The Promise in a Kiss (17 page)

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 eligible
parti
in 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.”

C
lara 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.

“M
ignonne,
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 insists
you
fetch the item—not me.”