The Promise in a Kiss (4 page)

“
Bon soir,
my dear.”

How such simple, innocent words could be made to sound so wicked was a mystery. Was it the light in his blue eyes, the seductive tenor of his voice, or the reined strength in his touch? Helena didn't know, but she did not approve of having her sensual strings so skillfully plucked.

But she continued to smile, and let him stand by her side and join them. When the group dispersed to mingle, she dallied. She knew he was watching, always alert. When, after a fractional hesitation, he offered his hand, she laid her fingers across his with a genuine smile.

They strolled; they had gone only a few yards when she murmured, “I wish to talk with you.”

She didn't look at his face but was quite sure his lips would have quirked.

“So I had supposed.”

“Is there some place here—in this room—in view of all but where no one will hear?”

“There are open alcoves along one side.”

He led her to one containing an S-shaped love seat, currently empty. He handed her to the seat facing the room, then lounged in the other.

“You perceive me all ears,
mignonne
.”

Helena narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you about?”

His finely arched brows rose. “About?”

“Precisely what do you hope to gain by hounding me in this fashion?”

His eyes held hers, gaze-to-gaze direct, but his lips were not straight. He raised a hand, languidly laid it across his heart. “
Mignonne,
you wound me deeply.”

“Would that I could.” Helena held on to her temper—just. “And I am not your
mignonne
!”

Not his pet, not his darling.

He merely smiled—patronizingly—as if he knew so much more than she.

Helena clenched her fingers about her fan and fought the urge to hit him with it. She'd anticipated such a response—a nonresponse—and had come prepared. She was, however, surprised by the depth of her irritation, by how easily he could make her temper soar. She was not normally so quick to prickle, to react.

“As you will no doubt have guessed, omniscient as you are, I am searching for a husband. I am not, however, searching for a lover. I wish to have this clearly understood between us, Your Grace. Regardless of your intent, regardless of your expertise, there is no likelihood whatever that I shall succumb to your legendary charms.”

She'd heard enough about these from a worried Marjorie and surmised even more from the whispers and wondering looks. Even talking in public as they were—if it weren't for the fact she was twenty-three and highly born, she would have courted the danger of being labeled “fast.”

Her gaze locked on his, she waited for some flippant response—some taunt, some crossing of swords. Instead, he regarded her thoughtfully, consideringly, letting the moment stretch before fractionally raising his brows. “You think not?”

“I know not.” It was a relief to grab the conversational reins again. “There is nothing for you here—no hope at all—so there is no reason for you to cling to my side.”

His lips relaxed into a definite smile. “I . . . er, cling to your side,
mignonne,
because you amuse me.” He looked down, resetting the lace spilling over one white hand. “There are few in the ton who can accomplish that.”

Helena suppressed a snort. “There are many only too ready to try.”

“Alas, they lack the ability.”

“Perhaps your standards are set too high?”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “My standards might be exacting. They are demonstrably not unachievable.”

Helena narrowed her eyes to slits. “You are a
pest
!”

He smiled, genuinely amused. “That is not my intention,
mignonne
.”

She gritted her teeth against the urge to scream—she was definitely
not
his
mignonne
! But she'd planned for even this—his intransigence. Getting a habituated tyrant to accept defeat and go away—she hadn't expected to succeed at first tilt. She drew in a breath, reined in her temper. “Very well.” She nodded, head high. “If you insist on clinging to my skirts, you may as well be useful. You know all the gentlemen of the ton—know more, I daresay, than most regarding their estates and circumstances. You may help me select a suitable husband.”

For one instant Sebastian didn't know what to say. The fact proved his thesis that she and she alone possessed the ability to honestly astound him—and, yes, make him laugh. The impulse, even if he didn't give way to it, felt unexpectedly good. Refreshing.

He hadn't, however, gained his reputation by being slow to see—and seize—opportunity. “It will be entirely my pleasure,
mignonne
.”

The look she shot him was suspicious; he kept his intent from his eyes. Hand over heart, he bowed. “I will be honored to assist you in looking over the field.”

“Vraiment?”

“Vraiment.”
He smiled, prefectly ready to indulge her. What better way to ensure she met no one of any note? And she would now permit him to remain close beside her while he considered . . .

He reached out and closed his hand over hers. “Come. Dance with me.”

He rose, rounded the love seat and drew her to her feet; Helena found herself acquiescing despite the command, no request. Despite the fact that she had until now avoided dancing purely so she could avoid having to cope with the sensation of his long fingers locked about hers.

A set was forming close by; they joined it. The first chord sounded, and she curtsied. He bowed. Then they linked hands, and the measure began.

It was worse than she'd imagined. She couldn't drag her gaze from his, from him, even though she knew it would be prudent to do so, to pretend her attention was general and not fixed on him. Prudence stood no chance against his magnetism. Like some sensual lodestone, he drew and captured her awareness, until the dancers around them, the crowd, the room itself, faded from her mind.

He moved with the grace of a god, impossibly assured, impossibly controlled. She would have taken an oath he barely registered the music—he was expert enough, experienced enough, not to need to. She had danced the minuet from the age of twelve, but it had never been like this, as if she now danced in a dream where every movement, every gesture, every clash of eyes held power. A power she'd never before felt, never before seen wielded with such consummate skill.

It was a net he cast over her. She knew what it was, what he was doing, knew in some corner of her bemused brain that at the end of the dance she could, and would, step free. But while they revolved and paced through the stately figures, she was caught, enthralled.

Fascinated.

She was aware of breathing more rapidly, of the sensitization of her skin. Aware of her body, her breasts, arms, hips, legs, as she never had been before. Aware that the fascination was mutual.

A heady experience, one that left her slightly dizzy when the music finally died. He raised her from her curtsy; she half turned from him. “I wish to return to Mme Thierry.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his lips lift; she looked, met his gaze, and realized that his expression was not one of triumph but of indulgent understanding.

Dangereux.

The word whispered through her brain. She shivered.

“Come.” He held out his hand. “I'll take you to her.”

Laying her fingers in his, she let him lead her across the room. Delivering her most correctly to Marjorie's side, he exchanged bows with Louis, posing beside Marjorie, then bowed formally to her and withdrew.

“
Mon Dieu
! Helena—“

She raised her hand, cutting off Marjorie's words. “I know—but we have come to an agreement of sorts. He accepts I will not be his lover, but—as he finds me amusing and there is no way I can see to dismiss him if he does not wish to be dismissed—he has consented to help me in finding a suitable gentleman to wed.”

Marjorie stared at her. “He has agreed . . . ?” After a moment she shook her head. “The English—they are mad.”

Louis straightened. “Mad or not, he could be a valuable ally, a most useful source of information. If he is inclined to be indulgent, and he is so much older, after all—“

Marjorie snorted. “He is thirty-seven, and if half I have heard is true, those of
twenty
-seven would be hard put to keep pace with him.”

“Be that as it may”—Louis tugged at his waistcoat;
he
was twenty-seven—“if Helena has made it clear she will not be his latest conquest and he is yet of a mind to be helpful, it would be foolish indeed not to avail ourselves of his aid. I am certain my uncle, monsieur le comte, would encourage us to accept monsieur le duc's offer.”

Helena inclined her head. “On that, I would agree.” Fabien was ever one to use any tool that came to hand.

Marjorie looked uncertain but sighed. “If you are sure that is what monsieur le comte would expect . . .
eh, bien,
we will follow that road.”

M
ARJORIE
might have acquiesced to their scheme, but she remained unconvinced; every time Helena returned to her escorted by St. Ives, Marjorie behaved as if he were a wolf in temporarily amiable mood, but certain, when hunger struck, to revert to type.

“There is nothing to fear, I assure you.” Beside Marjorie, Helena squeezed her arm. They were standing in Lady Harrington's ballroom surrounded by holly and ivy; trailing leaves swirled about the ornate columns while red berries winked from garlands gracing the walls.

St. Ives had just arrived. Announced, he paused at the top of the steps leading down to the ballroom's floor, scanning the crowd, noting their hostess, then searching further . . . until he saw her.

Helena's heart leaped; she told herself not to be silly. But as he descended, languidly elegant as always, she couldn't deny the excitement flaring in her veins.

“He's just helping me decide on a suitable husband.”

She repeated the phrase to calm Marjorie, even if she'd never believed the “just.” She might have told him she would not be his lover, but he'd never agreed or accepted that. He had, however, said he would help her find a husband—she believed he was sincere. It wasn't hard to see his reasoning. Once she was safely married to a suitably complaisant lord, he, St. Ives, would be first in line to be her lover.

And in such a position he'd be doubly hard to resist.

A thrill of awareness—a presentiment of danger—flashed through her. Once he'd helped her to a marriage such as the one she sought, he'd be even more dangerous to her.

Then he was there, bowing over her hand, speaking politely to Marjorie, then asking her to stroll. She agreed; danger or not, she was already committed and could not easily draw back.

Easily escape his net.

The realization opened her eyes, had her attending more closely. He sensed it; she felt it in his glance, the brush of his blue eyes over her face.

“I have no intention of biting,
mignonne
—not yet.”

She slanted him a glance, saw the amusement in his beautiful eyes, and humphed. “Marjorie is worried.”

“Why? I have said I'll help you find a husband. What is there to concern her in that?”

Helena narrowed her eyes at him. “You would be wise not to attempt ingenuousness, Your Grace. It does not become you.”

Sebastian laughed. She continued to delight him, continued, at some level few had ever touched, to engage him. He steered her through the crowd, stopping to chat here and there, to point out this one or that, to admire the ice sculpture of an angel standing in a bower of holly on the terrace, the pièce de résistance of her ladyship's decor.

He wished he could increase the pace, curtail this phase and hurry on to the stage where he could touch her, caress her, kiss her again, but given his intent, that wouldn't be wise. He was a past master at playing society's games, and the outcome of this particular game was of far greater moment than that of any previous dalliance.

Once they'd circled the room, he steered her to one side. “Tell me,
mignonne,
why were you still at the convent all those years ago?”

“My sister was ill, so I stayed behind to help nurse her.” She hesitated, then added, “We're close, and I didn't want to leave her.”

“How much younger is she?”

“Eight years. She was only eight then.”

“So she is now fifteen. Is she here in London with you?”

She shook her head. “Ariele was sickly as a child. Although her chest is much improved and grows better with the years, it seemed foolish to risk bringing her to England in winter. Our winters are much milder at home.”

“And where is home?”

“Cameralle is our major estate. It's in the Camargue.”

“Ariele. A pretty name. Is she pretty, too?”

Two ladies rose from a nearby chaise, leaving it empty. Sebastian guided Helena to it, waited until she settled her amber skirts, then sat beside her. Given the difference in their heights, if she became pensive and looked down, he couldn't catch her expression. Couldn't follow her thoughts.

“Ariele is fairer than I.”

“Fairer in coloring. She could not be fairer of face or form.”

Her lips twitched. “You seem very certain of that, Your Grace.”

“My name is Sebastian, and, given my reputation, I'm amazed you dare question my judgment.”

She laughed, then looked around them. “Now you may tell me, why is it that, given your reputation, they—the mesdames, the hostesses—are not . . .” She gestured.

“Overreacting to my interest in you?”

“Exactement.”

Because they couldn't imagine what he was about and had given up trying to guess. Sebastian leaned back, studying her profile. “They're still watching, but thus far there's been nothing worthy of an
on-dit
to be seen.”

The softly drawled words sank into Helena's brain. Another premonition of danger skittered over her skin. Slowly, smoothly, she turned her head and looked into his blue eyes. “Because you've ensured that that's so.”

He returned her regard with an enigmatic gaze, steady, direct, but unreadable.

“You're lulling them, waiting them out, until they grow bored and stop watching.”

It could have been a question, yet even in her mind there was no doubt. Her chest felt suddenly tight. It was difficult to breathe, difficult to say, “You are playing a game with me.”

A hint of what that meant to her must have colored her tone; something flickered in his eyes. His face grew harder. “No,
mignonne
—this is no game.”

She hated and abhorred the games of powerful men, yet here she was, having escaped one such man, entangled in a game with another. How had it happened—so quickly, so totally against her will?

Although he remained relaxed, elegantly at ease, a frown had darkened his eyes. They searched hers, but she'd learned long ago to keep her secrets.

His gaze sharpened; he reached for her hand.
“Mignonne—”

“There you are, Sebastian.”

He looked up; Helena did, too. She felt his fingers close about her hand—he didn't let go as a lady, a large English lady with a round face framed by brown ringlets, swept forward. She was so weighted down by jewelry one barely noticed the odd shade of her gown. Helena thought she heard Sebastian sigh.

The lady halted before the chaise. Slowly, his very slowness an indication of his displeasure, Sebastian uncrossed his long legs and rose. Helena rose with him.

“Good evening, Almira.” He waited. Somewhat belatedly, Almira bobbed him a curtsy. Inclining his head in reply, he glanced at Helena. “My dear comtesse, allow me to present Lady Almira Cynster. My sister-in-law.”

Helena met his gaze, read his irritation very clearly, then looked to the lady.

“Almira—the comtesse d'Lisle.”

Again Sebastian waited; so did Helena. With ill-concealed annoyance and little grace, Almira curtsied again. Her temper prodded, Helena smiled sweetly and showed her how the curtsy should have been performed.

Straightening, she caught an appreciative gleam in Sebastian's eyes.

“I understand St. Ives has been introducing you around.” Her gaze flat and cold, Lady Almira surveyed her—blatantly, rudely.

“Monsieur le duc has been most kind.”

Lady Almira's lips tightened. “Indeed. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting monsieur le comte d'Lisle.”

Helena smiled serenely. “I am not married.”

“Oh. I thought—“ Lady Almira broke off, genuinely puzzled.

“Under French law, in the absence of male heirs, the comtesse inherited the title from her father.”

“Ah.” If anything, Almira looked even more puzzled. “So you're not married?”

Helena shook her head.

Almira's face darkened; she turned to Sebastian. “Lady Orcott is asking after you.”

Sebastian raised one brow. “Indeed?”

His retort made it clear he was totally uninterested.

“She's been searching for you.”

“Dear me. If you come across her, do point her this way.”

Helena bit her tongue. Sebastian's caustic retort had no discernible effect on his sister-in-law.

Almira shifted, facing Sebastian fully, giving Helena her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you—Charles has started climbing stairs. He's growing sturdier by the day. You must call and see him.”

“How fascinating.” Sebastian shifted his hold on Helena's fingers; raising her hand, he glanced her way. “I believe, my dear, that Lady March is signaling us.” He flicked a glance at Almira. “You must excuse us, Almira.”

It was a command not even Almira could miss. Disgruntlement clear in her face, she bobbed a curtsy to them both and stepped back. “I'll expect you in the next few days.”

With that piece of impertinence, she turned on her heel and swept away.

Along with Sebastian, Helena watched her go. “Is Lady March—whom I have never met—truly signaling us?”

“No. Come, let's go this way.”

They strolled again; Helena glanced at his face, at his politely bored mask. “Lady Almira's son—is he the one who will eventually inherit your title?”

Not a flicker of emotion showed in his face. He glanced down at her, then looked ahead. And said nothing.

Helena raised her brows faintly and asked no more.

They merged with the throng, then another large, lean, darkly elegant gentleman spied them and moved to intercept them. Or rather, he spied Sebastian. Only when he stepped free of the crowd did he see her.

The gentleman's eyes lit; he smiled and swept her a leg almost as graceful as Sebastian's.

Sebastian sighed. “My dear comtesse, allow me to present my brother, Lord Martin Cynster.”

“
Enchanté
, mademoiselle.” Martin took the hand she offered and raised it to his lips. “Little wonder my brother's been so hard to find.”

His smile was open, amused, and devil-may-care. Helena smiled back. “It's a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

Martin was considerably younger than Sebastian, yet from his manner it was clear he stood in no awe of one whom all others she'd thus far met approached with a degree of circumspection.

“I had meant to ask,” Sebastian drawled, drawing Martin's gaze from her, “whether you had recovered from your night at Fanny's.”

Martin flushed. “How the dev—deuce—did you hear about that?”

Sebastian merely smiled.

“If you must know,” Martin continued, “I ended the night ahead. Dashed woman marks the cards, though—take my word for it.”

“She always has.”

Martin blinked. “Well, you might have warned me.”

“And spoil your fun? I'm not such a curmudgeon and am no longer, thank God, your keeper.”

Martin grinned. “It was fun, I must admit. Took me awhile to see through her tricks.”

“Indeed.” Sebastian glanced at Helena. “But I fear we're boring Mlle d'Lisle.”

“Well, this isn't exactly a scintillating venue.” Martin turned to Helena. “It's a pity you've arrived so late in the year, too late for Vauxhall or Ranelagh. Mind you, there's old Lady Lowy's masquerade coming up—that's always a night to remember.”

“Ah, yes, I believe we have a card. The costumes will be intriguing.”

“What character will you be masquerading as?” Martin asked.

Helena laughed. “Oh, no, I've been warned not to tell.”

Martin took a step back, eyeing her as if committing her physical characteristics to memory.

“You needn't bother,” Sebastian informed him.

“How else am I to find her?”

“Simple. Find me.”

Martin blinked twice. His lips formed an “Oh.”

“Ah, there you are,
ma petite
.” Marjorie came up, smiling but, as always, wary in Sebastian's presence. She smiled more easily at Martin and gave him her hand, then turned again to Helena. “We must go.”

Reluctantly, Helena made her adieus. Sebastian bowed over her hand. “Until tomorrow night,
mignonne
.”

His murmur was too low for the others to hear; the look in his eyes was likewise for her alone.

Helena rose from her curtsy, inclined her head, then turned and, wondering, left him. Joining Marjorie, she glided into the crowd.

Martin stepped to Sebastian's side. “I'm glad I found you.” All levity had flown. “I don't know how much more of Almira's nonsense you can stomach, but George and I have had enough. Her behavior's insupportable! The way she's carrying on, you're already underground, and Arthur, too, come to that. God knows why he ever married her.”

“We know why.” Sebastian looked down, straightening the lace at one cuff.

Martin snorted. “But the why never eventuated, did it? She never was pregnant—”