The promise in a kiss

Chapter Eight

HADhe truly been thinking of marrying her all along? Swaying as St. Ives’s traveling coach rumbled through the countryside, Helena considered the possibility. She would rate it no higher than that—he was the type of man she understood; regardless of his reputation, he would always adhere to honor’s dictates. Especially over a woman such as she.

Unwritten rules had plagued her all her life; she comprehended them instinctively. Regardless of whether marrying her had always been his intention, on being discovered in a compromising situation, he would have reacted precisely as he had, giving her the protection of his name. And then insisting, making her believe, that he’d wanted to marry her from the first. Honor would have dictated the first action, his eccentric kindness the second.

She stifled a sniff. Glanced across the carriage at Louis, slumped, unhandsomely asleep, mouth agape. Louis had been drinking; he’d stumbled down the stairs this morning looking like death, his skin pasty, his eyes heavily shadowed. He’d barely acknowledged the Thierrys’ concerned inquiries, waving aside all offers of breakfast, tight-lipped and trembly.

Which was altogether unlike Louis. He usually craved attention, grabbed all that was offered.

If she had to guess, she would say something had occurred to shake him badly. She couldn’t imagine what.

Marjorie sat beside her, thrilled, happy, and relieved. Thierry sat opposite his wife, relaxed, less worried than he’d appeared in recent days. Marjorie’s maid, Thierry’s valet, and Louis’s man Villard were following in another carriage with the baggage; the maid who had been tending Helena had come down with a cold and been left behind.

The St. Ives traveling coach had appeared precisely on time—there had, of course, been no question that they would accept St. Ives’s invitation and journey into Cambridgeshire. For her, it was an unexpected challenge, a sudden and unanticipated change in direction.

Secure, safe, and warm—the coach was the epitome of luxury, all velvet and leather, the doors and windows fitted so well that not a single draft could get in—yet she was not of a mind to allow herself to be lulled into complaisance. Marrying a man like Sebastian Cynster had never been part of her plans. Nevertheless, here she was, all but formally affianced to a man as powerful as any she’d ever known. That fact alone spoke volumes. Between Fabien and Sebastian there was, she judged, little to choose—not in the matter of real power, the ability to make things happen.

Fabien was a master. Sebastian was a past master. Even worse.

With the usual contrariness of fate, that point was now a very strong argument urging her to accept him.

If she did, she’d be safe from Fabien.

But at what cost?

That, she told herself as she glimpsed a pair of imposing gateposts ahead, was what she had to learn.

Her first sight of Somersham Place, principal residence of the Dukes of St. Ives, distracted her. The coach rumbled through the open gates, then bowled along a well-tended drive bordered by trees, short stretches of lawn, and shrubs. Then they rounded a curve and left the trees behind—and the house stood before them, pale in the weak light of the winter’s day.

Immense, imposing, impressive, yet not cold. Helena studied it, trying to find the right words. Built of sand-colored stone, the façade and all the walls she could see had stood for many years; they were solid, established, and had mellowed, settling into the landscape that had been created around them. The wide lawns, the size of the trees that dotted them, the way the lake she glimpsed beyond the lawns sat so perfectly within the vista, testified that both house and gardens had matured and reached a certain harmony.

Accustomed to the heavily structured, geometrically exact surrounds of French noble houses, Helena was intrigued by the lack of all such formality here. Despite that lack, the result was magnificent, palatial—unquestionably the home of a wealthy and powerful man. Yet there was more, something else. Something unexpected.

The house was welcoming. Alive. Oddly warm—as if the stone façade were a benevolent defense protecting some gentler existence within.

A bemusing observation, yet as the coach halted before the sweep of steps leading up to the front door, she couldn’t shake the conviction.

Thierry descended first, then handed her down. Moving past him, she fought at least to mask the eagerness that seized her—to hide it from Sebastian, who had come out of the door as the carriage rolled up and was now descending the steps with his usual languid grace.

She offered her hand; he took it and bowed, then straightened and drew her to him. Turning with her, he let his gaze travel along the handsome façade, then glanced at her, arching a brow. “Dare I hope my home meets with your approval,mignonne ?”

The curve of his long lips, the light in his eye, suggested he knew that it did.

Helena lifted her chin. “I have yet to see beyond its façade, Your Grace. It’s common knowledge façades can be deceiving.”

Their gazes met, held, then, his smile deepening, he inclined his head. “Indeed.”

Turning, he greeted Thierry and Marjorie, exchanged a nod with Louis, then led them indoors.

In the front hall Sebastian introduced her to his butler, Webster, and the housekeeper, a Mrs. Swithins. The latter was an unflappable, matronly woman; on learning of Helena’s lack of a maid, she promised to send a girl up. “I’ll have your bags taken up and unpacked the instant they arrive.”

“Until then,” Sebastian said, “we’ll repair to the drawing room.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Mrs. Swithins bobbed a curtsy. “Tea will be ready—you need only ring.”

Sebastian inclined his head, apparently unperturbed by the woman’s familiarity; Helena inwardly shook her head. The English were different in many ways. She found their easier manners relaxing.

As Sebastian ushered them across the hall, she struggled not to look this way and that, to stare about her. Despite the fact that it was still weeks to Christmas, the scent of evergreens hung in the air. A holly wreath sporting bright red berries was mounted over the huge hearth at the end of the hall.

She’d fully expected that odd promise of warmth to be merely a feature of the façade. Instead . . . it wasn’t warmth, real warmth, but rather a lingering sense of peace, of harmony, of happiness past, present, and anticipated that radiated from the walls, enfolding her in its welcome.

Fabien’s fortress, Le Roc, was cold and barren; she’d never sensed any warmth there. Her own home, Cameralle, was . . . cool. It might, she thought, dredging her memories of the time her parents had been alive, once have held a similar sense of peace, but that had faded, dissipated; the long halls were now filled with a quiet sense of waiting.

Here there was a sense of waiting, too, but it was different—expectant, confident, as if happiness and joy were assured.

A footman opened a door; Sebastian ushered her through. She put aside her fanciful thoughts as a short, plump lady with brown hair and soft brown eyes rose from the chaise, laying aside the book she’d been reading.

“Allow me to present my aunt, Lady Clara.”

Clara smiled warmly and clasped her hand. “Welcome, my dear. I’m delighted to meet you.”

Helena smiled back. She would have curtsied, but Clara stopped her, tightening her grip on her hand.

“I’m not at all clear, dear, who has precedence. Let’s not confuse the issue—I won’t curtsy if you won’t.”

Helena laughed and inclined her head. “It will be as you wish.”

“Good! And you will call me Clara, won’t you?” Patting her hand, Clara turned to greet Marjorie with the same rather vague benevolence, then waved them to seats.

“Do ring, Sebastian, and ask for tea.” Subsiding onto the chaise, Clara waved him to the bellpull, then stopped, considering Thierry and Louis. “But perhaps the gentlemen would like something stronger?”

Thierry smiled and shook his head, assuring her that tea would suit him admirably.

Louis had blanched at the mention of sustenance. He waved his hands. “No—I thank you. Nothing for me.” He retreated to a chair a little way from the group, summoning a weak smile as he sat.

Sebastian obeyed and, when Webster arrived, ordered the tea to be brought in; he seemed unperturbed at being the recipient of Clara’s orders. His aunt was clearly another who did not go in awe of him.

They sat down to conversation and tea served in exquisite bone china; Helena was tempted to check—she suspected the set was de Sèvres’s. Marjorie and Clara had settled into an easy patter. The china tweaked Helena’s curiosity; she glanced around the room with newly opened eyes.

It was as she’d guessed; every single item her eye alighted on attested to its owner’s wealth. But not only that; most pieces were not new. They spoke of the family’s long-standing prominence, of the luxury and affluence Sebastian and Clara doubtless took for granted. Indeed, it was the same state of worldly grace into which Helena herself had been born, in which she felt most at home. It occurred to her that in the space of an hour she already felt comfortable here.

Her gaze slid to Sebastian. He sat elegantly relaxed in an armchair, apparently listening to Thierry satisfying Clara’s request to be told of the masquerade, yet his eyes, under their hooded lids, rested on her.

She looked away, sipped her tea, then set down the cup. Looked again at its delicacy. Felt the padded softness of the velvet cushions at her back, the thickness of the Aubusson carpet beneath her shoes.

Seduction took many forms. Sebastian, she was sure, knew them all.

Shortly after, he took pity on Thierry and Louis and offered to show them around the house. The instant the door closed behind them, Clara turned to her. “Now, I daresay you’d like to hear about the Place.”

Helena blinked, then nodded. “Please.”

Within minutes she realized she had a firm supporter in Clara, that the older woman had, apparently on sight, decided she was the perfect wife for Sebastian, on whom, it quickly became apparent, she doted. She was his paternal aunt; she’d married young and been widowed early. Having spent most of her life at Somersham Place, she was acquainted with every aspect of running the great house.

It all poured from her; Helena listened and found herself pulled in, asking questions, drawing on Clara’s knowledge. Managing a house this size—and the estate was formidable, too—was precisely the challenge she’d been raised and trained to meet, the challenge that, until now, Fabien had denied her. She might own vast estates and a château as well, but, unmarried, she’d lived under her guardian’s auspices, for the most part under his roof. Cameralle was open but barely staffed—just enough to keep the house functioning for Ariele, who often retired there.

She’d never been a hostess, never had the chance to test herself in that arena, never tasted the joy of social triumph. As she listened to Clara paint a glowing picture of the purview of the Duchess of St. Ives, Helena hungered for the opportunity, thirsted for the position. Even knowing that Sebastian’s machinations had probably extended to foreseeing such an outcome didn’t dim her desire.

She was who she was—she’d long ago stopped imagining she could change that. She’d reluctantly accepted the fact that meant she would always be, as Sebastian had labeled her, a prize for powerful men. Sitting on the chaise listening to Clara’s words, full realization struck. If she accepted all that, there was no reason she couldn’t embrace the rest—the chance to claim her birthright as the wife of a powerful man.

Years of dealing with Fabien stopped her thoughts at that point, gave her the strength to pull back, out of the grip of the dream.

But the dream lingered in her mind as they finished the tea cakes, then Clara offered to show them their rooms.

“Helena.”

They were crossing the gallery when Sebastian called. Helena turned to see him standing by one of the long windows.

“Hates to be kept waiting—forever impatient!” Clara spoke softly, then squeezed her arm, easing her in Sebastian’s direction. “I’ll take Marjorie on, then return for you. I won’t be long.”

Nodding, Helena turned and walked down the gallery. Sebastian watched her approach. Fabien had the same ability to project a predatory stillness, yet with Fabien she’d never felt it personally, never felt any physical threat.

Never felt the slightest wish to embrace that threat. To encourage it.

Halting before Sebastian, she smiled and arched a brow. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Sebastian met her gaze. “Mignonne, do you think you could possibly use my name when we are private?”

Her lips twitched. “If you wish.” She looked down, hiding the smile he’d wanted to see. Without thinking, he raised a hand and tipped up her face.

He studied her wide eyes, took a certain satisfaction in their arrested expression. “I suspect it would be wise for me to write to your guardian informing him of my interest.” He paused, then added, “I do not wish to dally over the formalities of our wedding.”

An understatement; he wanted her to be his—now, today, this minute. The strength of that desire was strong enough to shake even him.

She lifted her chin from his fingers but continued to meet his gaze. “That will not be necessary.”

Her expression was one of considerable satisfaction. It was his turn to arch a brow.

She smiled. “I do not trust my guardian, so when he suggested I come to England and look for a suitable husband, I asked for his permission to marry a suitably eligiblepartiin writing.”

“From your smug expression, I take it he complied?”

“Oui. And there is a friend of my family, an old friend of my father’s who remains attached to me—he is a judge and much experienced in such matters. I showed him the letter on our way through Paris—he confirmed that, as I had hoped, that document is all the permission I need.”

“Provided the gentleman is suitable in terms of title, estate, and income, as I recall. Were there any other stipulations?”

She shook her head. “Just those three.”

Sebastian read her self-congratulation in her eyes and smiled. “Very good. In that case I see no reason to disturb your guardian just yet.”

Once he’d declared his hand to Geoffre Daurent, it was more than likely the man would prove difficult over the settlements, try to wring concessions from him and generally drag his feet. Helena’s route had a great deal to recommend it.

“My commendations,mignonne . Such foresight is enviable.”

She smiled; her lids veiled her eyes as she turned as Clara reappeared. “You are not the only one who can scheme, Your Grace.”

Clara escorted Helena to a large bedchamber halfway along one wing.

“The Thierrys are at the end, so you may be comfortable.” Clara glanced about, noting the brushes and bottles on the dressing table, the trunks already emptied and set in one corner. “Now I can summon your maid and introduce you, if you wish.”

“No, no.” Helena turned from her own survey. The huge four-poster bed, hung with silk tapestries, draped in satin, had captured her attention. “I believe I will rest for an hour or so. I have time, have I not?”

“Indeed you have, dear. We keep town hours, more or less, so we’ll dine at eight. Shall I tell the maid to wake you? Her name is Heather.”

“I’ll ring.” The idea of an hour of blissful peace sounded wonderful.

“Then I’ll leave you.” Clara turned to the door, then stopped and glanced back. Her eyes, Helena noted, had turned misty.

“I never thought Sebastian would marry, and that would have been a very big mistake.” Clara paused, then added, “Words can’t express how pleased I am you’re here.”

With that she departed, gently closing the door, leaving Helena pondering the wooden panels. She had never looked to be here, in this position, yet . . . there was much to be said for being a duchess.

Sebastian’s duchess.

She drifted to the window. It looked out over a rose garden to the lake. Dusk was rapidly falling. The gardens seemed extensive; tomorrow she’d investigate. Returning to the dressing table, she lit a lamp, then sat and started to pluck pins from her hair.

The mass tumbled down around her shoulders as a knock fell on the door.

Sebastian? That first thought was immediately superseded by the reflection that it was unlikely. Ignoring the sudden thrill that had flashed through her, and its subsequent fading, she called, “Come.”

The door opened; she turned and saw Louis standing in the doorway. She rose. “What is it?” He really did not look well.

“These are for you.”

He held out two letters. Crossing to the door, Helena took them.

Louis shifted as she glanced at them. “I’ll leave you to read them. Once you have”—he gestured vaguely—“we’ll talk.”

He turned and shambled off. Helena watched him go, then, frowning, closed the door and returned to the dressing table.

One packet was addressed to her in Fabien’s distinctive hand. The other was from Ariele. Dropping Fabien’s letter on the table, Helena sat and broke the seal on her sister’s missive.

As she read the first words, she relaxed, very conscious of relief. The way Louis had behaved, she’d already tensed, worrying . . . but no. Ariele was well. The daily round at Cameralle went on much as usual.

Helena smiled again and again as she read the first sheet—read of their ponies and the exploits of the geese. Halfway down the second sheet, Ariele broke off, then continued.

Phillipe has arrived (how odd!). He says monsieur le comte wishes me to come to Le Roc and we must leave tomorrow. Bother! I do not like Le Roc, but I suppose I will have to go.

Helena paused, looked up, frowned. Fabien had claimed Ariele’s guardianship as well as her own. Phillipe was Louis’s younger brother; she had not met him in recent years. He’d always been quieter than Louis, but from Ariele’s words, it seemed Phillipe, like Louis, was now engaged in Fabien’s service.

Ignoring the ripple of unease the knowledge brought, Helena read on. After two paragraphs bemoaning the necessity of obeying Fabien, Ariele broke off again.

This time, when she resumed, it was clearly some days later.

I am now at Le Roc. Fabien says if I finish this letter he will send it with one of his. I am well, but alas this place is gloomy. Marie is ill and confined to her bed—Fabien said I should mention it. How I envy you in England, rainy and cold though it may be. It is rainy and cold here—I should have come with you. Still, if you were to find a useful Englishman and marry him, Fabien would be bound to let me come to be your bridesmaid. I most sincerely wish you luck in your search, dearest sister.

I remain, as ever, your loving little sister,

Ariele

Helena’s thumbs were pricking. Why? Fabien never did anything without good reason. What could he want with Ariele? And why did he wish her to know that Marie, his wife, a meek and sickly soul he had married for her connections, was ailing?

Laying aside Ariele’s letter, she reached for Fabien’s.

As always, he was direct and succinct.

As she read his words, Helena’s world—one that had started to glow with rosy hope—shattered, then re-formed into a dark landscape of despair.

As you will see from your sister’s letter, she is now at Le Roc. She is currently well, as happy as might be expected, and intact. There is a price, my dear Helena, for her continued well-being.

The gentleman in whose house you are now residing has something of mine. It is a family heirloom, and I wish it back. I have been unsuccessful over the years in convincing him to part with it, so you will now please me by retrieving it and returning it to me.

The heirloom in question is a dagger in its sheath. It is eight inches long, curved, with a large ruby set in the hilt. It was given to one of my ancestors by the Sultan of Arabia. There is no other like it—you will know it the instant you see it.

One thing—do not seek to discharge this duty by enlisting the aid of St. Ives. He will not part with the dagger, not for any reason. Do not think to appeal to his good nature—it will avail you naught and cost your sister dearly.

I expect you to obey me to the letter in this, and with all reasonable speed.

If you fail to bring me the dagger by Christmas, in recompense I will take Ariele as my mistress. Should she fail to please me, there are houses in Paris always ready to pay highly for tender chickens such as she.

The choice is yours, but I know you will not fail your sister.

I will expect you by midnight on Christmas Eve.

Yours, etc.

Fabien

How long she sat and stared at the letter Helena had no idea. She felt ill; she had to sit unmoving until the nausea passed.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine . . .

Then she did, and that was worse.

“Ariele!”With a muffled cry, she bent forward, covering her face with her hands. The thought of what awaited her precious little sister if she failed swamped her mind, made her wits seize.

Her heart, her whole chest, hurt; a metallic taste filled her mouth.

The lesson was abundantly clear.

She had never been free of Fabien—he’d been pulling her strings all along. The letter she’d felt so clever about obtaining was worthless. She would never get an opportunity to use it.

Fabien had played her for a fool.

She would never be free.

She would never have a chance to live. To have a life that was hers and not his.

“Mignonne,are you well?”

Helena forced her lips to curve, glanced up briefly as she gave Sebastian her hand. She still couldn’t think, could barely function. Until that moment she’d thought she was covering her state well; no one else seemed to have noticed. But Sebastian had just joined them in the small drawing room and had come straight to her side. “It is nothing,” she managed, breathless, her lungs tight. “It’s just the traveling, I think.”

He was silent for a moment; she didn’t dare meet his eyes. Then he murmured, “We will have to trust that dinner will revive you. Come, let us see.”

Collecting the others with a gesture, he led her to the family dining room, an elegant apartment that was considerably more intimate than the huge dining room she’d glimpsed from the front hall. As he sat her on his right, Helena could almost wish that he had chosen the larger room—she would have been farther from him and his too-sharp gaze.

Time had not been on her side. Before she’d had a chance to relieve her despair, give vent to her fury—to rail, to weep, to wail, then, perhaps, to calm and think—a maid had come scratching at her door, reminding her it was already late. She’d thrust the letters under her jewel box, then had to rush to get gowned, to show the maid how to dress her hair.

Rage, despair, and fear were a potent mix. She had to keep the roiling emotions bottled up, find strength, dredge deep, and put on a good show—had to manufacture smiles and small laughs, force her mind to follow the conversations rather than succumb to her feelings. Her performance was made more difficult by Sebastian, a shrewd observer. He sat relaxed in his huge chair, fingers lightly curled about the stem of his wineglass, and watched her from beneath his hooded lids.

The thing she remembered most of that hour was the sapphire he wore on his right hand, how it winked in the candlelight as his fingers languidly caressed the glass. The jewel was the same color as his eyes. Equally mesmerizing.

Then dinner was over. She could remember nothing of what had been said. They all rose, and she realized that the gentlemen would remain to pass the port. Relief swamped her. The smile she gave Sebastian as he released her hand came more easily.

She retired with Clara and Marjorie to the drawing room. By the time Sebastian entered with Thierry and Louis twenty minutes later, she had herself under control. She made herself wait until the tea trolley was brought in, until they’d all sipped and chatted. She increasingly fell silent.

When Sebastian came to relieve her of her empty cup, she smiled weakly—at him, at them all.

“I fear I have a headache, too.” Louis had already retired, claiming the same ailment.

Thierry, Marjorie, and Clara all murmured in sympathy. Sebastian merely watched her. Clara offered to get her a powder.

“If I retire now and get a good night’s sleep,” she replied, still smiling faintly but reassuringly, “I am sure I will be recovered by morning.”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”

She nodded, then looked up at Sebastian. He took her hand, helped her to her feet. She curtsied to the others, murmuring her good nights, then turned to the door. Her hand still in his, Sebastian turned with her, walked with her.

He paused before they reached the door. She halted, glanced up at him. Met his blue eyes, felt them search hers. Then he raised his other hand, smoothed a fingertip across her brow.

“Sleep well,mignonne. You will not be disturbed.”

There was something in his tone, in his gaze, as if he would tell her, reassure her . . . She was too drained, too exhausted to fathom his meaning.

Then he lifted her hand, turned it, pressed his lips to the point where her pulse fluttered at her wrist. Let his lips linger until she felt the heat flow. Raising his head, he released her. “Sweet dreams,mignonne .”

She nodded, bobbed a curtsy, then walked to the door. A footman opened it; she sailed through. The door shut softly behind her; only then was she free of Sebastian’s gaze.

Wanting nothing more than a pillow on which to lay her aching head and the privacy to ease her heavy heart, to release her pent-up feelings, she climbed the stairs, crossed the gallery, and headed down the corridor to her room. Just before she reached her door, a shadow shifted; Louis stepped out to intercept her.

“What is it?” She made no effort to hide her anger.

“I . . . wanted to know. Will you do it?”

She stared at him blankly. “Of course.” Then she realized. Fabien, as usual, was playing his cards close to his chest. Louis did not know with what his uncle had threatened her. If he had known, not even he would have asked such a stupid question.

“Uncle insistsyou fetch the item—not me.”

Louis’s surly tone nearly made her laugh. Hysterically. He was sulking because Fabien was using her talents, not his.

But why? Her mind fixed on the point, turned it over—then she saw. Because she was a woman—a woman Sebastian wanted. He’d apparently been too strong for Fabien’s persuasions, so Fabien, with his usual vindictive touch, had chosen as his thief one who would not only succeed in retrieving the dagger but who, in doing so, would also dent Sebastian’s pride.

Fabien would do what he could to hurt Sebastian; that it would hurt her, too, would neither occur to him nor perturb him if it did. Indeed, he would probably view any hurt she suffered as due punishment for her temerity in forcing that letter from him.

Louis scowled at her. “If you require any assistance, I’m to help you. But I would strongly suggest that until we leave, you keep St. Ives at arm’s length—if you take my meaning.”

Helena stared at him. How did he know? She tipped up her chin and looked down her nose at him. “I will retrieve your uncle’s property as I see fit—you need not let my methods concern you.”

With a dismissive nod, she swept past him to her door, opened it, and went in.

Louis stood still, staring after her. When the door clicked shut, he turned and headed for his room.

Villard was waiting. “Well?”

Louis shut his room door, ran his hands through his hair. “She says she will do it.”

“Bon!Then all is progressing, and there is no reason you cannot write and tell monsieur le comte—”

“No!” Agitated, Louis paced before the hearth. Then he flung up his hands. “Marriage!Whoever would haveimagined ? Fabien said St. Ives had publicly decreed he would not wed, and that was years ago! Now suddenly the talk is of a wedding!”

By the bed folding shirts, Villard looked down. After a moment he murmured, “From what you said, it seems unlikely marriage was on monsieur le duc’s mind, not until you directed those others into the library . . .”

Louis missed the malicious glance Villard slanted his way. “Precisely!” He continued to pace. “But what could I do? He would have had her there and then—and then what? Retired merrily to his estate for Christmas, without her. No. I had to stop him—and better those others than me. He would have been alerted had I gone in.”

Villard’s lip curled; he looked down at the shirts.

“I tell you, I had palpitations when I heard what everyone was whispering. No one cared about the masquerade anymore—all the talk was of St. Ives marrying!”

“I believe it is something of a coup, which is why, perhaps, a word to monsieur le comte—”

“No, I tell you!No! Things are back on track now. Helena knows what she must do—and she is not a fool, that one. She will not risk monsieur le comte’s displeasure. She will not give herself to St. Ives.”

“From your description, I thought she had.”

“No. I am sure . . . He must have overwhelmed her. His reputation isformidable . Although I would have thought . . .” Louis frowned, then waved his tangled thoughts aside. “No matter. It is settled. She will not fail, nor will she give in to St. Ives—not now.”

Villard studied the neat pile of shirts and let the silence grow. Then he said, “What if—purely a supposition—what if she accepts him?”

“She hasn’t. I would have heard of it. But even if she needs to do so, to lead him to believe all is progressing as it should, then weddings for such as they are take months to arrange. And they’d have to get Fabien’s permission.Huh! ”

The thought cheered Louis. He actually smiled.

Villard drew breath, lifted his head. “Do you not think it might be wise to warn monsieur le comte?”

Louis shook his head. “No need to start hares. All is proceeding as Fabien wished. The matter of this marriage is incidental.” Louis gestured contemptuously. “There is no need to fuss, and Fabien won’t care. As long as he gets his dagger back—that is all he cares about.”

Villard silently exhaled, picked up the pile of shirts, and carried them to the wardrobe.

Helena sat at Sebastian’s right at the breakfast table the next morning. As she buttered a piece of toast, she mentally recited what she had to do.

She had to hold Sebastian off, keep him at arm’s length; Louis had been right about that. She had to find and take Fabien’s dagger. And then she had to flee. Fast. Because nothing was surer than that Sebastian would come after her.

There would be no point taking the dagger, then trying to brazen it out. A dagger he’d taken from a French nobleman goes missing while a French noblewoman was visiting? Half a second, she estimated, would be all it would take for him to figure that out.

She would have to leave him and run.

He would be furious. He would see her act as a betrayal.

He’d assume she’d been part of Fabien’s plot all along . . .

The realization had her raising her head, then she blocked off her thoughts—reached for the jam. Set her jaw.

Nothing else mattered but saving Ariele. She had no choice; she couldn’t afford to let any other consideration sway her.

The Thierrys and Clara were discussing a walk in the gardens; Louis had yet to appear.

She nearly jumped when Sebastian ran a finger along the back of her hand. Eyes wide, she met his gaze.

His lips lifted lightly, but his gaze was sharp. “I wondered,mignonne, if you were sufficiently recovered to risk a ride. You might find the fresh air more invigorating than a slow stroll around the gardens.”

Her heart leaped at the thought of a ride. And on horseback they wouldn’t be that close—she wouldn’t be risking any contact that might give her away, that might test the walls she was trying to erect around her heart.

Letting her lips curve, letting her eagerness show, she nodded. “I would like that very much.”

He waved negligently. “As soon as you’re ready.”

They met in the hall half an hour later, she in her riding habit, he in long boots and a riding jacket. With a wave he ushered her on. They left the house by a side door and crossed the lawns, strolling under the bare branches of towering oaks to a stable block beyond.

He’d sent word ahead; their mounts stood waiting. A huge gray hunter for him, a frisky bay mare for her. He lifted her to the mare’s saddle, then gathered the gray’s reins and mounted. The beast shifted, snorted, eager to be away; the mare danced.

“Shall we?” Sebastian raised a brow.

Helena laughed—her first spontaneous reaction since reading Fabien’s letter—and wheeled the mare.

They left the stable yard side by side, stride for stride. Sebastian held the gray in. The horse shook his head once, then settled, accepting the edict, accepting the masterful hand on his reins. Inwardly smiling, Helena looked ahead.

Despite the month, it was clear, but the morning chill had yet to leave the air. Soft clouds filled the skies, blocking out the weak sun, yet it was pleasant riding through the quiet fields, empty and brown, already touched by winter’s hand. There was peace here, too. Helena felt it touch her, soothe her.

She’d ridden since she could stand, the stocky ponies of the Camargue her steeds. The activity required no conscious effort, leaving her free to look around, to appreciate, to enjoy. The mare was responsive, easy to manage; they rode without any need for words, she wheeling as Sebastian did, following him across his lands.

They topped a rise. To her surprise, the land beyond lay flat, rolling before them to the horizon. She’d never seen such a sight before, but Sebastian didn’t pause; he led her down the gentle slope into that seemingly infinite expanse.

A raised path led between two fields. They followed it, then Sebastian angled down into the pasture and set the gray to a canter. Helena followed—and suddenly realized the pasture was wet, waterlogged, yet not marshy. Sebastian let the gray stretch his legs; she matched him, fearlessly keeping pace, feeling the wind rush to meet them, then racing away through her hair.

Despite all, she felt the heavy cloud that lay over her heart lift, ease. Blow away.

They rode on through the morning, stride for stride, the sky wide and windswept above. The call of larks and waterbirds was the only sound to counterpoint the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

Then another path—a dike—appeared. The horses took the slope easily, then Sebastian wheeled and reined in. He glanced at her.

She met his gaze, a smile on her lips, a laugh bubbling up. “Oh!” She dragged in a breath. “It’s just like home!”

“Home?”

“Cameralle is in the Camargue. It’s”—she looked around—“not the same but similar.” Gazing up, she lifted her arms to the sky. “Like here, the sky is wide and open.” Lowering her arms, she stretched them to either side. “And the marsh runs forever.”

She grinned and set the mare ambling beside the gray. “Many think it too wild a place.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.

“And the occupants too wild for decency?”

She laughed and didn’t answer.

It wasn’t hard to keep her worries in check for the rest of that magical morning. In the wilds of the Camargue she had always been free; she felt the same sense of freedom, of being unfettered, here. Of being allowed to be free.

Even after, when, tired but refreshed, they cantered back to the stable, she managed, by dint of will, to keep her mind free of Fabien’s contagion. She was still smiling when they reached the house. Sebastian led her to a side door, held it open, and ushered her in.

She entered, then stopped. The door gave directly into a small parlor, not a corridor as she’d supposed. The door clicked shut as she turned. Then Sebastian was there, and she was in his arms.

Lightly held, not seized. Cradled like something precious, something he wished to own.

She looked into his face, into those blue eyes, and saw that truth etched in the blue.

His hand was beneath her chin, tipping up her face.

Her lids fell as he lowered his head.

Practice made perfect. A self-evident fact, at least in this case. Their lips seemed to know each other’s—touched, brushed, then fused with the confidence of familiarity.

The pressure increased. She hesitated, for one instant held back—realized in the same moment that she couldn’t, couldn’t hide from him in this, for he would know and grow suspicious. Realized she couldn’t bear to let Fabien triumph in denying her even this.

Just this was all he’d left her—whatever experience she was brave enough to grasp, to seize. To take for herself—now.

Deliberately, she parted her lips, lured Sebastian in, tasted him and gloried—deliberately seized.

Just a kiss. Neither pushed for more, yet there was a flagrant promise in the melding of their mouths, in the hot tangle of their tongues. In the way their bodies came together, soft to hard, hips to thighs, breast to chest.

She took and he gave; he made demands and she met them gladly. Passion awakened, rose, stretched; desire watched from the wings. Heat, deep pleasure, and that sweet, aching yearning—they were there, hovering, yet held back by a knowing hand. A tantalizing promise.

How powerful could a kiss be?

Enough to leave them both panting, both urgently wanting more, yet conscious through the pounding that filled their ears of the luncheon gong echoing through the house.

Their eyes met, glances touching in sure recognition, then sliding away. Breaths merged, then they kissed again, came together again, a last caress before easing apart.

He held her until she nodded, once more sure on her feet. He released her but reluctantly, sliding his hands down her arms as she turned to the door. His fingers tangled with hers, twined, then slid away.

“Until later,mignonne .”

She heard the deep murmur as she reached the door. Heard the promise in the words. She hesitated but could think of nothing to say. Opening the door, she led the way through. Sebastian followed.