile at me once more?”

“You can stop pursuing me.”

“I would be happy to do so,mignonne . I confess, I find pursuing you increasingly tedious.”

She looked at him, surprise in her eyes. “You will stop . . .” She gestured with one hand.

“Seducing you?” Sebastian met her gaze. “Of course.” He smiled. “Once you’re mine.”

The French word she muttered was not at all polite. “I willnever be yours, Your Grace.”

“Mignonne,we have been over this many times—you will, one day, most definitely be mine. If you were honest, you would admit you know it.”

Her eyes spat fire. She bit back a retort, flung him a furious glare, then looked haughtily ahead.

If they’d been in a room with a vase to hand, would she have thrown it? Sebastian found himself wondering—and then wondered at that fact. He had never before encouraged tantrums in his paramours, yet in Helena . . . her temper was so much an intrinsic part of her, so indicative of her fire, he found himself drawn to it—wanting to provoke all that energy so he could plunge into it, then deflect it into passion.

He was aware that his imperviousness, his calm reaction to her outbursts, was irritating her even more.

“There are not so many others around. Is it wise for us to be thus alone?”

The walks along both banks of the Serpentine were nearly deserted.

“It’s the end of the year,mignonne . Plans are being made, the last-minute whirl all-consuming. And the day is hardly encouraging.”

It was gray, cloudy, with a definite breeze carrying the first chill of encroaching winter. His gaze sliding approvingly over Helena’s warm cloak, he murmured, “However, as to propriety, the gossipmongers have grown tired of watching us, grown weary of expecting a scandal. They’ve turned their eyes elsewhere.”

She threw him an uncertain look, as if wondering just what he might risk in a nearly deserted public place.

He had to smile. “No—I will not press you here.”

He thought she humphed, but her eyes said she accepted the assurance. After a moment she said, “I am not a horse to be walked so I don’t chill.”

Obligingly, he turned her up the next path, taking them back toward the carriage drive. “Mme Thierry’s words invoked an unfortunate allusion.”

“Her words were ill judged.” Helena threw him a frowning look. “She has changed her opinion of you. Did you speak with her?”

“If you mean did I buy her cooperation, no. I haven’t spoken with her except in your presence.”

“Hmm.”

They walked on in silence; the carriage drive lay not far ahead when he murmured, “I have enjoyed our walk,mignonne, but I want something more from you.”

The glance she shot him was sharp—and furiously stubborn. “No.”

He smiled. “Not that. All I wish for today is the promise of two dances at Lady Hennessy’s ball tonight.”

“Twodances? Is that not frowned on?”

“At this time of year no one will think anything of it.” He looked ahead. “Besides, you deliberately denied me any dances last night. Two tonight is fair recompense.”

Her head rose haughtily. “You were late.”

“I am always late. If I arrived early, my hostess would faint.”

“It is not my fault there are so many gentlemen eager to partner me that there were no dances left for you.”

“Mignonne,I am neither gullible nor young. You deliberately gave all your dances away. Which is why you will promise me two for tonight.”

“You forgot the ‘or else.’”

He let his tone lower. “I thought to leave that to your imagination.” He caught her eye. “How much do you dare,mignonne ?”

She hesitated, then, exceedingly haughtily, inclined her head. “Very well, you may have your two dances, Your Grace.”

“Sebastian.”

“I now wish to return to Mme Thierry.”

He said no more but led her to the Thierrys’ carriage, then made his adieus. He stood back, and the coachman flicked the reins; he watched the carriage roll away down the avenue.

For four days they’d been sparring—he tempting her to him, she trenchantly resisting. A gentleman would have spoken, told her he meant marriage. As things stood . . .

He was a nobleman, no gentleman—the blood of conquerors flowed in his veins. And often, as now, dictated his actions.

It was impossible even to contemplate simply offering for her hand, not knowing she was so coolly appraising candidates and that he, more than any other currently in the ton, fitted her bill.

Face hardening, he turned and walked to his carriage.

Her resistance—unexpectedly strong—had only raised the stakes, focused his predatory senses more acutely, made it even more imperative that he win. Her.

He wanted her to accept him on his own terms, because of who he was and who she was underneath the glamour, stripped of their rank, man and woman, an equation as old as time. Wanted her to want him—the man, not the duke. Not because his rank exceeded hers and his estates and income were considerable.

Because she wanted him as he wanted her.

He wanted some hint of surrender, some sign of submission. Some sign that she knew she was his.

Only that would do. Only that would appease his need.

Once she’d acknowledged what lay between them, then he would speak of marriage.

The footman stood waiting, holding the carriage door. Sebastian called an order to return to Grosvenor Square, then climbed in. The door shut behind him.

Steeling herself, Helena curtsied to Sebastian, then rose and linked hands, twirling into the first figure of her first dance with him.Think! she ordered herself.Of something other than him. Don’t meet his eyes. Don’t let his nearness swamp your senses.

When, in the carriage on the way to the ball, she’d complained of his arrogance in demanding two dances, Marjorie had smiled and nodded, partonizingly encouraging, for all the world as if St. Ives were not one of the ton’s leading rakes. As if he weren’t the one Marjorie herself had labeleddangereux .

More surprising still had been Louis’s complacency. He was supposed to be her protector. Helena stifled a snort. She suspected that Louis was not entirely aware of monsieur le duc’s reputation, nor of his determination to avoid matrimony. When St. Ives had come to claim this dance, Louis had looked stupidly smug.

Aggravation, she’d discovered, was her best defense against Sebastian. Emboldened, she met his eyes. “I assume you’ll be leaving London shortly?”

His long lips curved. “Indeed,mignonne . After next week, along with the rest of the ton, I’ll quit London for the country.”

“And where will you spend the festive season?”

“At Somersham Place, my principal estate. It’s in Cambridgeshire.” They circled, then he asked, “To where do you plan to retire,mignonne ?”

“The Thierrys have not yet decided.” As she crossed him in the dance, Helena noted the quality of Sebastian’s smile. Everyone, it seemed, was smug tonight.

The devil prompted her to ask, “Has Lord Were returned to London?”

She glanced up.

His features hard, Sebastian trapped her gaze. “No. Nor is he expected in the near future.”

They circled once more; she couldn’t drag her gaze from his—didn’t dare. The movements of the dance seemed to mirror their interaction, hands touching, parting, she twirling away only to have to return to him.

She did, her skirts swishing as she turned before him, then paused, held up her hands. He stepped close behind her; his fingers locked about hers, and they stepped out in concert with the other dancers.

“Tempt me not,mignonne . Lord Were is not here to save you tonight.”

The softly murmured words were threat and promise; they feathered over her exposed shoulder—goose bumps spread over her bare skin.

She turned her head slightly and murmured back, “I have told you, I am not for you, Your Grace.”

He was silent for one instant, then whispered, “You will be mine,mignonne —never doubt it.”

He released her and they separated, flowing with the dance—as she moved away, his fingers touched her nape, then trailed down and away.

She felt the touch in the tips of her breasts, as a wash of heat flaring beneath her skin. She forced her expression to an easy smile, forced her eyes to meet his directly.

At the end of the dance, he raised her, then carried her hand to his lips. “Soon,mignonne —soon.”

Never!she vowed, but it wouldn’t be easy to gainsay him.

She couldn’t break her promise to grant him another dance, but if he couldn’t find her . . .

She chatted, laughed, smiled, and silently plotted. Louis, as always, hovered; on impulse she claimed his arm. “Stroll with me, cousin.”

With a light shrug, he complied. Helena steered him toward the far end of the room where the dragonlike dowagers sat, sharp eyes scanning the throng, tongues wagging incessantly, brows poised to rise at the slightest sign of scandal.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “that Lord Were might suit me as a husband. Have you an opinion on his lordship and whether Fabien would welcome an offer from him?”

“Were?” Louis frowned. “Is he the large, dark-haired, somewhat corpulent gentleman who favors brown coats?”

She wouldn’t have called him corpulent. “He’s about to step into a marquess’s shoes, which will satisfy Fabien as to title. As for the rest, to me he seems eminently suitable.”

“Hmm . . . from what I have heard, he is not highly regarded, this Were. He is quiet, retiring—self-effacing.” That last, Louis said with a sneer. “I do not believe Uncle Fabien would think it wise for you to ally yourself with a weak man.”

“Weak”—to her the word was the highest seal of approval. But,“Bien sûr,” she said. “I must think more on that.”

In the corner of the room beyond the dowagers, a door stood ajar.

“Where are we going?” Louis asked as she led him to it.

“I want to see what lies beyond here. The air in this room is so stale.” She stepped past him and through the door as the first strains of a minuet—her second dance with Sebastian—drifted over the crowd’s head.

Louis followed her into a gallery. Three couples, summoned by the music, passed them, returning to the ballroom, leaving the gallery with its long windows overlooking the gardens deserted save for them.

“Bon!”Helena smiled. “It is much more peaceful in here.”

Louis frowned but was distracted by a sideboard. He went to investigate the decanter and glasses sitting atop it. Helena drifted down the narrow room, drawn to the windows.

She was standing, gazing out at the stars, when a faint sound reached her.

A second later a deep voice drawled, “De Sèvres.”

She turned to see Louis bowing deeply. Sebastian strolled out of the shadows shrouding the door.

He spoke to Louis. “Mademoiselle la comtesse is engaged to me for this dance, but as she feels the need for a few moments in quieter surrounds, I will remain with her here. No doubt you have engagements of your own in the ballroom.”

Even through the gloom, Helena saw the sharp look Louis directed her way.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Louis hesitated for an instant, glancing once more at Helena. She couldn’t believe he would leave her.

“You may rest assured,” Sebastian drawled, “that mademoiselle la comtesse will be safe with me. I will return her to Mme Thierry at the conclusion of the dance. Until then, I believe, her time is mine.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” Louis bowed again, then turned on his heel and left. He closed the door behind him.

Dumbfounded, Helena stared at the door. Louis couldn’t be so witless as to believe she’d be safe alone with a man of Sebastian’s reputation.

“I do not know the answer,mignonne, but he has indeed left us alone.”

The faint amusement in Sebastian’s voice fanned her anger. She clung to it and faced him as he crossed the room toward her. She lifted her chin, ignoring the skittering panic chasing over her skin. “This is not wise.”

“I must agree, but it was your choice,mignonne. ” He halted before her; she saw he was smiling—a distinctly predatory smile. “If the minuet is not to your liking, there’s another dance we might try.”

She studied his eyes, found them impossible to read in the poor light. “No.” She moved to cross her arms; he reached out and caught her hands, holding them lightly in his. She frowned at him. “I do not at all understand why you are doing this.”

His lips quirked. “Mignonne,I assure it is I who do not understand why you are behaving as you are.”

“Me?I would think the reason for my behavior was obvious. I have told you more than once that I will not be your mistress.”

One brown brow arched. “Have I asked you to be my mistress?”

She frowned. “No, but—”

“Bon,we have that much clear.”

“We havenothing clear, Your Grace—Sebastian,” she amended as he opened his lips. “You admit to pursuing me, to wishing to seduce me—”

“Stop.”

She did, puzzled by his tone, neither drawling nor cynical—straightforward.

He considered her, then sighed. “Would it help,mignonne, if I gave you my word I will not complete your seduction at any function we might attend, such as this ball?”

His word—she knew without asking that he would honor that to the death. Yet . . . “You said before that you are not playing a game with me. Is that true?”

His lips twisted, half wry smile, half grimace. “If you are a pawn,mignonne, so am I, and it is some higher power that moves us on this earthly board.”

Helena considered for one minute more, then drew breath and nodded. “Very well. But if you are not to seduce meen effet, then what . . . ?”

She raised her hands, palms up, ignoring the light grasp of his. He changed his grip, took her hands in his. She saw his smile dawn again, still predatory, still too fascinating for her peace of mind.

“The music will end soon. In lieu of my dance, I would claim a favor.”

She let her suspicion show. “And what is this favor?”

His smile deepened. “A kiss.”

She considered again. “You have already kissed me twice—no, three times.”

“Ah, but this time, I wish you to kiss me.”

She tilted her head, considered him. If it was she doing the kissing . . . “Very well.” She shook off his hands, and he let her.

Boldly, she stepped closer. Because of the difference in their heights, she had to slide her hands up over his chest, over his shoulders, and lock them about his neck—stretching herself against him.

He stood, passive, watching her from under hooded lids.

Praying that the sudden shock of the contact—breast to chest, hips to thighs—didn’t show, valiantly ignoring the fascinating contrast between the silken softness of his coat and the hard body it covered, she drew his head down, stretched up on her toes, and set her lips to his.

She kissed him, and he kissed her back, but only in response, in equal measure. Reassured, pleasantly distracted, she repeated the caress, a little firmer, a little longer. His lips returned the pleasure, then parted slightly. She couldn’t resist the temptation.

He tasted . . . male. Different, enticing. His tongue met hers, retreated, returned. Another dance, another play, the ebb and flow of a physical touch, one rather more intimate than the meeting of hands.

It was novel, exciting. She wanted to know more, learn more. Feel more.

Ten minutes later—ten totally enthralling, fascinating minutes of complete and utter abandon—she surfaced on a gasp. Lips parted, her heart thudding in her ears, she stared into his eyes, gleaming from beneath his heavy lids. Then she stared at his lips. Long, lean, lightly curved—so mobile.

So satisfying.

She swallowed. “The music’s stopped.”

“As you say.”

Sometime while her wits had been distracted, his arms had closed around her, supporting her against him. She was caged by muscles that felt like steel, yet she’d never felt so comfortable, so secure. So uninterested in safety.

She dragged in a breath and kissed him again—just one last time to imprint the sensation on her memories. To let the feel of him, hard as rock beneath his finery, sink to her bones, to revel in the way her softer flesh sank against him.

He drew her deep but didn’t try to hold her. When she pulled away, he let her.

She looked into his eyes. “You may set me down now.”

“If you’re quite sure you’ve finished?”

He didn’t smile as he said it.

“Quite sure,” she replied.

He let her slide down, set her on her feet; his arms fell from her, but reluctantly.

“My compliments,mignonne .” Capturing her hand, he raised it, kissed it. “You play fair.”

“Certainement.”She lifted her head, fighting down her dizziness. “I believe we should return to the ballroom.”

She turned for the door; he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “No—not that way. We’ve been here, alone, too long. It would be best to go by another route so the dowagers don’t see us return.”

She hesitated, then inclined her head. He had given his word; if the last ten minutes had proved anything, it was that she could place her trust in that.

Sebastian led her through a maze of corridors; they reentered the ballroom at the opposite end. He returned her to Madame Thierry’s side, wondered fleetingly at that lady’s clear encouragement, then, well satisfied, retired.

If Helena Rebecce de Stansion could resist the temptation to enjoy all he offered without risk, he’d eat his chapeau. And once she’d enjoyed, if he couldn’t convince her to declare herself his . . .

He couldn’t think of a suitable punishment, but no matter. He wasn’t about to fail.

“It is all going well—fabulously well. Uncle Fabien’s plan, under my guidance, is unfolding just as it ought.” Louis stripped off his waistcoat and flung it in Villard’s direction.

Stooping to pick up the garment, Villard murmured, “So she has caught his eye?”

“He has her in his sights, no doubt of that. He is hunting in earnest now. Until tonight”—Louis waggled his hand—“it could have been mere idle interest. But he is not idle now. And she, the prey, she is running. The chase is on!”

“Perhaps—if I might suggest—a note to your uncle to apprise him of your good news?”

Louis nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, you are right. Uncle Fabien likes positive results. No sense in missing a chance to claim his notice.” He waved at Villard. “Remind me to write first thing in the morning.”

“If I might be so bold, m’sieur, the fast packet leaves early in the day. If you were to write this evening and a rider left tonight, monsieur le comte would have your good news days earlier.”

Louis plopped down on the bed and stared at Villard.

Villard calmly added, “And monsieur le comte does like to have the most up-to-date news.”

Louis continued to stare, then he grimaced and waved at Villard. “Bring me my writing case. I will write my communiqué now, and you may see it off immediately.”

Villard bowed. “At once, m’sieur.”