The Promise in a Kiss Read online

  He was not young. Of those currently about her, he was unquestionably the most senior, definitely the most mature. Yet he exuded a vibrant, masculine vitality that threw the rest into the shade, made them fade into the wallpaper.

  Dominant. She was accustomed to being in the presence of such a man, used to holding her own against a powerful will. She lifted her chin and regarded him calmly. “Have you visited Paris recently, my lord?”

  Eyes and lips gave him away, but only because she was watching so closely. A gleam, a faint quirk, that was all.

  “Not in recent years. There was a time when I spent part of every year there, some years ago.”

  He placed subtle emphasis on the last three words; he had definitely recognized her. A frisson of awareness raced over Helena’s skin. As if he sensed it, his gaze left her eyes, lowered to brush her shoulders.

  “I confess I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

  She waited until his gaze returned to her eyes. “I visit Paris infrequently. My estates lie in the South of France.”

  The ends of his lips lifted; his gaze rose to her hair, then returned to her eyes, then lowered again. “So I had surmised.”

  The comment was innocent enough—her coloring was indeed more indicative of the south rather than the north of France. His tone, however . . . it was deep enough, murmurous enough, to slide through her, striking some chord within, leaving it resonating.

  She flicked a glance at Gaston, still nervously standing by. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but I believe it is time we left. Is it not so, monsieur?”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Gaston bobbed like a jack-in-the-box. “If monsieur le duc will excuse us?”

  “Of course.” Amusement lurked in the blue eyes as they returned to Helena’s face. She ignored it and curtsied. He bowed, raised her; before she could retrieve her hand, he murmured, “I take it you will be remaining in London, comtesse—at least for the present.”

  She hesitated, then inclined her head. “For the present.”

  “Then we will no doubt have the opportunity to further our acquaintance.” He raised her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. Releasing her smoothly, he inclined his head. “Once again, mademoiselle, au revoir.”

  To Helena’s relief, Gaston did not pick up that “once again.” He and Marjorie were so exercised over her meeting St. Ives at all—at his requesting an introduction—that they also failed to notice her abstraction. Failed to notice her fingers trailing over her knuckles where his lips had pressed. By the time they reached Green Street and entered the tiled hall, she had her reactions under control.

  “Another evening gone.” She sighed as her maid hurried forward to take her cloak. “Perhaps tomorrow we will meet with more success.”

  Marjorie glanced at her face. “It’s Lady Montgomery’s drum—it will be packed to the rafters. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”

  “Bon.” Helena turned to the stairs. “It will be a good venue to go hunting, I think.”

  She bade Gaston good night. Marjorie joined her as she climbed the stairs.

  “My dear . . . monsieur le duc—he is not a suitable parti. It would not do to encourage him to dally by your side. I am sure you understand.”

  “Monsieur le duc de St. Ives?” When Marjorie nodded, Helena waved dismissively. “He was merely amusing himself—and I think he enjoyed discomfiting Thierry.”

  “Eh, bien—that is possible, I grant you. Such as he . . . well, you are forewarned and thus forearmed.”

  “Indeed.” Helena paused by her door. “Do not trouble yourself, madame. I am not such a fool as to waste my time on a man such as His Grace of St. Ives.”

  “Finally—they have met!” Louis dragged his cravat from about his throat, threw it to his waiting valet, then loosened his collar. “I was starting to worry that I would have to make the introduction myself, but she finally crossed his path. It went as Uncle Fabien predicted—he came to her.”

  “Indeed, m’sieur. Your uncle is uncannily prescient in such matters.” Villard came to help Louis out of his coat.

  “I will write to him tomorrow—he will want to hear the good news.”

  “Rest assured, m’sieur, that I will make certain your missive is dispatched with all speed.”

  “Remind me of it tomorrow.” Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Louis murmured, “Now for the next stage.”

  Helena met monsieur le duc de St. Ives at Lady Montgomery’s drum, at Lady Furness’s rout-party, and at the Rawleighs’ ball. When she went walking in the park, by sheer chance he was there, strolling with two friends.

  Indeed, wherever she went in the next four days, it seemed he was present.

  She was, consequently, not the least bit surprised when he joined the group with whom she was conversing in the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom. He loomed on her right, and the other gentlemen spinelessly gave way, as if he had some claim to the position. Hiding her irritation—at them as well as him—Helena smiled serenely and gave him her hand. And steeled herself against the reaction that streaked from her fingers to her toes when, his eyes on hers, he pressed his lips to her knuckles.

  “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.”

  Chapter Two

  MARJORIE 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?”