The Promise in a Kiss (20 page)

He'd seen her need for protection, her need to be possessed and cherished, and had responded and made her his in the only way that truly mattered to him. Or, in truth, to her.

His.

She wouldn't see what that meant, not immediately. Ultimately, of course, she would. She could hardly go through life without realizing that from this moment she was, and always would be, his.

A difficulty, that, for them both.

Inwardly sighing, he glanced down at her dark head, then brushed a kiss across her forehead, closed his eyes—and left fate to do her worst.

H
elena was not proud of herself the next morning. She woke to find herself alone, yet the bed bore eloquent testimony to all that had transpired. The tangled sheets were still warm with Sebastian's heat. Without him, she felt chilled to the marrow.

Clutching a pillow, she stared across the room. What was she doing, allying herself so intimately with such a powerful man? It had been madness to have let it happen. Yet it seemed pointless now to pretend regret.

A regret that, despite all, she didn't feel.

Her one real regret was that she couldn't tell him everything, couldn't lean on his strength, draw on his undeniable power. After last night it would be such a relief to throw herself on his mercy, beg for his help. But she couldn't. Her gaze fell on the letters, folded on the dressing table.

Fabien had made sure she and Sebastian were on opposing sides.

Before she could sink deeper into the mire of her fears and wallow in despair, she rose and tugged the bell for her maid.

S
ebastian was sitting at the head of the breakfast table, sipping his coffee and glancing over a news sheet when Helena walked into the room.

He looked up; their gazes met. Then she turned away, exchanged an easy smile with Clara, and headed for the sideboard. His gaze remained on her, delectable in a silk print gown, while his mind rolled back through the night past, through the passion and fulfillment, both so intense, to the question—questions—to which he yet lacked answers.

Helena turned; he continued watching, waiting . . .

Plate in hand, she approached the table. She traded mild comments with Marjorie and Clara, then continued on to the chair at his right.

Just as well.

He waited until she sat and settled her skirts, then drew breath.

She looked up at that moment. He glimpsed the shadows swirling in her eyes, dulling the peridot depths. He started to reach for her hand—stopped as she looked down.

“I wondered . . .” With her fork, she toyed with a portion of kedgeree. “Do you think we might go for another ride—like yesterday?” She glanced at the window, at the day outside. “It's still clear, and who knows how long that will last.”

There was a wistfulness in her voice, evoking the memory of how relaxed and, if not carefree, then at least temporarily relieved of her dark burden she had seemed the previous morning, when they'd flown across his fields before the wind. She glanced up again, brows gently arched.

Again he glimpsed her eyes.

Shackling his impatience, he inclined his head. “If you wish. There's a long ride north we could try.”

She smiled, a fleeting gesture that too quickly faded from her lips. “That would be . . . pleasant.”

W
hy she didn't simply say “a relief,” Sebastian didn't know. That their ride together was that—a relief, a distraction from her troubles—was transparently obvious to him. And while she was in that state, relieved of that inner burden, he couldn't bring himself to shatter the mood and press her for details.

Thus, when they returned to the house three hours later, he was no nearer to answering either of his questions. One he would have to wait for her to tell him of her own accord; trust could not be forced, only earned. At least between them. From others he might command it, but not from Helena.

That left the more obvious question he had to ask her. There was no longer any reason he could not put that before her, on the table between them.

It might even help with the other, by encouraging the trust he sought to gain.

When they rose with the others from the luncheon table, he took her hand and drew her aside. “If you would grant me a few minutes of your time,
mignonne,
there are a few details I believe we should address.”

He couldn't read her eyes as she studied his face. Then she glanced at the windows, to the prospect dimmed by the sheeting rain. No escape there. Marjorie and Clara passed them, going ahead as if they hadn't noticed. Thierry and Louis had already left for the billiard room. She drew in a breath as if girding her loins, then glanced at him and inclined her head. “If you wish.”

He wished . . . a great many things, but he took her hand in his and led her to his study.

Helena struggled to mask her tension, her trepidation—not of him but of what he might tempt her to say, to do. To confess. He ushered her through the door a footman threw open, into what she perceived to be his study. The wide desk, obviously in use by the stacks of papers and ledgers on its top, the large leather chair behind it and the plethora of document boxes and ledgers packed into shelves around the room confirmed that. The room was, however, unexpectedly comfortable, even cozy. Wide windows looked over the lawns; although the light outside had dimmed, lamps had been lit, their golden glow falling softly on well-polished wood, on velvet and leather.

She crossed to where a fire burned brightly in the hearth, dispelling the chill creeping through the glass. On the way, she glanced about, surreptitiously searching for a case or a display cabinet—somewhere Fabien's dagger might reside. She felt driven to look, yet despaired at having to do so. For having to repay Sebastian in such a deceitful way.

Halting before the hearth, she held her hands to the fire, then straightened as he joined her.

He stopped before her, took her hands in his. Looked into her face, into her eyes. She couldn't read his, felt confident he couldn't read hers. As if acknowledging their mutual defenses, the ends of his lips lifted in a wry, self-deprecatory smile.

“
Mignonne,
after the events of last night, you know, and I know, that we've already taken the first steps down our joint path. In terms of making decisions, we've already made ours—you yours, me mine. Nevertheless, between such people as we are, there is a need for a formal yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question.”

He hesitated; searched her eyes again. She didn't glance away, try to avoid the scrutiny—she was too busy searching herself, trying to sense his direction. Wondering if the uncertainty she sensed came from him—or her.

Then his lips twisted. He looked down, simultaneously raising her hands to kiss one, then the other.

“Be that as it may”—his voice had deepened, taken on that tone she now associated with intimacy—“I do not wish to press you. I will ask you my simple question when you are ready to give me a simple answer.” He glanced up, met her eyes again. “Until then, know that I am here, waiting”—again his lips quirked—“albeit not patiently. But for you,
mignonne
. . . rest assured I will wait.”

That last sounded like a vow. Her surprise must have shown in her face, in her eyes—in his a markedly self-deprecatory light glowed, as if he were shaking his head at himself over how lenient he was being with her.

And he was. More than most she understood that—that his natural impulse would be to press her to accept his offer, to declare herself won. To admit she was his, his to rule, to command.

She'd expected a demand to surrender formally; she'd steeled herself to vacillate, to prevaricate if need be, to use every feminine wile she possessed to delay any such declaration. If she gave in and allowed him to assume he'd triumphed and to crow, presumably publicly, over it, then when she fled, the damage would only be worse.

The rage her defection provoked would be only more intense.

She'd come into the room prepared to do whatever violence to her feelings was necessary to accomplish all she wished—to save Ariele while minimizing harm to him. “I . . .” What could she say in the face of such empathy? He knew nothing of her problem, yet he'd sensed her difficulty and drawn back from exacerbating her situation, even though he didn't understand.

“Thank you.” The words left her lips in a soft sigh. Lifting her head, she held his gaze, smiled, let her relief and gratitude show in her eyes, in her expression. She drew breath—and it came easier. Gently tugging her hands from his, she clasped them before her. “I will . . . I promise I will tell you when I can answer your simple question.”

She would never be able to do so, but there was nothing she could do to change that.

His gaze, piercing blue, searched her eyes again, but there was nothing more she was willing to show him. She kept her sadness at that last thought well hidden; for Ariele's sake, she had to remember that they were, in effect, adversaries now.

Already hard, his features hardened further. His expression a stony mask, he inclined his head. “Until then.”

The strength of his reined temper reached her; she instinctively lifted her chin. He considered her for a moment, then said, his tone even, controlled, almost distant, “Clara will be in the back parlor. It would be wise if you were to join her there.”

The warning could not have been more blunt. She held his gaze for one moment, then inclined her head. “I will leave you, then.”

Gracefully, she swept around, her gaze taking in the room in one comprehensive glance. There were four large chests, set against the walls at various points, all shut, all with keyholes.

She crossed to the door, opened it, and went out, drawing it closed behind her. Only then losing the telltale warmth of Sebastian's gaze.

She would have to search his study.

Sometime.

N
O
suitable time presented itself. In truth, as the days passed, Helena made little effort to further Fabien's goal, too focused on Sebastian, on his finer qualities, on all she would have gained by his side—all she would forgo when the time came and she had to act, steal the dagger, and run.

She knew how many days she had left, exactly how many hours; she was determined to make the most of every one.

If the morning was fine, they would ride—indeed, he seemed to take it for granted they would, unless rain intervened. She was too grateful for the moments of unalloyed peace to complain at his somewhat cavalier expectation that she would accompany him as a matter of course.

However, despite the fact that she did not, as he had so perspicaciously noted, like being taken for granted, she felt disappointed when he didn't appear at her door the next night. Or the next.

The following morning, as they returned from the stables and took their habitual shortcut through the small parlor, she slowed, then halted and faced him.

He stopped, studied her face, arched a brow.

“I . . . You . . .” She lifted her chin. “You have not again come to me.”

Had once been enough? A disturbing thought—as disturbing as the notion that he'd found the experience less than satisfactory.

She could read nothing in his face or his eyes. After a moment he replied, “Not because I don't wish to.”

“Why, then?”

He seemed to consider—to take note of the tone of her voice, the puzzlement she allowed to show—then he sighed. “
Mignonne,
I am rather more experienced in such matters than you. That experience suggests—no,
guarantees
—that the more we . . . indulge, the more I shall . . . require. Come to expect to have.”

She folded her arms, fixed her gaze on his eyes. “And that is bad?”

He held her gaze. “It is if in the . . . having, I remove—take from you—all choice over the question of being my duchess.” His tone hardened. “Once you're carrying my child, there will be no question, no choice for you to make. You know that as well as I.”

She did, and she accepted it. But . . . She tilted her head, considered all she could see in his face. “Are you sure this . . . attitude of yours is not perhaps equally motivated by a hope that I will”—she gestured—“grow impatient and agree to answer your question quickly, and as you wish?”

He laughed, the sound cynical, not humorous. “
Mignonne,
if I wanted a lever to pressure you into marriage, you may be assured that particular tack is not one I would choose.” He met her eyes. “The degree of impatience you feel is nothing to the . . . torment that racks me.”

She glimpsed it in his eyes—a prowling need—sensed its force before his shields slid back and he shut her out once more. She frowned. “I do not like the idea that you are tormented over me. There must be some way . . .”

With one hand he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Captured her gaze. “Before you follow that thought too far, consider the fact that if there were, I would know of it and would certainly have employed it. But to ease my particular torment . . . no, there is only one remedy for that. And before you ask, I did not tell you how much I desire you, because that, too, is just another form of coercion.” He searched her eyes. “
Mignonne,
I wish you to marry me because you desire to be my wife—not for any other reason. As far as I am able, I will not pressure you in making that decision, will not manipulate your feelings in any way. I will even engage to shield you from any pressure others might seek to bring to bear.”

“Why? Why, when you want me as your duchess, why be so forbearing?” Given his nature, that was a highly pertinent point.

His lips curved, wryly cynical. “Yes, there is something I wish in return. But for my forbearance, I ask only one thing.” His eyes were very blue as he gazed into hers. “The simple answer you eventually give me,
mignonne,
I wish it to be
yours
. Not one logically derived after due consideration of the facts, but the real truth of what you desire.” He paused, then added, “Look into your heart,
mignonne
—the answer I want will be written there.”

His last words echoed in her mind. All about was silent and still. Their gazes held, then fell away. He bent his head.

“
That
is what I want, what I will give a great deal to have.” His words feathered her lips. “I want you to answer truly, to be true to yourself—and to me.”

Sebastian kissed her, even though he knew it was unwise, that he would pay dearly for the indulgence. For giving in to the urge to reassure her, to wipe from her mind any notion he did not want her. He would pay, and she was too innocent to know the price—the effort it would take to stop at just a kiss and let her go.

Her lips parted beneath his; without hesitation, he took her mouth, captured her senses. Held them with a knowing hand.

Held her within his arms, soft, warm and vibrantly alive, the promise in her kiss echoed in the lushness of her firm flesh, the sensual tension in her spine. Held himself back from taking further advantage, from capitalizing on the fact that they'd come in half an hour early so no one would yet expect them, that the parlor was private and secluded. On the fact that she would be his if he wished, here and now.

Torment indeed—unslaked desire was not a demon he had any great experience in conquering. In this case, with her, conquering desire was out of the question—he'd settled for suppression, for caging the beast. For the moment. Promising himself that eventually, this way, she'd be his forever. All his.

His as he wished her to be.

To the depths of her sensual soul.

He was a connoisseur; he recognized the pinnacle of womanly perfection when he had her beneath him. Understood, too, enough of the possibilities to want them all. To want all of her.

Her passion. Her devotion. Her love.

All.

He wanted to seize, to simply take. Yet what he wanted could not be seized, taken.

It had to be given.

The clash of will and desire left his temper, never an amenable one, straining, tight, taut, ready to break.

On a gasp, he pulled back, drew back. Waiting for the drumming in his veins to subside, he watched her face as her senses, her wits, now that he'd freed them, returned.

Her lashes fluttered, then rose. She regarded him evenly through crystal-clear eyes. Puzzlement, and the fact that she was not yet sure of him, were easy to read.

Then she blinked; her gaze lowered.

His hand still lay beneath her chin; he tipped her face back up so he could see it.

Her eyes had dimmed. Even though she met his gaze calmly, the clouds had returned. With a gentle smile, she lifted her chin from his hand, then brushed a kiss across his fingers.

“Come.” She drew back from his embrace. “We had better join the others.”

He let her go. She turned to the door—he swallowed an urge to call her back—to ask outright what was troubling her. After an instant's hesitation he followed her.

He wanted her trust, wanted her to confide in him; he couldn't force either. And when all was said and done, while she might not yet be sure of him, he was even less sure of her.

I
n many ways Helena's visit was proceeding better than he'd hoped. Thierry and Louis were both keen shooters; at this season his coverts were teeming—there was plenty to keep them amused and out of his way. Marjorie and Clara had struck up a friendship; happily distracted by their own entertainments, they were very ready to leave Helena's entertainment up to him.

All of which should have been perfect. Unfortunately, the one person not falling in with his plans was Helena herself.

He wasn't sure she was going to accept him—and he was at a loss to understand why.

But it had something to do with those damn letters.

“Do you spend most of your days here, then?”

He lifted his gaze from the page he'd supposedly been deciphering, looked at her as she idly wandered the room. The “here” was his study; she'd eschewed joining Marjorie and Clara in a comfortable coze by the drawing room fire in favor of distracting him while he tried to work. “Usually. It's big enough, comfortable enough—and anything I'd want is generally to hand.”

“Indeed?” She glanced at the ledger he was holding.

Surrendering, he shut it, pushed it aside. It was nothing crucial. Not compared with her.

She smiled and glided around the desk, leaned back against it as he eased his chair back.

“You asked me why I was in the garden at the convent all those years ago, yet you never told me what you were doing there.”

“Falling from the wall.”

“After leaving Collette Marchand's chamber.”

“Ah, yes—the inestimable Collette.” He smiled in reminiscence.

One black brow haughtily rose. “Well?”

“It was a wager,
mignonne
.”

“A wager?”

“You will remember that in the days I haunted Paris, I was much younger, and rather wilder.”

“The younger I will allow, but what was the subject of this wager that you needed to brave the convent's walls?”

“I had to procure a particular earring, one of some uniqueness, from Mlle Marchand by the end of that week.”

“But she was due to leave two days later—in fact, she left the next day itself, after your visit.”

“Indeed—that was part of the challenge.”

“So you won?”

“Of course.”

“And what did you gain by winning?”

He smiled. “What else but a triumph? And, even better, one over a French noble.”

She humphed dismissively, yet her gaze was strangely distant. “Did you spend many years haunting Paris?”

“Eight, nine—all while you still wore pigtails.”

Hmm.
She didn't say it, but she thought it—he could see it in her face, could see the clouds gathering, darkening her eyes.

Did the letters have something to do with his past exploits in France? He couldn't remember crossing swords with any of the Daurents.

He watched her for a moment longer, watched her struggle with her demon. She'd grown so used to being in his presence that when she wasn't focused on him, aware of him, her mask slipped and he saw more. Saw enough to make him reach for her hand.
“Mignonne—”

She started; she'd forgotten he was there. For a fleeting instant he glimpsed . . . horror, terror, but hanging over all a profound and pervasive sadness. Before he could react, she reassembled her mask and smiled—too brightly, too brittlely.

He tightened his grip on her hand, expecting her to rise and try to flee.

With barely a pause for thought, she trumped his ace. Pushing away from the desk, she slid onto his lap. “
Eh, bien
—if you have finished your work . . .”

His body reacted instantly; the soft, warm, distinctly feminine weight settling so trustingly, so confidently, had his demons slavering. While he struggled to rein them in, she freed her hand, turned his face to hers.

Set her lips to his.

She kissed him longingly, lingeringly—with a deep yearning that he knew was unfeigned because he felt it, too.

He'd given his word he would not manipulate her; as she drew him deeper into the kiss, into the pleasure of her mouth, he realized he would have been wise to demand a corresponding reassurance.

His arms closed around her; moments later his hand sought her breast.

He could reassure her, pleasure her, let her distract him. But he knew what he had seen and he wouldn't forget.

B
ittersweet. For Helena the days that followed were the definition of that. Bitter whenever she thought of Ariele, of Fabien, of the dagger she had to steal. Of the betrayal she had to practice. Sweet in the hours she spent with Sebastian; in his arms, for those fleeting moments, she felt safe, secure, free of Fabien's black spell.

But as soon as she left Sebastian's embrace, reality closed darkly about her. It took an ever-increasing effort to mask her leaden heart.

Sebastian had invited them for a week, but the week passed and no one cared or spoke of a departure. Winter tightened its grip on the fields and lanes, but at Somersham there were roaring fires and cozy rooms, and distractions aplenty to keep them amused.

Outside, the year died; inside, the great house seemed to stretch and come alive. Even though she wasn't directly involved, Helena could not miss the building excitement, that anticipation of joy that flowed from the myriad preparations for the Yuletide celebrations and the consequent family gathering.

Clara rarely stopped smiling, eager to point out this custom or that, to explain where the boughs and holly decorating the rooms were grown, what the secret ingredients of her Christmas punch were.