The Promise in a Kiss (2 page)

November 1783

London

C
OLLETTE
had refused to divulge his name, her mad Englishman, yet there he stood, long, lean, and as handsome as ever, albeit seven years older. Surrounded by fashionable conversation, on her way from one group to the next, Helena halted, transfixed.

About her, Lady Morpleth's soirée was in full spate. It was mid-November, and the ton had turned their collective mind to the festive season. Holly abounded; the scent from evergreen boughs filled the air. In France, the approach to
la nuit de Noël
had long been another excuse for extravagance. Although the ties between London and Paris were slackening, in this, London still concurred; for glitter, for glamour, for richness and splendor, the ton's entertainments rivaled those of the French court. In terms of honest cheer, they excelled, for here there was no threat of social unrest, no
canaille
gathering in the shadows beyond the walls. Here, those wellborn and wealthy enough to belong to the elite could laugh, smile, and freely enjoy the whirl of activities filling the weeks leading to the celebration of the Nativity.

The smaller room into which Helena had ventured was crowded; as she stood staring into the main salon, the incessant chatter faded from her mind.

Framed by a connecting archway, he—the wild Englishman who had been the first ever to kiss her—paused to chat to some lady. A subtle smile curved his lips, still thin, still indolently mobile. Helena remembered how they'd felt on hers.

Seven years.

Her gaze raced over him. She hadn't seen him well enough in the gardens of the convent to catalog any changes, yet he still moved with the prowling grace she remembered, surprising in one so large. Devoid of powder and patches, the planes of his pale face seemed harder, more austere. His hair, now she could see its color, was a honey-toned brown, wavy locks drawn back in a queue secured with a black ribbon.

He was dressed with understated richness. Every garment bore the subtle stamp of a master, from the froth of expensive Mechlin lace at his throat, the abundant fall of the same lace over his long hands, to the exquisite cut of his silver-gray coat and darker gray breeches. Others would have had the coat trimmed with lace or braid. He had left it unadorned but for its big silver buttons. His waistcoat, darker gray heavily embroidered with silver, glimpsed as he moved, combined with the coat to create the impression of sleekly luxurious packaging concealing a prize even more sinfully rich.

In the salon crammed with lace, feathers, braids, and jewels, he dominated, and not just because of his height.

If the last seven years had left any mark at all, it was in his presence—that indefinable aura that clung to powerful men. He'd grown more powerful, more arrogant, more ruthless. The same seven years had made her an expert; power was, to her, as blatant as the color of skin.

Fabien de Mordaunt, comte de Vichesse, the aristocrat who'd exploited various family connections to have himself declared her guardian, exuded the same aura. The last seven years had left her both weary and wary of powerful men.

“
Eh, bien
. How goes it,
ma cousine
?”

Helena turned; she nodded coldly. “
Bon soir,
Louis.” He wasn't her cousin, not even distantly related; she refrained from haughtily reminding him of the fact. Louis was less than nothing; he was her keeper, no more than an extension of his uncle and master, Fabien de Mordaunt.

She could ignore Louis. Fabien she'd learned never to forget.

Louis's dark eyes were roving the room. “There are some likely prospects here.” He leaned his powdered head closer to murmur, “I've heard there's an English duke present. Unmarried. St. Ives. You would do well to garner an introduction.”

Helena raised her brows faintly and glanced about the salon. A duke? Louis did have his uses. He was devoted to his uncle's schemes, and in this instance she and Fabien were pursuing the same agenda, albeit for different reasons.

For the past seven years—almost from the time the Englishman had kissed her—Fabien had used her as a pawn in his games. Her hand was a prize much sought after by the powerful and wealthy families of France; she'd been
almost
betrothed more times than she could recall. But the volatility of the French state and the vicissitudes in the fortunes of the aristocratic families, so dependent on the king's whims, had meant cementing an alliance through her marriage had never been an option sufficiently attractive to Fabien. More attractive had been the game of dangling her fortune and person as a lure to draw those with influence into his net. Once he'd gained from them all he wanted, he would cast them out and again send her into the Paris salons to catch the attention of his next conquest.

How long the game would have gone on she dreaded to think—until she was too gray to be a lure? Luckily, at least for her, the increasing disaffection in France, the groundswell of discontent, had given Fabien pause. A natural predator, his instincts were sound—he didn't like the scent on the wind. She'd been certain he was considering a shift in his tactics even before the attempt to kidnap her.

That
had been frightening. Even now, standing beside Louis in the middle of a fashionable salon in a different country, she had to fight to quell a shiver. She'd been walking in the orchards of Le Roc, Fabien's fortress in the Loire, when three men had ridden up and tried to take her.

They must have been watching, biding their time. She'd fought, struggled—to no avail. They would have kidnapped her if it hadn't been for Fabien. He'd been riding past, had heard her screams and come galloping to her aid.

She might rail against Fabien's hold over her, but he protected what he regarded as his. At thirty-nine, he was still in his prime. One man had died; the other two had fled. Fabien had chased them, but they'd escaped.

That evening she and Fabien had discussed her future. Every minute of that private interview was engraved in her memory. Fabien had informed her the men had been hirelings of the Rouchefoulds. Like Fabien, the most powerful intrigants knew that a storm was coming; each family, each powerful man, was intent on seizing all estates, titles, and alliances they could. The more they built their power, the more likely they would be to weather the storm.

She'd become a target. Not just for the Rouchefoulds.

“I have received strongly worded requests for your hand from all four of the major families. All four.”
Fabien had fixed his dark eyes on her. “
As you perceive, I am not
aux anges.
All four constitutes an unwelcome problem
.”

A problem indeed, one fraught with risk. Fabien did not want to choose, to commit her fortune and by inference his support to any of the four. Favor one and the other three would slit his throat at the first opportunity. Metaphorically, definitely; possibly literally. All that, she'd understood; the observation that Fabien's manipulative schemes had come home to roost with a vengeance she had kept to herself.

“It is no longer an option to approve an alliance for you inside France, yet the pressure to bestow your hand will only increase.”
Fabien had eyed her thoughtfully, then continued in his silken purr,
“I am therefore of a mind to leave this now-unsatisfactory arena and move to potentially more productive fields.”

She'd blinked at him. He'd smiled, more to himself than her.

“In these troubling times it would, I feel, be in the best interests of the family to develop stronger connections with our distant relatives across the Channel.”

“You wish me to marry an émigré?”
She'd been shocked. Émigrés were generally of low social standing, those with no estates.

A frown had flitted through Fabien's eyes.
“No. I meant that if you were to attract the attentions of an English nobleman, one of station and estates equal to your own, it would provide not only a solution to our present dilemma but also a valuable connection against the uncertain future.”

She'd continued to stare, stunned, surprised, her mind racing.

Misinterpreting her silence, Fabien had drawled,
“Pray recall that the English nobility is largely if not exclusively composed of families descended from William. You might be forced to learn their ghastly language, but all of any consequence speak French and ape our ways. It would not be so uncivilized as to be insupportable.”

“I already know the language.”
It had been all she could think of to say, as a vista she'd never thought to see had opened before her. Escape.
Freedom
.

Seven years of dealing with Fabien had taught her well. She had held her excitement in, kept it from her expression, her eyes. She'd refocused on him.
“You are saying you wish me to go to London and seek an alliance with an Englishman?”

“Not any Englishman—one of station and estates at least equal to your own. In their terms, an earl, marquess, or duke, with considerable wealth. I need hardly remind you of your worth.”

All her life she'd never been allowed to forget that. She'd frowned at Fabien, letting him believe it was because she didn't wish to go to England and consort with the English, while she'd assembled her plan. There'd been one very large hurdle in her path. She'd let disillusionment and disgruntlement color her face, her voice.
“So I go to London and glide about their salons, being oh-so-nice to the English milords, and then what? You decide you do not after all wish me to marry this one. And then later, maybe not that one, either.”

She'd given a dismissive humph, folded her arms and looked away.
“There is no point. I would rather go home to Cameralle.”

She hadn't dared peek to see how Fabien responded to her performance, yet she'd felt his dark gaze on her, intent as always.

After a long moment, to her considerable surprise, he had laughed.
“Very well. I will give you a letter. A declaration.”
He had sat at his desk, drawn forth a piece of parchment, then picked up his pen. He spoke as he wrote.
“I hereby confirm that as your legal guardian I agree to your marrying a member of the English nobility of station equal to your own, of estates more extensive than your own, and with income greater than your own.”

She'd watched him sign and hadn't been able to believe her luck. He'd sanded the paper, then rolled it and held it out to her; she'd managed not to snatch it. She'd accepted the document with a resigned air and agreed to come to London and search for an English husband.

The document was secreted in her trunk, sewn into the lining. It was her passport to freedom and the rest of her life.

“The Earl of Withersay is an amiable man.” Louis's dark eyes had fixed on the portly earl in the group she had recently left. “Did you speak with him?”

“He's old enough to be my father.” And not the right sort of man. Helena searched the crowd. “I will find Marjorie and learn about this duke. There is no one else here suitable.”

Louis snorted. “For a week you've been surrounded by the flower of the English nobility—I think you're becoming too nice in your requirements. Given Uncle's wishes, I believe I can find any number of candidates for your hand.”

Helena shifted her gaze to Louis's face. “Fabien and I have discussed his wishes. I do not need you to—how do they say it?—scupper my plans.” Her voice had grown cold. Holding Louis's stubborn gaze, she haughtily inclined her head. “I will return to Green Street with Marjorie. There is no reason you need feel obliged to accompany us.”

She stepped around him. Allowing her lips to relax into an easy smile, she glided through the throng. Marjorie, Mme Thierry, wife of the Chevalier Thierry, a distant kinsman, was her nominal chaperone. Helena had glimpsed her across the room. She headed in that direction, conscious of the male eyes that tracked her progress. Relieved that, in this season with society caught up in a frantic whirl, her entrance upon it had been much less noticeable than it would otherwise have been. Clusters of tittering ladies and garrulous gentlemen filled the room, spirits soaring, flown on the combination of her ladyship's mulled wine and the goodwill of the season; it was easy to slip past with a nod and a smile.

Fabien had arranged for Helena and Louis to stay with the Thierrys in lodgings in the best part of town. There was never any lack of funds where Fabien, or indeed, Helena, was concerned. The Thierrys, however, were not affluent and were exceedingly grateful to monsieur le comte de Vichesse for providing lodgings and board, servants, and an allowance permitting them to entertain the numerous friends and acquaintances they had made in their single, regrettably expensive year in London.

The Thierrys were well aware of the influence Fabien de Mordaunt wielded, even in England. Helena's guardian had a notoriously long arm. They were eager to provide whatever services monsieur le comte required, perfectly happy to introduce his ward to the ton and assist her in securing an acceptable offer.