The promise in a kiss

Chapter Seven

HELENAstared at Sebastian.“You?”

He raised his brows. “You were expecting someone else?”

“Louis told me I was to meet an acquaintance of my guardian’s.”

“Ah. I did wonder how de Sèvres would persuade you to hear me out. However, I regret I have not had the pleasure of your guardian’s acquaintance.”

“Bien!”Temper erupting, she started to turn, to sweep to the door and leave—

Sebastian held up a languid hand—caught her attention. And she saw she’d walked into his trap.

To return to the door she had to pass him. If she tried . . .

She swung back to face him. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she regarded him stonily. “I don’t understand.” An understatement.

“For that I fear I must apologize,mignonne, yet before we leave here, I intend that all will be plain between us.”

He studied her for a moment, then leaned forward, slowly reached up and tugged one of her hands free. He sat back, drawing her to the chair. She frowned but consented to move closer.

“Sit with me.”

She assumed he meant on the arm of the chair, but when she realized he meant on his lap, she pulled back.

He sighed. “Mignonne,do not be missish. I wish to speak with you, yet if I stand close, I cannot always see your face. Likewise if you sit beside me. If you sit on my lap, it will be easier.”

There was sufficient irritation in his voice to dispel the idea that he was intent on ravishment—at least, not yet. Helena allowed herself a small “humph!” then, suppressing all reaction to the skittering thrill that raced up her spine, she smoothed her skirts and sat.

Beneath the folds of his toga, under the satin breeches he wore beneath it, his thighs were rock hard, but warm.

He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her, resettled her so they were indeed essentially face to face. Then he raised his hands and tugged on the ribbons that secured her mask; the two small bows unraveled. He drew the mask free, then set it on the floor beside the chair.

“Bon.”

Sebastian heard the reined temper in his tone and knew she heard it, too. He hoped it made her wary.

Step by step. That seemed the only way to accomplish the task with her. Every inch had been a battle thus far.

He looked into her peridot eyes.

She stared haughtily back.

I intend to offer for your handwould have done the job with most women, but with her, instinct prodded him to be rather more definite.

I’m going to make you my duchesshad a more forceful ring to it—left less leeway for her to cavil.

Unfortunately, given her prejudice against powerful men, neither approach was likely to lead to quick success. She’d immediately dig in her heels, and he’d be reduced to pleading his case from a very weak position.

Mining her walls—undercutting her arguments before she had a chance to make them—was undoubtedly the road to victory. Once he’d weakened her defenses, then he could speak of marriage.

“You’ve told me you don’t like being the pawn of a powerful man. All you’ve said has led me to believe that your guardian is such a man—am I right?”

“Indeed. I know of what I speak.”

“And am I also correct in stating that your reason for seeking a meek and mild-mannered husband was that such a man could never rule you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So that he would never manipulate me, use me as a pawn.”

He inclined his head. “Has it not yet occurred to you,mignonne, that marrying a man who knows little of, as you have put it before, ‘the games men such as I play,’ will leave you still in the power of the very man you seek to escape?”

She frowned. “Once I am married . . .”

When she didn’t continue, he hesitated, then quietly said, “My sister is married. Yet if I decide, for her own good, that she should return to the country . . . she returns to the country.”

She searched his eyes. “Her husband . . . ?”

“Huntly is a good-natured man who never pretended to be able to manage Augusta. He does, however, have extremely good sense and so knows when she needs to be managed. He then summons me.”

“My husband—the one I choose—will not summon my guardian.”

“But if your guardian doesn’t wait to be summoned . . . what then?”

He gave her time to think, to venture on her own down the lane of thought he’d pointed out. To see the possibilities, to come of her own volition to the realization he desired.

Even now he was too much the consummate manipulator to speak too soon, to push too hard.

Especially not with her.

Helena frowned—at him, at his hard face, the pale, austere features limned but not softened by the lamplight. Reluctantly, already sensing what she would see, she let her mind turn—almost as if she were mentally turning around and looking at something behind her, something she’d failed to see.

He was right. Fabien would not be deterred from using her by the protestations of a weak husband. Look what he’d done with Geoffre Daurent, her uncle, her initial and natural guardian. Although not a particularly weak man, Geoffre was weaker than Fabien. Because controlling her fortune and marriage conferred considerable political power, Fabien had “discussed” matters with Geoffre, a distant kinsmen, and an agreement had been reached that had seen Fabien legally installed as her guardian.

How Fabien might use her once she was married she did not know, but his intrigues were manifold—power flowed from many sources, from the control of myriad subjects, in their world. And power was Fabien’s drug.

“You are right.” The words fell from her lips as she refocused; she frowned. “I will need to think again.”

“There are not that many options to consider,mignonne . Indeed, as one of the ilk against whom you struggle, I can tell you there is only one.”

She met his eyes, narrowed her own. “I will not—” She broke off, an image of Fabien rising in her mind. In truth, there was very little she wouldn’t do to escape his web.

Sebastian searched her eyes; then his gaze steadied, holding hers. “How alike are we, your guardian and I?”

His words were soft, wondering, inviting her to make the comparison. She recognized the ploy, enough to acknowledge it as a bold and brave stroke. He didn’t, after all, know Fabien.

“In nature you are much alike.” Honesty forced her to added, “In some respects.”

He was infinitely kinder. Indeed, many of his actions, albeit executed with typical arrogance and high-handedness, were prompted by a detached, quite selfless wish to help, something she found immensely endearing. Kindness was not a quality Fabien possessed; it was her considered opinion that in all his years Fabien had never once thought of anyone but himself.

Where St. Ives arranged for his sister to return to the country for her own good, Fabien would do the same for his own purposes, irrespective of whether that benefited or indeed even harmed his pawn.

She continued to study Sebastian’s face. He raised one brown brow. “Which would you rather, if you could choose—your guardian, or me?”

And that, she knew, was the question he’d sought this interview to ask. A single, simple question that, as he’d correctly seen, was the central, crucial issue in deciding what she did next.

“Neither would be my first choice.”

His lips lifted lightly. He inclined his head. “That I accept. However, as you’ve now realized, that choice will not free you of powerful men. If not your guardian, if not me, then it will be some other like us.”

He hesitated, then lifted a hand and traced her face, his fingertips lightly touching. “You are extremely beautiful,mignonne, extremely wealthy and of the highest echelons of the nobility. You are a prize and a woman—that combination will always determine your fate.”

“That combination is not something I can change.” She stated it flatly, knowing it as a truth—one she disliked but had long ago accepted.

“No.” His gaze held hers. “All you can do is choose the best of the options it leaves you.”

Which would she rather?

She blinked, drew in a breath, allowed herself to imagine, to speculate. “You are saying that if I accept you, you will become my champion, that you will protect me from others, even my guardian.”

His eyes were very blue. “Mignonne,if you were mine, I would protect you with my life.”

That was no idle statement, not from him.

She studied him, aware that all he’d said was true. And wondering, now that she’d been brought to face the choice, whether there truly were no other options.

“The only freedom you will ever know,mignonne, will be under the protection of a powerful man.”

He had, once again, read her mind, her eyes, her soul. “How do I know that you won’t seek to use me as he has—to play with my future, my life, as if they are your possessions to dispose of as it suits your whim?”

Her words had flowed without thought or hesitation; his answer was just as swift.

“I can promise that I won’t—and I do. But you can never know absolutely; you can only trust, and trust that your trust will be honored. But on that matter there’s little point denying that, at some level at least, you already trust me.” He held her gaze. “You wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t.”

That also was true. She trusted him, while she trusted Fabien not at all. Perched on his knees, face-to-face, gaze to gaze, Helena knew she was being managed by a master. Every minute of their interaction thus far had been staged and played to foster not just her trust but her belief in his sincerity.

And beneath all else was her awareness of him, of the blatantly sexual connection that had from the first moment they’d met each other all those years ago flared between them.

He hadn’t sought to hide it, to pretend it didn’t exist, to draw a veil over that part of their interaction.

“If I agreed to . . .” She paused, searched his eyes, then lifted her chin. “Accept your protection, what would you ask in return?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You know what I would ask—what I wish.”

“Tell me.”

He studied her eyes, her face, then murmured, “I think,mignonne, that we have had enough words. I think it’s time I showed you.”

A shiver skittered up her spine, but when he arched a brow at her, she haughtily arched one back. She had to know if she could do this—if becoming his, placing herself under his protection, was an option for her. If she could withstand the fire of his touch, if she could become his and still be herself.

She said nothing, simply waited, coolly expectant. He read the determination in her eyes, then his gaze lowered. Washed over her bare shoulders, drifted lower, rose again—she felt it like a physical sensation, the brush of an ephemeral touch. Then his gaze fixed on the gold clasp at her shoulder.

With his habitual languor, he raised one hand; extending one finger, he nudged, then pushed the clasp sideways until it and the gathered silk it held slipped over the arc of her shoulder. His finger followed the upper curve of her arm, trailing down the smooth skin. Just a few inches.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift as he slowly leaned forward, bent his head and set his lips like a brand to her shoulder.

To the very spot he’d uncovered—the only spot on her shoulders that had been concealed, the only place where she felt vulnerable, now it had been exposed. Bared. To him. By him.

She closed her eyes, concentrated, caught by the shift of his lips on her skin, seduced by the hot sweep of his tongue. Opening her eyes, she watched, fascinated, as he pressed his lips again to the sensitized spot; she felt her spine shake, quake, felt his hand close about her waist, fingers pressing in response.

Driven by an inner force she didn’t recognize, she lifted her hand to his nape, slid and spread her fingers into his silky hair. His lips firmed on her skin. She turned her head as he lifted his. Their lips met.

That balancing power she’d experienced before still operated between them. As they kissed—taking, giving, pausing to savor, to entice, to indulge—she felt it like a constraint, some limit on a tipping scale that prevented him, or her, from taking too much without giving, from conquering without first surrendering.

Again and again that power tipped the scales. He took her mouth in a hot, heated rush, a primitive ravishment that left her senses reeling. Then she gathered herself and boldly pressed her own demands, and he was the one giving way, laying himself open to her conquest. Shuddering when she pressed deep. Following when she retreated.

The wave washed back and forth; the hot tide steadily rose be-tween them.

They broke for an instant to breathe. She lifted her lids, met his blue eyes, only inches distant. One hard hand framed her jaw; the other was locked at her waist, fingers burning through layers of silk. Her own hand cradled his skull, holding him to her; her other arm circled him, hand splayed on his back.

Her lids fell; their lips met again, and the tide rose higher.

Ten yards away, on the other side of the connecting door, Louis frowned. Lifting his ear from the crack of the open door, he stared at the panels.

He could see nothing more than a sliver of bookcase, but he didn’t dare push the door farther open. Unable to see, he’d listened. He’d heard Helena and St. Ives talking but hadn’t been able to catch many words. Nevertheless, he’d heard enough to know that matters were proceeding in the direction Fabien had predicted. Wanted.

But he’d yet to hear St. Ives issue the invitation that was so critical to their plan’s success.

And now they’d stopped talking.

If it had been any woman but Helena, he’d have known what to think, but he’d been her shadow for years—she was cold, remote. As far as Louis knew, she’d never allowed men to maul her.

But if not that, then what was going on in the all-but-silent library?

Perhaps some haughty standoff—that he could imagine. And the English, they were unpredictable at best. So much more laissez-faire than the French over some things, yet such high sticklers on other matters—and there seemed no logical distinction over which matter would be what.

The English were confusing, but Helena was much more reliable, at least in her temper.

A low murmur reached him; Louis quickly put his ear to the crack again and waited for them to resume talking.

Helena felt sure she was on fire, that flames were licking her skin. Head back, fingers sinking into Sebastian’s shoulders, she gasped, felt his lips slide from her jaw to her throat.

Gasped again as they pressed heat into her veins, then slid lower. Found the pulse at the base of her throat and pressed there, too. Then he licked, laved; a fierce shiver rushed over her skin.

A low sound of satisfaction rumbled from him. His hands had shifted to her waist; they tightened, letting her feel their strength, then both slid upward, brushed, then closed about her breasts.

Her body arched, eager for his touch, eager for more. She turned wildly and caught his lips as he raised his head—tasted his satisfaction, his triumph as his thumbs cruised over the silk, over and about her nipples, tight and hard as pebbles. He teased, squeezed, kneaded; she squirmed, gasped—then kissed him desperately.

“Ssshh.” He drew back from the kiss and looked down.

She did, too; a tremor of elemental sensation racked her as she watched his long fingers stroke, caress, fondle.

She felt him glance at her face, then his hands eased. His fingers shifted, reached for her neckline, slipped beneath.

Her breath strangled in her throat. One tiny part of her brain screamed for her to protest; she shut it out, locked it out—she wasn’t interested in stopping him. He’d said he would show her. She wanted to see, know, feel it all—all that he would demonstrate.

She needed to know, needed to be certain just how difficult it would be, how dangerous. Before she agreed to be his.

Once she was . . .

Her breasts had swollen; the gown was now tight.

She helped him ease down the silk, lifting her arm free of the gown’s shoulder, breathing out as he held the material away from her breasts, then edged it lower bit by bit until her breasts were free. That freedom was a relief; she drew in a quick breath as he released the gown and pressed it down about her waist. She was conscious of his gaze again touching her face as he reached for the bow securing the drawstring of her chemise. One tug and the bow slithered free.

He hesitated, his hand falling from the dangling ribbon. She looked up, caught his gaze, burning blue under heavy lids. She read the challenge in his eyes, dragged in a breath, looked down. Eased open the neckline of the chemise, then drew it down.

She glanced up, but he’d already looked down. She saw the concentration in his face as he raised one hand and trailed his fingers over her breast.

Over and around, between, but never touching the tightly ruched peaks. Until she was panting, aching, so hot she was burning.

“Touch me.” She shifted one hand and closed it over the back of one of his, pressing it to her heated flesh.

He complied, filling his hands, closing his fingers about her nipples, gently at first, then tighter, tighter, until she gasped.

He kissed her then, deeply, deeper than before, or so it seemed. As if he would devour her, as if their earlier kisses had been a mere prelude to this deeper, richer intimacy.

When he drew back, her head was reeling. She reached to draw him back, but he swooped on the instant. His hand cupped her breast, his lips closed about her nipple.

Her gasp filled the room, then shattered.

Spine rigid, head back, she struggled to breathe, struggled to hold on to her whirling senses—her wits she’d lost long ago.

He feasted; her hand tight on his skull, she urged him on. Urged him, when sensation at that breast became too great to bear, to turn his attention to the other.

Then he suckled, and she could have sworn she lost consciousness, just for one second, for that moment when sensation overwhelmed her and swept her into some black void. But he drew her back again, into the world of the living, the sensate, where feeling—exquisite and enthralling—ruled.

She’d wanted to see, and he’d opened her eyes; she was grateful, very ready to let him kiss, caress, lick, and fondle to their mutual satisfaction. Untried she might be, but she was no man’s fool. He was demanding, commanding, but generous, too, more than willing—indeed, insisting—that they share. He didn’t leave her behind, overwhelmed, buffeted by sensation, as he certainly could have done. He was patient, encouraging, ready to give her the time to brace her hands on his chest, spread her fingers, flex them, sink her fingertips into the heavy muscles, then trace them. The silk of his toga muted her touch; his gown was caught at both shoulders—there was little bare skin for her to stroke. Much to her dissatisfaction.

Before she could press any further demands, he kissed her hard, then drew back and shifted her, drawing one knee up and over his thighs. His hands were on her breasts, his lips on hers again, before she could think.

Then she couldn’t think at all.

Their kisses had been hot before; now they turned incendiary. They burned—with desire, passion, with all the primitive emotions she’d never before felt, never had a chance to feel, to experience, to lose herself in. He gave them to her, pressed them on her, and she drank them in.

Gloried in the moment.

Wondered, in the instant she heard his soft murmur, felt his hand slide from her breast to her bare stomach, pressing aside the silk folds, felt his fingers reach deeper, why.

Why she did nothing but cling, eyes closed, as she reveled in his touch, as his fingers brushed her curls, then pressed farther and touched her. Parted her, stroked, caressed, gently probed.

She’d stopped breathing. Stopped thinking long ago. Nevertheless, even now, she was sure. As she shivered, shuddered, let him slide one finger into her body, felt him catch his breath, hold it, too, she knew.

With him, in this arena, it was her wishes that prevailed, his will that drove them. He was dominant, she submissive, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Her surrender could only be bought with his devotion.

Fair exchange.

She shuddered again as he stroked, touching her so intimately her mind couldn’t quite complete the thought, envision the reality. She gulped in air, turned her head, found his lips.

Sensed his need.

Power—elemental, primitive, passionate—flowed between them freely. She felt it swirl around them; she could call on it as easily as he. It was that that kept the balance.

She kissed him hungrily, fed his need, fed the power.

Felt it rise.

Who held it, commanded it? Him? Her?

Neither.

It was intangible, forged between them, brought into this world, then set free.

She could feel it building, rising inside her as he rhythmically stroked, his tongue mimicking the play of his fingers. A cry built in her throat; she pulled away from the kiss—

He pulled her back, drank her cry as she broke, shattered. The power imploded, then surged through her, through her veins, along her nerves. It dazzled her senses, then engulfed her in brilliance, in heat, in exquisite pleasure.

Louis stood staring at the connecting door, his hand over his mouth, horror in his eyes. He couldn’t believe what his ears were telling him. Couldn’t believe . . .

If St. Ives gained all he wished tonight, would he bother inviting Helena to his country house?

Did he, Louis, dare take the chance?

How would he explain . . . ?

Swallowing a yelp of sheer panic, he whirled, raced for the gallery and yanked open the door.

And came face-to-face with two couples—one a merman and mermaid, the other a Dresden milkmaid and an improbable Tyrolean shepherd.

He’d surprised them; they blinked at him bemusedly, then the milkmaid giggled.

Louis dragged in a breath, closed the door behind him, tugged down his waistcoat, and gestured to the door along the gallery. “The library is through there.”

The milkmaid giggled; the mermaid gave him a sly look. Both men smiled their thanks—man to man—and steered their partners on.

Louis watched them go, watched the merman open the door, watched them all disappear inside.

Better they than he. He could barely think.

He breathed deeply, then again.

It suddenly occurred to him that this way things might fall out even better. If St. Ives were prevented—and surely he would be—then he would only be more determined, more insistent that Helena journey to his country home.

But why, after all these years of glacial frigidity, had Helena suddenly melted? He hadn’t heard a single gasp of outrage, let alone a protest. She’dpermitted St. Ives to take liberties.

Frowning, wondering how that unexpected and unwelcome development would affect his plans, Louis headed for the ballroom.

“Oh,look ! It’s such a large room. And adesk ! Darling, do let’s.”

Sebastian jerked to attention—jerked out of the state of deep desire and reined lust that had overwhelmed his senses, tried to shake his wits free from their drugging coils.

Felt the jolt of alarm that flashed through Helena as she lay slumped on his chest, until then boneless in repletion.

His hand was still between her thighs. Before he could retrieve it and grab her, she did exactly what she shouldn’t.

She bobbed up, looked over the chair back, then gasped and ducked down.

Too late.

“Ooh!”The woman who had entered gave a little scream, cut off—Sebastian could imagine her hand clapped over her lips, her eyes like saucers.

Grasping Helena, still naked to the waist, he did the only thing he could; he stood, letting her slide down until her feet touched the floor, then he turned his head, keeping his body, his broad shoulders, between her and the new arrivals.

All four of them. As he glanced at their faces, already unmasked, and saw their eyes widen, he inwardly cursed. He was unmasked—and Helena was, too.

“St. Ives.” The merman recovered first; shock held the others silent. “We . . . ah . . .” He suddenly seemed to realize the full magnitude of the situation. “We’ll leave . . .” He tried to urge his mermaid to the door, but the woman didn’t move, her saucerlike eyes trained disbelievingly on Sebastian.

“St. Ives,” she said. Then her gaze shifted past him. “And mademoiselle la comtesse . . .”

Mademoiselle la comtesse was muttering French curses he hadn’t imagined she would know. Luckily, only he could hear. Reaching blindly, he found her arm, slid his fingers down to lock about her wrist, holding her, anchoring her, where she couldn’t be seen.

With his other hand, he waved languidly. “Mademoiselle la comtesse has just done me the honor of consenting to be my duchess.” Beneath his fingers he felt Helena’s pulse leap, then race wildly. “We were . . . celebrating.”

“You’re tomarry ?” The Dresden milkmaid, until then struck dumb, recovered her voice. Her avid expression stated she had an excellent grasp of the social implications. She clapped her hands. “Oh,wonderful ! And we’ve learned it first!”

“Felicitations,” murmured the Tyrolean shepherd, one of the young lordlings who had at one time joined Helena’s court. He grasped the milkmaid’s arm. “Come on, Vicky.”

Eyes still huge, the milkmaid turned with alacrity. “Oh, yes. Do let’s hurry back . . .”

The four piled out of the room faster than they’d entered it. Their whispers hung in the air even after the door shut behind them.

As Sebastian released her and turned to her, Helena hit him on the arm. “Nowwhat are we going to do?” She lapsed into French as she hitched her gown up, dragging the shoulder back into place. Shaking out the skirts, she looked down.“Sacre dieu!”

Sebastian looked and saw her chemise tangled in her high-heeled shoes.

She swore some more, bent and swiped up the telltale garment, scrunching the silk in her hand—then realized she had nowhere to hide it.

“Give it to me.” He held out a hand.

She slapped the chemise into it. He shook out the garment, then folded it and tucked it into his breeches pocket, taking the opportunity to rearrange a few other things at the same time. Glancing at Helena, he noted that her nipples, no longer screened by the chemise, stood proudly erect under the silk sheath of her toga. Looking at her face, he decided not to mention it.

She already looked . . . distraught.

“My apologies,mignonne. That is not how I planned to ask you to be my wife.”

Her head rose. She blinked at him, her expression blanked. “Wh-what?”

“I had, strangely enough, imagined making some reasonable attempt at a proposal.” When she simply stared at him, clearly stunned, Sebastian frowned. “It’s customary, you know.”

“No! I mean . . .” Helena clapped a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to halt her whirling wits. “We were not discussingmarriage ! We were discussing me accepting your protection.”

It was his turn to blink, then his features hardened. “And precisely what sort of protection did you imagine I would extend to anunmarried noblewoman ?”

She knew the answer to that. “You—we—were talking of me marrying some complaisant gentleman andthen —”

“No. That was not what I was talking about.I was talking of marrying you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not until those foolish people came in—I have told you before I am more than eight.”

“Seven.”

She frowned.“Comment?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. But contrary to your misguided notions, I wasalways thinking of marrying you.”

“Pull my other arm, Your Grace.” Putting her nose in the air, she went to sweep past him.

He caught her arm and swung her back to face him. “No. We are settling this here and now.”

The look in his face, in his eyes—the tension that emanated from him—warned her not even to attempt to gainsay him.

“I had already decided that I would have to marry before I met you again. Years ago I made it plain that I would not—I have three brothers who were quite willing to see to the succession, and I did not, in my estimation, possess the most amenable temperament for marriage. However . . .” He hesitated, then said, “You have met my sister-in-law.”

Helena nodded. “Lady Almira.”

“Indeed. If I tell you that she does not improve on further acquaintance, you will understand that the thought of her as the next Duchess of St. Ives has been seriously agitating many members of the family.”

She frowned. “I do not understand. Was her marriage to your brother not . . .” She gestured. “Vetted and approved?”

“No, it was not. Arthur, who’s next in line for the title, is the mildest of the four of us. Almira trapped him into marriage with the oldest trick known.”

“She claimed she was pregnant?”

Sebastian nodded. “She wasn’t, as it turned out, but by the time Arthur realized, the wedding had been announced.” He sighed. “What’s done cannot be undone.” He refocused on her. “Which brings me to my point. You understand what it is to be the holder of a title, what responsibilities—whether one wishes them or not—lie on one’s shoulders. I waited to see how Almira would develop, whether she had it in her to become more . . . gracious, more tolerant. But she has not. And now she has a son who would ultimately inherit and whom she is clearly intent on ruling—ultimately ruling through.”

He shook his head. “I cannot in all conscience permit that. And so I decided I must marry and sire a son of my own.”

His gaze rested on her. “I had never forgotten you. I recognized you the instant I set eyes on you in Lady Morpleth’s salon. I’d been looking for a suitable wife and had found none—then, suddenly, you were there.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You seem very certain I am suitable.”

He smiled, a sincere and, for him, oddly gentle smile. “You will never bore me to tears. Your temper is as bad as mine, and you are not, to my annoyance, the least in awe of me.”

She fought against a smile, frowned instead. “I am not in awe of you, yet I am not fool enough to underestimate you. You are very adept at twisting the truth to suit yourself. You havenot been thinking of marriage.”

“Acquit me,mignonne —I assure you, in regard to you, I have thought of nothing else. I did not make my intentions plain for a very good reason.”

“Which was?”

“That any hint of my change of heart would have caused a sensation—any suggestion I had decided on you as my duchess would have turned the ton rabid. Every single lady with a marriageable daughter would have stood in line to attempt to change my mind. I saw no reason to invite such interest. Instead, I thought to bide my time until now. Tomorrow I will leave London, and so will you. We will not be subjected to the full glare of society’s interest.”

“How do you know I will be leaving London?”

“Because I have issued an invitation to the Thierrys and to you to visit at Somersham Place—hence my interest in Thierry’s return.” He raised a hand, touched her cheek. “I thought that there, I could . . . persuade you that marriage to me would be your wisest choice.”

She arched a brow at him. “Persuade?” Sweeping around, she gestured to the door through which the four others had gone. “You havedeclared we are to wed!” The recollection sparked her temper; she let her eyes flash as she swung back to face him. “And now you are going to behave as if the matter is signed and sealed.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “When it is not!”

He studied her, his features impassive. Then he said, his tone even, low—and steely, “Am I to understand,mignonne, that you were at the point of accepting me as your lover but that you are now balking at becoming my duchess?”

She looked him in the eye, then nodded. “Vraiment!There is no point taking that tone with me. It is a very different thing, being your wife compared with being your lover. I know the laws. A wife has no say in things—”

“Unless her husband is willing to indulge her.”

She narrowed her eyes, studied his—guilelessly blue. “Are you saying you would indulge me?”

He looked down at her. A long moment passed before he said, “Mignonne,I will indulge you in anything, with two caveats. One—I will never permit you to expose yourself to danger of any kind. Two—I will never allow you to develop any interest in any man other than myself.”

She raised her brows. “Not even your sons?”

“With the sole exception of our sons.”

She felt as if she were swaying, even though the ground felt firm beneath her feet. His offer was beyond tempting yet . . . To trust him to that degree—especially him, who understood her too well, who could slide around her temper, inflame her senses, who already held too much power over her.

As usual, he seemed to know what she was thinking—he seemed to track her thoughts through her eyes. His gaze was sharp, shrewd. Before she realized what he intended, he bent his head, touched his lips to hers.

Her own lips softened, clung—she reacted, kissed him, offered her lips, took his, before she’d even thought.

He drew away. Their eyes met, held.

“We were meant for each other,mignonne —can you not sense it? You will be my salvation—and I will be yours.”

A sound from the gallery beyond the closed door had them both turning. Sebastian swore beneath his breath. “We’ve run out of time tonight. Come.” Taking her elbow, he steered her to the door leading to the next room.

“I wish to leave this house.” She glanced at his hard face as he opened the door and ushered her through. She waited until he shut it, then stated, “I have not agreed to marry you.”

He met her gaze, studied her eyes, then nodded. “You have not agreed—yet.”

Helena growled as he urged her on.

“You are too wise to cut off your nose to spite your face—no matter how much your temper would like to.”

Shehated it that he could read her so well. “Bien,then I will visit your house andconsider your proposal.”

He ignored her waspish, decidedly haughty tone.

He opened another door, one leading into a minor corridor, avoiding the gallery altogether. “I will escort you downstairs to the front hall, then we’ll send for the Thierrys.” He glanced at her. “I fear you will need to guard your temper,mignonne . No one will believe you haven’t accepted me.”

She shot him another narrow-eyed look, but he was right—again. No one did. No one even thought to ask the question.

The Thierrys, summoned by a footman, joined them in the front hall. One glance at their faces was enough to confirm that the news was out and that they’d already heard.

“Ma petite!Such wonderful tidings!” Eyes wide, Marjorie hugged her delightedly. “Vraiment!It is a coup!” she whispered, then stepped back to let Thierry have his turn.

He, too, was openly thrilled. After congratulating her, he shook hands with Sebastian.

Who smiled easily, the very picture of a proud groom-to-be. Helena gritted her teeth, pressed her lips tightly together as Sebas-tian’s blue gaze came to rest on her face.

“I read your letter just this evening,” Thierry explained. “Mille pardons—I was from town. I came hereimmédiatement to tell madame and mademoiselle.”

Sebastian nodded, waving aside the apology. “It seems our secret is out.” He shrugged lightly. “It matters not at this juncture. I will be leaving London early tomorrow. If it’s convenient, I will send my traveling coach to Green Street with instructions to leave at eleven. That will allow you an easy drive into Cambridgeshire. You will arrive in the late afternoon.” He bowed. “And I will be there to greet you.”

“It is all most amiable,” Marjorie enthused. She gave him her hand. “We will be most thrilled to visit at such a grand house. I have heard it is magnificent.”

Sebastian inclined his head; his lips quirked as he turned to Helena. “And you,mignonne, will you, too, be thrilled?” He murmured the words, deliberately suggestive, as he brushed his lips to her fingers.

Helena raised her brows. “As to that, Your Grace, we shall see.”