The Promise in a Kiss (16 page)

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 discussing
marriage
! 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 an
unmarried noblewoman
?”

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

“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 was
always
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 have
not
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 have
declared
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.”

She
hated
it that he could read her so well. “
Bien,
then I will visit your house and
consider
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 here
immédiatement
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.”

H
AD
he 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.

“H
elena.”

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.