The Promise in a Kiss (10 page)

Which meant . . . that she would indeed remember every touch of the pearls, warm from his hand, against her bare breasts. Would indeed wonder . . .

She was getting very close to being out of her depth. She couldn't let him win the next round.

And she couldn't call a halt to the game.

S
he was doing it again—pulling back, tumbling obstacles into his path.

Across Lady Cottlesford's ballroom, Sebastian watched Helena with something very like aggravation simmering behind his façade.

Time was running out. He hadn't imagined, when he'd set out to make her admit she wanted him, that it would take this long. There were only five days left to Lady Lowy's masquerade, the event that in recent years had heralded the ton's exodus from London.

He had five more days—five nights, more accurately—to gain her capitulation. To gain some indication that she would welcome his advances quite aside from a formal proposal of marriage. That was the minimum he would accept.

Five nights. Plenty of time normally. Except, with her, he'd already been laying siege for seven nights. Although he'd dented her walls, he hadn't yet set them crumbling, hadn't yet convinced her to lower her drawbridge and welcome him in.

“How's the wife hunting going?”

Martin. Sebastian turned as his youngest brother clapped him on the shoulder.

One glance at his face and Martin took a step back, held up his hands. “No one heard, I swear.”

“Pray that that's true.” Yet another irritation.

“Well? Do you still have your eye on the comtesse? Fetching piece, I admit, but sharp, don't you think?”

“Let her hear you speak of her like that and she's liable to demand I string you up by your thumbs. Or worse.”

“Fire-eater, is she?”

“Her temper is marginally better than mine.”

“Oh, all right, all right, I'll stop teasing. But you can't deny the issue has a certain personal relevance. You can hardly expect me to be uninterested.”

“Uninterested, no.
Less
interested, certainly.”

Martin ignored that and looked around. “Have you seen Augusta?”

“I believe,” Sebastian said, studying the lace at his cuff, “that our dear sister has quit the capital. Huntly sent word this morning.”

Martin glanced sharply at him. “She's all right?”

“Oh, entirely. But she and I agreed she'd had enough of the ton for the nonce, and as I've asked her to organize the festivities at Somersham, she had plenty to distract her.”

“Ah!” Martin nodded. “Excellent strategy.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured. “I do my poor best.” Would that he could do better with a certain comtesse.

“There's Arnold. I must have a word.” Martin clapped him on the back. “Good luck, not that you need it, but for God's sake don't fail.”

With that injunction, he took himself off.

Sebastian resisted the urge to frown; instead, he looked across the room again—and realized he'd lost Helena.

“Damn!”

She must have been watching him, a good sign in itself. But . . .

He visually quartered the room but couldn't see her. Lips setting, he stepped away from the shadows and into the crowd.

It took him a good ten minutes of smiles, greetings, and sliding out of conversations before he came in sight of Mme Thierry, seated on a chaise. She was engaged in an animated conversation with Lady Lucas; Helena was nowhere in sight.

Sebastian swept the gathering again. His gaze fell on Louis de Sèvres. The man was Helena's nominal escort, but everyone assumed he was the protector sent by her family to keep a watchful eye on her. De Sèvres was ogling one of the Britten sisters. Sebastian strolled to his side.

His shadow alerted de Sèvres; he looked up—to Sebastian's surprise, he smiled and bowed obsequiously. “Ah—Your Grace. You are looking for my fair cousin? She has adjourned to hold court in the refreshment salon, I believe.”

Sebastian considered de Sèvres and suppressed the urge to shake his head. The man was supposed to be protecting her . . . Mme Thierry, too, had changed her tune. If none within the ton had yet fathomed his true motive—and he would certainly know if they had—then it was inconceivable that the Thierrys and de Sèvres had seen through his mask.

De Sèvres shifted under his scrutiny; Sebastian decided to accept the unlooked-for assistance until he had Helena in hand.
Then
he would investigate what was behind de Sèvres's encouragement.

He looked over de Sèvres's head to the archway into the smaller salon. “Indeed? If you'll excuse me?”

He didn't wait for any answer, but strolled on.

One glance through the archway and he saw what she'd done—fortified her defenses. She'd surrounded herself with, not gentlemen of the ilk of Were and the others she'd been assessing, but with the latest crop of bucks and bloods looking to make their mark.

They were he twelve years ago, drawn like moths to her flame and brash and bold enough to consider any madness, even the madness of challenging him.

Especially over her. They were not in his league, but would never admit it, certainly not in her presence, something he understood.

He pondered that, considered the sight of them gathered around her, considered the pearls lying about her throat, at her ears, encircling her wrists. He turned away and beckoned a footman.

H
elena breathed an inward sigh of relief when Sebastian quit the archway. She was rarely unaware of his gaze; over the last week it had become almost familiar, like a warm breath feathering her skin.

She quelled a shiver at the thought and doggedly focused her attention on young Lord Marlborough; although he was at least five years her senior, she still thought of him as young. Not experienced. Not . . . fascinating. At all.

But bored though she might be, at least she was safe. So she smiled and encouraged them to expand on their exploits. Their latest curricle races, the latest hell with its Captain Sharps, the latest outing of the fancy. They were so like little boys.

She'd relaxed, relaxed her guard, when a footman materialized at her elbow, a silver salver in his hand. He presented the salver to her; upon it resided a simple note. She considered it, picked it up. With a smile for the footman, who bowed and withdrew, then a swift smile around her protective circle, she stepped a little to the side and opened the note.

Which one will it be,
mignonne?
Pick one, and I will arrange that it will be he who will meet me. For when I come to fetch you from their midst, nothing is surer than that one of their number will be unable to resist and will challenge me. Of course, if you would prefer none meet his fate on some green field with tomorrow's dawn, then leave them and join me in the anteroom that gives off the front hall.

But if that is to be your choice, do not dally, mignonne, for I am not a patient man. If you do not appear shortly, I will come to fetch you.

Helena read the last words through a scarlet haze. Her hands shook as she refolded the note, then crammed it into the tiny pocket in her gown. She had to pause for an instant, draw breath, fight down her fury. Hold it in until she could let it loose on he who had provoked it.

“You must excuse me.” To her ears, her voice sounded strained, but none of her self-engrossed cavaliers seemed to notice. “I must return to Madame Thierry.”

“We'll escort you there,” Lord Marsh proclaimed.

“No—I beg you, do not put yourselves to the trouble. Madame is only just inside the ballroom.” Her tone commanding, Helena swept them with an assured glance.

They fell in with her wishes, murmuring their adieus, bowing over her hand—and forgetting her the minute she left them, she had not a doubt.

She reached the front hall without drawing undue attention. A footman directed her to the anteroom, down a short corridor away from the noise. She paused in the shadows of the corridor; eyes fixed on the door, she tweaked the note from her pocket, flicked it open, then she drew in a breath, gathered her fury about her, opened the door, and swept in.

The small room was dimly lit; a lamp burning low on a side table and the crackling fire were the only sources of light. Two armchairs flanked the fire; Sebastian rose from one, languidly, moving with his customary commanding grace.

“Good evening,
mignonne.
” The smile on his lips as he straightened was mildly, paternalistically, triumphant.

Helena shut the door behind her, heard the lock fall with a click.
“How dare you?”

She stepped forward, saw the smile fade from Sebastian's face as the light reached hers. “How
dare
you send me this?” She thrust the hand holding the note at him. Her voice quavered with sheer fury. “You think to entertain yourself by pursuing me, yet I have told you from the first that I will not be yours, my lord.” She let her eyes flash, let her tone lash, let her polite mask fall entirely. She stalked forward. “As you find it so difficult to accept my decision, my steadfast rejection of you, let me tell you why I am here in London, and why you will
never
advance your cause with me.”

With every word she felt stronger; her temper coalesced, hardened, infused her tone as she stopped two yards from him.

“I was sent to England to seek a husband—that you know. The reason I agreed to do so was to escape the clutches of my guardian, a powerful man of wealth, breeding, inflexible will, and unceasing ambition. Tell me, Your Grace, does that description sound familiar?”

She arched a brow at him, her expression contemptuous, coldly furious. “I am determined to use this opportunity to escape men such as my guardian, men such as yourself, men who think nothing—
nothing!
—of using a woman's emotions to manipulate her into doing as they wish.”

His expression had lost all hint of animation.
“Mignonne—”

“Do not call me that!”
She flung the injunction at him, flung her hands in the air. “I am not
yours
! Not yours to command, not yours to play with like a pawn on some chessboard!” She flourished his note again. “Without thinking, without in any way considering my feelings, on discovering yourself thwarted you reached for a pen and invoked guilt and fear so I would do as you wished. So that you would triumph.”

Sebastian tried to speak, but she cut him off with a violent slash of her hand.

“No! This time you will hear me out—and this time you will listen. Men like you—you are elegant, wealthy, powerful, and the reason you are so is because you are so adept at bending all around you to your will. And how do you accomplish that? By manipulation! It is second nature to you. You turn to manipulation with the same degree of thought you give to breathing. You cannot help yourself. Just look at how you ‘manage' your sister—and I'm quite sure you tell yourself it's for her own good, just as my guardian doubtless tells himself that all his machinations are indeed ultimately for my good, too.”

Sebastian held his tongue. Her anger burned, an almost visible flame. She reined it in, drew herself up. Her gaze remained steady on his.

“I have had half a lifetime of such managing, such manipulation—I will not suffer more. In your case, like my guardian, manipulating others—especially women—is part of your nature. It is part of who you are. You are helpless to change it. And the last man on earth I would consider as my consort is a man so steeped in the very characteristic I wish to flee.”

She flung his note at him; reflexively, he caught it.

“Never dare send me such a summons again.”

Her voice vibrated with fury and contempt; her eyes blazed with the same emotions.

“I do not wish to hear from you nor see you ever again, Your Grace.”

She swung on her heel and swept to the door. Sebastian watched as she opened it, went out; the door shut behind her.

He looked down at the note in his hand. With two fingers, he opened it, smoothed it. Reread it.

Then he crumpled it. With one flick, he sent it flying into the fire. The flames flared for an instant, then subsided.

Sebastian considered them, then turned and strode for the door.

I
T
started 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—what
was
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?

O
ther 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 we
have
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.”

A
dry, 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.