The Promise in a Kiss (8 page)

His fingers touched her, traced, and she couldn't think. She pulled back, pushed away. He let her go, but she sensed the brief clash between his desire and his will. Even if will won, she had to wonder if it would the next time.

Dangereux
.

“No.” She sounded more definite the second time. “This will do us no good.”

“On the contrary,
mignonne,
it will be very good indeed.”

Pretending ignorance would be futile, disingenuousness worse. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a stubborn look and went to take another step back—only to feel his fingers tighten about her waist.

“No. You cannot run from me. We need to talk, you and I, but before we go further, there's something I want of you.”

Searching his eyes, blue on blue, Helena was certain she didn't need to hear what it was. “You have read my intentions wrongly, Your Grace.”

“Sebastian.”

“Very well—Sebastian. You misunderstand. If you think—”

“No,
mignonne
. It is you who fail to realize—”

The curtain over the archway rattled. They both looked. Sebastian's hand fell from her waist as Were, smiling genially, looked in.

“There you are, m'dear. It's time for our dance.”

They could hear music wafting from behind him. One glance at his open expression was enough to tell them both that he suspected nothing scandalous. Helena stepped around Sebastian and swept forward. “Indeed, my lord. My apologies for keeping you.” She paused as she reached Were's side and looked back at Sebastian. “Your Grace.” She curtsied deeply, then rose, placed her fingers on Were's hand, and let him lead her out.

Were grinned at Sebastian over her head. Despite all, Sebastian smiled and nodded back. He and Helena had not been apart, alone, for long enough to give the gossips sufficient cause to speculate, and Were had, intentionally or otherwise, covered the lapse.

The curtain fell closed; Sebastian stared at its folds.

And frowned.

S
he was resisting—more than he'd anticipated. He wasn't sure he understood why. But he was certain he didn't approve. And he definitely did not appreciate her quick-wittedness in avoiding him.

Society had grown used to seeing them together—they were now growing used to seeing them apart. That was not part of
his
plan.

From the shadows of his carriage drawn up by the verge in the park, Sebastian watched his future duchess animatedly holding court. She'd grown more confident, even more assured; she controlled the gentlemen around her, with a laugh, with a grimace, with one look from those wonderful eyes.

He couldn't help but smile, watching her listen to some anecdote, watching her manipulate the strings that made her would-be cavaliers extend themselves to entertain her. It was a skill he recognized and appreciated.

But he'd seen enough.

Raising his cane, he rapped on the door. A footman appeared and opened it, then let down the steps. Sebastian descended to the ground. The carriage he'd used was not his town carriage; this one was plain black and bore no crest on its panels. His coachman and footman were also in black, not his livery.

Which explained why he'd been able to sit and watch Helena without her noting him and taking flight.

She saw him now, but too late to take evasive action, to discreetly avoid him. Social constraint was, for once, working to his advantage—she was too proud to create a public scene.

So she had to smile and offer him her hand. She curtsied deeply, and he bowed, raised her. Then raised her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

Temper flared briefly in her eyes. She fought to quell her reaction, but he felt it. Increasingly haughty, she inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Have you come to take the air?”

“No, my dear comtesse, I came for the pleasure of your company.”

“Indeed?” She was waiting for him to release her hand, too wise, after their recent meetings, to tug.

He looked around the circle of gentlemen, all younger, far less powerful than he. “Indeed.” He glanced at Helena, met her gaze. “I believe these gentlemen will excuse us, my dear. I have a wish to view the Serpentine in your fair company.”

He saw her breasts swell—with indignation and a hot-bloodedness he found unexpectedly alluring. Glancing around the circle again, he nodded generally, confident none would be game to cross swords with him.

Then he saw Mme Thierry. She'd been part of the group but until then blocked from his sight. To his surprise, she smiled at him, then turned to Helena. “Indeed,
ma petite,
we have stood here in the breeze long enough. I'm sure monsieur le duc will escort you back to our carriage. I'll wait for you there.”

Sebastian could not have said who was the more surprised—he or Helena. He glanced at her, but she'd masked her reaction to the unexpected defection. However, her lovely lips set in a rather grim line as, after making her adieus to her cavaliers, she let him turn her down the walk to the water.

“Smile,
mignonne,
or those interested will believe we have had a falling-out.”

“We have. I am not pleased with you.”

“Alas, alack. What can I do to make you smile at me once more?”

“You can stop pursuing me.”

“I would be happy to do so,
mignonne
. I confess, I find pursuing you increasingly tedious.”

She looked at him, surprise in her eyes. “You will stop . . .” She gestured with one hand.

“Seducing you?” Sebastian met her gaze. “Of course.” He smiled. “Once you're mine.”

The French word she muttered was not at all polite. “I will
never
be yours, Your Grace.”

“
Mignonne,
we have been over this many times—you will, one day, most definitely be mine. If you were honest, you would admit you know it.”

Her eyes spat fire. She bit back a retort, flung him a furious glare, then looked haughtily ahead.

If they'd been in a room with a vase to hand, would she have thrown it? Sebastian found himself wondering—and then wondered at that fact. He had never before encouraged tantrums in his paramours, yet in Helena . . . her temper was so much an intrinsic part of her, so indicative of her fire, he found himself drawn to it—wanting to provoke all that energy so he could plunge into it, then deflect it into passion.

He was aware that his imperviousness, his calm reaction to her outbursts, was irritating her even more.

“There are not so many others around. Is it wise for us to be thus alone?”

The walks along both banks of the Serpentine were nearly deserted.

“It's the end of the year,
mignonne
. Plans are being made, the last-minute whirl all-consuming. And the day is hardly encouraging.”

It was gray, cloudy, with a definite breeze carrying the first chill of encroaching winter. His gaze sliding approvingly over Helena's warm cloak, he murmured, “However, as to propriety, the gossipmongers have grown tired of watching us, grown weary of expecting a scandal. They've turned their eyes elsewhere.”

She threw him an uncertain look, as if wondering just what he might risk in a nearly deserted public place.

He had to smile. “No—I will not press you here.”

He thought she humphed, but her eyes said she accepted the assurance. After a moment she said, “I am not a horse to be walked so I don't chill.”

Obligingly, he turned her up the next path, taking them back toward the carriage drive. “Mme Thierry's words invoked an unfortunate allusion.”

“Her words were ill judged.” Helena threw him a frowning look. “She has changed her opinion of you. Did you speak with her?”

“If you mean did I buy her cooperation, no. I haven't spoken with her except in your presence.”

“Hmm.”

They walked on in silence; the carriage drive lay not far ahead when he murmured, “I have enjoyed our walk,
mignonne,
but I want something more from you.”

The glance she shot him was sharp—and furiously stubborn. “No.”

He smiled. “Not that. All I wish for today is the promise of two dances at Lady Hennessy's ball tonight.”

“
Two
dances? Is that not frowned on?”

“At this time of year no one will think anything of it.” He looked ahead. “Besides, you deliberately denied me any dances last night. Two tonight is fair recompense.”

Her head rose haughtily. “You were late.”

“I am always late. If I arrived early, my hostess would faint.”

“It is not my fault there are so many gentlemen eager to partner me that there were no dances left for you.”

“
Mignonne,
I am neither gullible nor young. You deliberately gave all your dances away. Which is why you will promise me two for tonight.”

“You forgot the ‘or else.'”

He let his tone lower. “I thought to leave that to your imagination.” He caught her eye. “How much do you dare,
mignonne
?”

She hesitated, then, exceedingly haughtily, inclined her head. “Very well, you may have your two dances, Your Grace.”

“Sebastian.”

“I now wish to return to Mme Thierry.”

He said no more but led her to the Thierrys' carriage, then made his adieus. He stood back, and the coachman flicked the reins; he watched the carriage roll away down the avenue.

For four days they'd been sparring—he tempting her to him, she trenchantly resisting. A gentleman would have spoken, told her he meant marriage. As things stood . . .

He was a nobleman, no gentleman—the blood of conquerors flowed in his veins. And often, as now, dictated his actions.

It was impossible even to contemplate simply offering for her hand, not knowing she was so coolly appraising candidates and that he, more than any other currently in the ton, fitted her bill.

Face hardening, he turned and walked to his carriage.

Her resistance—unexpectedly strong—had only raised the stakes, focused his predatory senses more acutely, made it even more imperative that he win. Her.

He wanted her to accept him on his own terms, because of who he was and who she was underneath the glamour, stripped of their rank, man and woman, an equation as old as time. Wanted her to want him—the man, not the duke. Not because his rank exceeded hers and his estates and income were considerable.

Because she wanted him as he wanted her.

He wanted some hint of surrender, some sign of submission. Some sign that she knew she was his.

Only that would do. Only that would appease his need.

Once she'd acknowledged what lay between them, then he would speak of marriage.

The footman stood waiting, holding the carriage door. Sebastian called an order to return to Grosvenor Square, then climbed in. The door shut behind him.

S
teeling herself, Helena curtsied to Sebastian, then rose and linked hands, twirling into the first figure of her first dance with him.
Think!
she ordered herself.
Of something other than him. Don't meet his eyes. Don't let his nearness swamp your senses.

When, in the carriage on the way to the ball, she'd complained of his arrogance in demanding two dances, Marjorie had smiled and nodded, partonizingly encouraging, for all the world as if St. Ives were not one of the ton's leading rakes. As if he weren't the one Marjorie herself had labeled
dangereux
.

More surprising still had been Louis's complacency. He was supposed to be her protector. Helena stifled a snort. She suspected that Louis was not entirely aware of monsieur le duc's reputation, nor of his determination to avoid matrimony. When St. Ives had come to claim this dance, Louis had looked stupidly smug.

Aggravation, she'd discovered, was her best defense against Sebastian. Emboldened, she met his eyes. “I assume you'll be leaving London shortly?”

His long lips curved. “Indeed,
mignonne
. After next week, along with the rest of the ton, I'll quit London for the country.”

“And where will you spend the festive season?”

“At Somersham Place, my principal estate. It's in Cambridgeshire.” They circled, then he asked, “To where do you plan to retire,
mignonne
?”

“The Thierrys have not yet decided.” As she crossed him in the dance, Helena noted the quality of Sebastian's smile. Everyone, it seemed, was smug tonight.

The devil prompted her to ask, “Has Lord Were returned to London?”

She glanced up.

His features hard, Sebastian trapped her gaze. “No. Nor is he expected in the near future.”

They circled once more; she couldn't drag her gaze from his—didn't dare. The movements of the dance seemed to mirror their interaction, hands touching, parting, she twirling away only to have to return to him.

She did, her skirts swishing as she turned before him, then paused, held up her hands. He stepped close behind her; his fingers locked about hers, and they stepped out in concert with the other dancers.

“Tempt me not,
mignonne
. Lord Were is not here to save you tonight.”

The softly murmured words were threat and promise; they feathered over her exposed shoulder—goose bumps spread over her bare skin.

She turned her head slightly and murmured back, “I have told you, I am not for you, Your Grace.”

He was silent for one instant, then whispered, “You will be mine,
mignonne
—never doubt it.”

He released her and they separated, flowing with the dance—as she moved away, his fingers touched her nape, then trailed down and away.

She felt the touch in the tips of her breasts, as a wash of heat flaring beneath her skin. She forced her expression to an easy smile, forced her eyes to meet his directly.

At the end of the dance, he raised her, then carried her hand to his lips. “Soon,
mignonne
—soon.”