The promise in a kiss

Chapter Five

ITstarted raining during the night and continued through the dawn, a steady, relentless downpour that left the streets awash and the skies a leaden gray.

Sebastian spent the morning at home attending to estate business, then essayed forth to White’s for lunch—for distraction. But the conversation was as desultory as the weather; he returned to Grosvenor Square in midafternoon.

“Do you wish for anything, my lord?” Webster, his butler, shook water from his cloak, then handed it to a waiting footman.

“No.” Sebastian considered the library door; he started toward it. “If anyone should call, I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

A footman opened the door; Sebastian crossed the threshold, then paused. The door closed behind him. He grimaced, and headed for the sideboard.

Two minutes later, a brandy balloon liberally supplied with amber liquid in one hand, he sank into the leather armchair before the fire and stretched his damp shoes toward the blaze. He sipped, let the brandy and the fire warm him and chase away the chill that was only partly due to the weather.

Helena—whatwas he to do about her?

He’d understood very well all she’d accused him of; the unfortunate fact was that all she’d said was true. He couldn’t deny it. There seemed little point in pretending that skillful manipulation wasn’t, at base, a large part of his power, a large part of the arsenal men such as he—ex-warrior conquerors—used in these more civilized times. If given a choice, most people would rather accept his manipulation than face him over a battlefield.

“Most people,” most unfortunately, did not include females reared to be the wives and queens of warrior conquerors.

She, in fact, was too much like him.

And, very clearly—very obviously to his highly attuned senses—she’d been subjected to her guardian’s manipulations for too long, too consistently, too much against her unexpectedly strong will.

He could understand far better than most that enforced submission to another’s will, especially coupled with awareness of the means of ensuring such submission—an awareness of the manipulation practiced on her—would have grated on Helena’s proud and stubborn soul. Would ultimately have become unbearable. Her will was a tangible thing, not to be underestimated—as he’d discovered last night.

Spoiled by ladies who would at the most have pouted at his strategy, then allowed him to cheer them up, he’d been completely unprepared for Helena’s fury. Her revelations, however, were what had given him pause.

They were what had him here, taking refuge in brandy and silence, hoping some solution would spontaneously emerge. As things stood . . .

He could hardly pretend he was not what he was, and if she’d set her stubborn mind against all liaisons with men such as he, if she could not bear to be the wife of a man such as he . . . what, indeed, could he do?

Other than brood. The occupation was unfamiliar. He didn’t appreciate the hold she had on his mind, on his senses, on his thoughts, let alone his dreams.

Somewhere along the line, simple pursuit had transmuted to obsession, a state with which he’d had until now no serious acquaintance. His previous conquests, predatory though they might have been, had never really mattered.

Despite her eminently clearly stated position, he couldn’t turn away and let Helena go. Simply let her disappear from his life.

Accept defeat.

Allow her to go through life never knowing what it would be like to scale the heights with him.

He watched her through the crowd at Lady Devonshire’s drum and inwardly shook his head. At himself. If Helena heard his last thought, she’d have his entrails for garters, yet . . . it was, underneath all else, how he felt.

Her life would be so much less if she didn’t live it to the full—and she would never do that other than at the side of, in her terms, a powerful man. If he didn’t make some push to rescript her thinking—to introduce the notion of compromise into her disdainfully dismissive mind, the idea that compromise with him might have bonuses beyond what she’d yet experienced—then she looked set to throw her scintillating self away on some mild and unsuspecting nobleman.

Her interest in Were and his ilk was now explained, the reason for her uninterest in him patently clear. She was as adept at manipulation as he was; she’d have Were, or any like him, in the palm of her small hand. She was determined no longer to be a puppet; to ensure that, she intended being the one who pulled the strings.

With him, that would never work.

With Lord Chomley, who she was currently charming, it might.

Keeping his expression impassive while gritting his teeth was not easy. Engaging in the usual social discourse while his attention remained riveted six yards away was, however, well within his abilities. Lady Carstairs had not yet realized he’d heard not one word of her story.

Helena touched Lord Chomley’s sleeve and spoke to him; his lordship flushed, bowed extravagantly, then turned toward the refreshment room.

Sebastian refocused on Lady Carstairs. “I’ve just seen my brother. I must catch him. Do excuse me.”

He bowed; her ladyship, thrilled that he’d remained listening for so long, released him with a smile.

Merging with the crowd, he circled to come up behind Helena, who was standing, waiting, by the side of the room.“Mignonne,” he murmured, taking her hand as he stepped around her, “I would like a word with you.”

She’d jumped, stiffened. Now she looked haughtily at him as he bowed, then she bobbed a curtsy and tugged. He hesitated but let her fingers go without kissing them. She straightened and looked past him, head high.

“I have no wish whatever to speak with you, Your Grace.”

Sebastian sighed. “You cannot avoid me forever,mignonne .”

“Luckily, you will repair to your estates shortly and be gone from my life.”

He couldn’t stop his voice from hardening. “While you may believe you’ve had the last word, there’s more that must be said between us, and of some of that you are as yet unaware.”

She considered, then shifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “I do not trust you, my lord.”

He inclined his head. “That I understand.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Of what nature are these things of which I am ‘as yet unaware’?”

“They’re not the sort of things it would be wise to discuss in a crowded ballroom,mignonne .”

“I see.” She nodded, her gaze going beyond him. “In that case, I do not believe wehave anything to discuss, Your Grace. I will not, not for any reason, go apart with you.”

On the words, her brilliant smile lit her face. “Ah, my lord—what perfect timing. His Grace was about to retreat.”

Swallowing that word—retreat be damned—ruthlessly suppressing his reaction to the flash of fire in her green eyes, Sebastian exchanged bows with Chomley, returning with a glass of orgeat, then turned back to Helena and reached for her hand. She was forced to extend it.

“Mademoiselle la comtesse.” With exquisite grace, he bowed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He caught her gaze as he straightened. “Until later,mignonne .”

With a calm nod, he strolled away, leaving Lord Chomley staring after him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

His lordship turned to Helena. “Later?”

She smiled serenely, quashing the impulse to scream. “His Grace has an odd sense of humor.”

Adry, rather caustic wit that, despite all her intentions, all her self-admonitions, Helena missed. Increasingly missed. She used the fact that she’d come, unwittingly, to rely on his company to leaven her evening entertainments as a prod to stiffen her resolve. To ensure she did not weaken. None knew better than she how foolish it was to become dependent in even the smallest way on a powerful man.

He’d exploit her weakness if he knew.

She concentrated on ignoring him, despite the fact that she was, as always, aware of his presence, his gaze—forced herself to give her attention to the increasingly urgent task of choosing a suitable nobleman to marry.

About her, Lady Castlereagh’s ball was in full swing. The ton, it appeared, flung itself into this last week’s entertainments with an energy to rival Parisian society at its most frenetic. Tonight, a troupe of Morris dancers had opened the ball, decked out in festive colors, twirling ribbons of green and red. In addition, a concoction derived from mead, claimed to be a modern equivalent of the ancient wassail, was being freely served; its effect on the guests was already evident. Helena smiled and declined to imbibe—she needed to keep her wits about her.

Two nights had passed since Lord Chomley had failed to discern the humor in St. Ives’s “later”; his lordship had clearly not been for her. Since then she’d been doggedly paring her list—thanks to the weather, she could accomplish little else through the days. Other than Were, currently out of town, there were three others who might do. She didn’t doubt her ability to dazzle them, to successfully encourage them to offer for her hand, but which one should she choose?

As far as she’d been able to learn through all manner of discreet inquiries, in title, estates, and income there was little difference between them. Each possessed, it appeared, an easygoing nature; any of the four should be easy to manage. With all her criteria met, she’d had to add another—a deciding factor.

She’d spent seven years being paraded before the most exacting connoisseurs of the French nobility; she had long ago realized that, for her, physical touch was a most useful means of categorizing men. There were those whose touch made her flesh creep—she’d met too many of that group for her liking. Not one had been kind or trustworthy. Then there were those whose touch might have been that of a friend or a maid. Such men were generally decent, upright souls, but not necessarily of strong will or strong mind.

There had ever been only one whose touch had made her glow.

To her, he was the most dangerous of all.

So . . . it was time to assess the three candidates now in London for how their touch affected her. She’d already danced with Were, strolled with him. His touch did not warm her, excite her, but neither did it make her flesh creep. Were had passed the test. If the others did not make her flesh creep, or glow, they would remain on her list, too.

Lord Athlebright, heir to the Duke of Higtham, was at this moment dancing attendance on his mother, but Viscount Markham, an amiable gentleman of some thirty-odd years, heir to the Earl of Cork, was approaching.

“My dear comtesse.” Markham bowed gracefully. “You must have only recently arrived. I could not have remained in ignorance of your fair presence for long.”

Helena smiled. “We have just arrived.” She extended her hand. “I would like to stroll, if you’re agreeable?”

His lordship took her hand, smiling easily. “It would indeed be my pleasure.”

The touch of hands, more precisely of fingertips, was not enough to judge. Helena glanced around but couldn’t see any musicians. “Will the dancing start soon?”

“I doubt it.” Markham looked at her. Was she imagining the calculating gleam in his eye? “Lady Castlereagh calls her evenings balls, but in reality, dancing is the last thing on her mind. Consequently, there’ll be but a few dances, and those most likely late.”

“Ah, I see.” Helena bided her time as they stopped and chatted, then moved on through the crowd. “I have to confess”—she leaned closer to Markham and lowered her voice—“that I find the English penchant for such crowded rooms somewhat . . . enervating.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “Dancing, that gives one a little space for a time, but . . .tiens, how is one to breathe?”

She made the question a laughing one, but Markham had already raised his head, looking over the crowd to scan the room. Then he looked down at her, his gaze unreadable. “If you would like to stroll in less crowded surrounds, there’s a conservatory just off the music room. We could repair there if you wish.”

There was an eagerness in his tone that alerted her, but she needed her list narrowed to one name by the end of tomorrow night—the night of Lady Lowy’s masquerade, the last night the ton would grace the capital. “You know the house well?” she asked, temporizing.

“Yes.” Markham smiled ingenuously. “My grandmother and Lady Castlereagh were bosom-bows. I was often dragged here to be shown off when I was young.”

“Ah.” Helena smiled back, feeling rather more comfortable. “Where is this music room?”

He led her into a side corridor, then down an intersecting corridor. The music room lay at its end; beyond, through glass-paneled doors, stood a room with walls and roof primarily composed of glass. Built out into the gardens, it was lit by weak moonlight.

Markham opened the door and ushered her in. Helena was entranced by the plethora of shadows, the odd shapes cast upon the green tiles. The air was cool but not chilly, the gentle splash of raindrops on the glass a curiously soothing sound.

She sighed. “It is very pleasant here.” She did find the crowds trying, the sense of being hemmed in with nothing but hot, heavily perfumed air all about her suffocating. But here . . . gratefully, she drew in a deep, deep breath. As she turned to Markham, she was surprised to find his gaze somewhat lower than her face.

He recovered swiftly and smiled. “There’s a pond—this way, from memory.”

His memory was good. The conservatory was bigger than she’d guessed; within a minute of leaving the area before the door and plunging down a series of narrow paths, she wasn’t sure which way led back.

“Ah—here it is.”

The pond, quite a large one, was set into the floor, its raised lip and the inside surface covered in bright blue tiles. It was filled to the level of the floor; against the tiles, Helena could see shapes drifting in the water.

“Fish!” Looking down, she leaned over the pool.

Markham leaned beside her. “There’s a fat one—look!”

Helena edged farther; Markham shifted. His shoulder bumped hers.

“Oh!”

She grabbed for Markham—he grabbed her.

“Helena! My dear, dear comtesse.”

He tried to kiss her.

Abruptly bracing her arms, Helena struggled to hold him off.

“Don’t fight me, sweet, or you’ll fall in the water.” Markham’s tone was warm and far too knowing, too amused.

Helena inwardly cursed. She’d been too trusting.

His hands shifted on her back and her nerves leaped—not pleasurably. He’d yet to touch her bare skin, but every sense she possessed was rebelling at the mere thought.

“Stop this!” She put all the command she could muster into her tone.

Markham chuckled. “Oh, I will—eventually.”

He tried again to draw her to him. She resisted. Struggled.“No!”

“Markham.”

He started so much he nearly dropped her. The single word—and its tone—sent relief pouring down Helena’s veins. She didn’t even care what the fact portended—she just wanted to get out of Markham’s arms.

They’d gone slack. She got her balance, then, with a wrench, pulled back. Stepped back, glanced around.

Markham shot her a frowning glance but immediately returned his gaze to her savior.

Sebastian stood half obscured by the shadows, yet no shadow could dim the menace he projected. It was there in his stance; it hung in the tense silence. Helena had experience aplenty of being in the presence of displeased powerful men. Sebastian’s displeasure rolled past her like a wave and broke over Markham.

Involuntarily, Markham stepped back, putting more space between himself and her.

“I believe you were about to apologize?”

Sebastian’s voice held the chill of hell, the promise of damnation.

Markham swallowed. Without taking his gaze from Sebastian, he bowed to Helena. “Pray accept my apologies, comtesse.”

She did nothing, said nothing, regarding him as coldly as Sebastian.

“As mademoiselle has grown weary of your company, I suggest you leave.” Sebastian, ever graceful, walked forward; Markham backed, glanced around wildly, then edged toward one path. “One thing—I take it I don’t need to explain how . . . unhappy I would be if any mention of this incident or, indeed, of mademoiselle la comtesse at all were to be traced to you?”

“No need at all.” His face set, Markham looked at them both, then nodded curtly. “Good night.”

He left; they heard his footsteps striding along, faster and faster, then they paused; the door opened, shut, and he was gone.

Helena let out a shuddering sigh of relief; crossing her arms, she shivered.

Sebastian had halted two feet away; he turned his head and his gaze to her. “I think,mignonne, that you had better tell me just what you are about.”

The evenness of his tone did not deceive her; behind his mask he was angry. She lifted her chin. “I do not like such crowds. I thought to walk in less stifling surrounds.”

“Perfectly understandable. What is somewhat less understandable is why you chose Markham as your escort.”

She threw a frowning glance in the direction the viscount had gone. “I thought he was trustworthy.”

“As you have discovered, he is not.”

When she didn’t respond but continued to frown distantly, Sebas-tian ventured, “Do I take it you’ve struck him off your list?”

That got her attention; she turned her frown on him. “Of course! I do not like to be mauled.”

He inclined his head. “Which brings me back to my original question—what are you about?”

She considered him, then drew herself up. “My actions are no concern of yours, Your Grace.”

“Except that I choose to be concerned. I repeat, what game are you playing with your prospective suitors?”

Her chin rose another notch; her eyes flashed. “It is none of your business!”

He merely arched a bored brow and waited.

“You cannot”—she gestured at him with both hands as she searched for the word—“compelme to tell you just because you wish to know!”

He said nothing, simply looked at her—let his intent reach her without words.

She met his gaze, read his eyes, then flung her hands in the air. “No! I am not some weak-willed pawn in some game. I am not part of any game of yours. This is not some battle you must win.”

His lips curved, his smile wry. “Mignonne,you know what I am—precisely what I am. If you insist on standing against me, then . . .” He shrugged.

The sound she made was one of muted fury. “I will not tell you, and you cannot make me.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “I doubt you carry thumbscrews in your pockets, Your Grace, so perhaps we should adjourn this discussion until you have had time to find some.”

He laughed. “No thumbscrews,mignonne. ” He caught her irate gaze. “Nothing but time.”

Her thoughts flitted through her eyes, which then widened. “That’s preposterous. You cannot mean to keep me here . . .”

She glanced at the nearest path.

“There is no possibility whatever that you will leave this clearing until you tell me what I wish to know.”

She glared at him, belligerently furious. “You are abully .”

“You know very well what I am. Equally, you know that you have no choice, in this instance, but to concede.”

Her breasts rose; her eyes sparked. “You are worse than even he!”

“He who? Your guardian?”

“Vraiment!He is a bully, too, but he would never admit it.”

“I regret that my lack of duplicity offends you,mignonne. However, unless you wish to feature in a scandal, even at this last gasp of the year, you would do well to start explaining. You have been absent from the ballroom for twenty minutes.”

Helena shot him a furious look but knew she had no choice. “Very well. I wish to narrow my list to one by tomorrow night, before the ton leave for their estates. There were four gentlemen to consider—now there are only three.”

Sebastian nodded. “Were, Athlebright, and Mortingdale.”

She stared at him. “How did you know?”

“Acquit me of ignorance,mignonne —you told me your guardian’s criteria, and I guessed yours some nights ago.”

“Eh, bien!”She put her nose in the air. “Then you know all, so we may return to the ballroom.”

“Not quite.”

She glanced at Sebastian; he caught her eye.

“I know why those three and Markham were on your list. I know why Markham no longer is. I do not know what other quality you have chosen to assess, only that you’ve chosen something and that is what brought you here.”

She looked toward the path. “I merely wished for a moment’s peace.”

Sebastian’s long fingers slid around her chin and firmed; he turned her face to his. “It’s pointless to lie to me,mignonne. Despite all you say, you are much like those you run from—powerful men. You are enough like me that I can see at least part of what is in your mind. You are coolly and calmly assessing these men as your suitors. You care nothing for those three, only that they meet your needs. I am . . . concerned, if you wish, over what the final need you’ve focused on is.”

Her temper unfurled—she felt it spread its wings; she lunged and tried to drag it back, but it shrugged aside her will and flew free.

It wasn’t simply the fact that he did indeed understand her well—as well as Fabien had always seemed so effortlessly to do; while she might, in some cool part of her mind, admit that he was right in comparing her to them, she did not like the notion at all, did not like hearing it so calmly stated as truth. But it wasn’t that that loosed her fury.

It wasn’t even that, this close to him, she was acutely aware of the weight of his will, a tangible entity pressing her to submit.

It was her reaction to his touch, to the heat of his fingers cradling her chin—the instantaneous leaping of her heart, the tightening of her breathing, the sudden focus on him, the wash of heat within. The flare of recognition, the flash of a fire as old as time.

Her suitors were as nothing to her. Fabien’s touch did not set her heart racing. But this man—his touch—did.

Madness.

“Since you are so boorish as to insist, I will tell you.” Madness to do so; impossible to resist. “I have decided to test that each gentleman’s touch does not repel me.” She lifted her chin from his fingers, her eyes locked challengingly on his. “That is, after all, a most pertinent consideration.”

His face hardened, but she could read nothing in his eyes, blue on blue, oddly shadowed. He lowered his hand.

“Were—does his touch repel you?”

His tone had deepened; a lick of caution skittered up her spine. “I have danced with him, walked with him—I feel nothing when he touches me.”

Satisfaction glimmered briefly in Sebastian’s eyes; she deliberately added, “So Lord Were, at present, is the only one who has attained my final list.”

He blinked; his focus remained on her as he thought, weighed, considered . . .

“You will not attempt to test Athlebright or Mortingdale.”

Those who knew him not might have assumed the comment to be a question; Helena recognized it as a decree, an order not to be disobeyed. Supremely assured—flown on temper—she lifted her head. “But of course I shall test them. How else am I to decide?”

With that eminently rational response, she turned to the path leading back the way she’d come. “And now, as I have told you all, you will hold by your word and allow me to return to the ballroom.”

Buoyed by even so mild a triumph, she stepped out.

“Helena!”

A growl—a clear warning. She didn’t stop. “Mme Thierry will be growing worried.”

“Damn it!” He broke from his stance by the pool and stalked after her. “You can’t be so witless—”

“I am not witless!”

“—as to imagine, after yoursuccess with Markham, that encouraging men to take you in their arms is a good idea!”

He was speaking through his teeth—a most wonderful sound. “I did not encourage Markham to be so . . . outré. He engineered the incident and grabbed me. I did not know he was no true gentleman.”

“There are many things you don’t know.” She only just caught Sebastian’s mutter, although he was following close behind her. The next instant he said, “I want you to promise me you won’t plot to get Athlebright or Mortingdale alone—that anytesting you do will be done in the middle of a damn ballroom in sight of the entire ton.”

She pretended to consider, then shook her head. The glass-paned doors lay before her. “I do not think I can promise that. I am running out of time.” She shrugged. “Who knows what I may need to—”

She had no chance to gasp, to scream. Sebastian’s hand closed about hers; he swung her to face him, backed her toward the wall beside the door. A narrow ledge ringed the room, running around the base of the wall; she stumbled as, eyes wide, fixed on his, she backed into it.

He caught her other hand, lifted both, steadying her as, instinctively, she stepped up, back—her shoulders and hips hit the wall.

She caught her breath, opened her lips—

He raised her hands on either side until they were level with her head, then pressed them to the wall—and deliberately stepped nearer.

Leaned nearer.

Caged her.

Trapped her.

She could barely breathe, didn’t know if she dared. His strength surrounded her, held her—imprinted itself on her senses. No more than an inch separated their bodies; she could feel his heat the length of hers.

Because of the step, all he needed to do was lower his head to look her in the eye. He did; his gaze locked with hers. His features could have been hewn from granite. “You will promise me you will do no more testing—not unless it’s in public.”

Her temper returned with a vengeance. She let it burn in her eyes as she tested his grip, more out of instinct than expectation. His fingers tightened, just enough for her to feel their steely strength, to know she couldn’t break free, but he wasn’t gripping tightly—she couldn’t claim he was hurting her. She didn’t dare shift her body away from the wall. If she did, she’d move into him.

“Men!” She spat the word like an epithet into his face. “You are all alike! Not to be trusted!”

By sheer luck, she hit a nerve—touched tinder to his temper; she saw it spark in his eyes, saw his lips thin.

“We arenot all alike.”

Every word was gritted out.

She raised a haughty brow. “Do you mean I can trust you?” She widened her eyes, daring him to lie.

His eyes remained on hers; she caught a glimpse, unexpected, of sudden turmoil.

“Yes!”He flung the word at her; it struck her, left her reeling. She immediately sensed him soften, rein in his temper. “In your case . . . yes.”

Her heart had leaped to her throat. Shocked, she searched his eyes. He wasn’t lying, even though his temper still prowled, as did hers. But she knew truth when she heard it; he had no reason to lie. But what reason could he have? . . .

“Why?” She searched his hard features, hoping to catch some hint.

Sebastian knew the answer—could feel the power rise through his anger, shading it, controlling it.

She’d refused to go apart with him—to let him talk with her privately, feel his way with her—even though his intentions were, this time, of the most honorable. Instead, she’d tapped Markham on the shoulder and slipped away with him.

He’d been coldly furious. Why? Because she meant more to him than any other woman ever had.

He’d been watching when she and Markham had left the ballroom. He’d followed to ensure nothing came of the incident. Only to learn . . .

The idea that she might willingly put herself in the way of the type of insult Markham had offered was not to be borne.

Why? Because he cared.

The realization left him shaken—left him, for once, without any glib words, any drawling phrase to turn her mind away from what he’d only just realized and didn’t yet want her to see.

Her eyes were wide green pools, easy to read, easy to drown in. She was caught, tempted . . . fascinated.

So was he.

He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, trying to think.

Her skin had heated, courtesy of his nearness; her perfume, French, elementally exotic, rose and wreathed his senses.

Their faces were close, as were their bodies—close enough for her to sense the change in his intent. Her eyes widened fractionally, then her lids fell as her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips.

He closed the distance between them, slowly, unthreateningly.

She lifted her face, tipped back her head.

Their lips brushed. Touched.

Met.

Fused.

The power flared—like a spark set to dry grass, it flamed, then raced, taking them both, drawing them in, sucking them into its heat.

It was like nothing he knew. No kiss he’d ever experienced had caught him as this did, held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, so focused on her, on her lips, on her mouth, on the dark thrill of sliding deep, caressing her intimately, on the sensual mating of their tongues.

She followed his lead, matching him step for step, fearless in her innocence. He’d kissed her deeply before, but this time she wanted more, lured him on.

Unknowingly—or knowingly? He couldn’t tell.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. Couldn’t draw back from the conflagration.

His senses were reveling, in her, in the honeyed taste of her, the warm haven of her mouth, the supple softness of her breasts firm against his chest, the flagrant promise in the body arching lightly to meet his.

He could do nothing more than take all she offered and return all she demanded. Fall more deeply under her spell.

Helena had stopped thinking some instants before their lips had met. The knowledge that he was going to kiss her was enough, of itself, to focus her mind on one thing and that alone.

Him.

She wished it weren’t so, but it was. Her mind, her senses—her very heartbeat—seemed to be his to claim. And no matter how much she might lecture herself when apart from him, she couldn’t hold back from this part of his game.

Dangereux.

The word whispered through her mind but she no longer believed it, at least not in the physical sense. He would not harm her—he’d told her she could trust him. In truth, she already did.

He might prey on her mind and lay waste to the defenses she’d erected against powerful men, but while in his arms with his lips on hers, she knew, and understood, only one thing.

He was hers.

Hers to command at least in this arena—hers to claim if she wished. He was in control, but it was she he sought to please—a conundrum perhaps, but the thought of having a powerful man at her feet was too tantalizing, too tempting, too elementally enthralling to forgo.

His pleasure was hers. She sensed it through his kiss, through his immediate response to any demand she chose to make. Any hint of trepidation and he would ease back, soothe her, wait for her sign he could take her mouth again, that she was ready again to sink deep into the kiss, let his tongue probe, caress, slide about hers, seductively tangling.

He hadn’t released her hands; instead, his fingers had locked, not painfully, but his grip was unbreakable, his forearms outside hers against the wall, holding his weight from her. She wanted his weight on her. Her whole body had come alive, heated, nerves afire. She wanted him against her, chest to breast, thighs to hips. Wanted him.

She arched, touched him. For one glorious instant, she let her body caress him.

Sensed his immediate response—sensed the depth of the fire she hadn’t yet walked through. Felt his control quake.

They broke the kiss.

Both of them. They needed to breathe, needed to think. Had to pull back from the brink.

They were both breathing rapidly, each one’s gaze locked on the other’s lips.

Simultaneously, they lifted their eyes; their gazes met, held.

They searched each other’s eyes; her thoughts were reflected in his—she felt as if he could see into her soul.

This was not the right place, not the right time.

Whether there would ever be a right place, a right time, neither knew, but they could not go further tonight.

They both knew it. Recognized the fact.

When the pounding in her ears eased enough for her to hear, Helena drew in a deep breath and softly said, “Let me go.”

Not an order, but a simple direction.

He hesitated. Then his grip eased, bit by bit. As his touch left her skin, she eased her hands from under his, lowered her arms. She ducked under his arm, stepped away from the wall, out of the cage of his arms.

He turned his head but didn’t otherwise move.

She took another step away, already missing—regretting the loss of—his heat. Then she lifted her head; without turning around, she said, “For your help with Markham—thank you.”

She hesitated for an instant, then walked to the door.

Her hand was on the knob when she heard him murmur, soft and low, “Until later,mignonne. ”

Sebastian let himself into his house in Grosvenor Square in the small hours. After leaving Lady Castlereagh’s, he’d repaired to his club, then gone with friends to a hell. No game of chance had been able to distract him from his thoughts; the hours had served only to crystallize his resolution.

Leaving his cloak and cane in the front hall, he went into the library. After lighting a lamp, he settled behind his desk—settled to the letter he’d decided to write.

He addressed it to Thierry. Helena was staying under Thierry’s roof, nominally in his care; his wife had introduced her to society. De Sèvres’s relationship to Helena he was less sure of, and when all was said and done, he didn’t trust the man. Thierry, despite being a Frenchman, was a straightforward soul.

The scritch-scratch of his pen across the page was the only sound discernible; the silence of the huge house, his home from birth, lay like a comfortable blanket about him.

He paused, looking down, considering what he’d written, what he had yet to say. Then he bent and wrote again, until he reached the end and closed with his flourishing signature: St. Ives.

Sanding the letter, he sat back. Looked across the room to where the embers of the fire glowed in the grate.

He didn’t know if he could do it—if he could make the concessions she’d demand, the concessions she might indeed need in order to become his duchess. But he would try. He had accepted that he must, that he had to do everything within his considerable power to ensure she became his.

His wife.

The equation was a simple one. He had to marry. And at the last moment, he’d met her, the only woman he’d ever wished to possess for all time.

It was she or no one.

He’d wanted, waited for, some sign that she wanted him, that she recognized the fact that she did. Tonight . . . tonight they’d come very close to stepping over that invisible line, taking what had thus far been an acceptable interaction into another arena, an illicit one.

They’d drawn back, but only just, and she’d known it, realized the truth as well as he.

It was enough—sign enough. Confirmation enough, if he’d needed any reassurance.

She wanted him in precisely the same way he wanted her.

He glanced at the letter, let his eyes run over his careful phrases inviting the Thierrys, mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle and M. de Sèvres to spend the next week at Somersham Place. He had made it clear that this was to be a private visit, that the only others at his principal estate would be Cynster family members.

That last should make his direction patently clear; such a summons, couched in such terms, could mean only one thing. But with that “thing” unstated, it could not be taken for granted.

He smiled as he considered how Helena might react—he couldn’t, even now, predict it. But he would see her tomorrow night, at Lady Lowy’s masquerade. Whatever her reaction, he was sure he’d learn of it then.

Tipping the sand aside, he folded the parchment, lit the candle, and melted a stub of wax, then set his seal to the letter. Rising, he turned down the lamp, then crossed to the door.

In the front hall, he dropped the letter on the salver on the side table.

Done.

He paused, then headed for the stairs and his bed.