The Promise in a Kiss Page 8

  His smile deepened. “A kiss.”

  She considered again. “You have already kissed me twice—no, three times.”

  “Ah, but this time, I wish you to kiss me.”

  She tilted her head, considered him. If it was she doing the kissing . . . “Very well.” She shook off his hands, and he let her.

  Boldly, she stepped closer. Because of the difference in their heights, she had to slide her hands up over his chest, over his shoulders, and lock them about his neck—stretching herself against him.

  He stood, passive, watching her from under hooded lids.

  Praying that the sudden shock of the contact—breast to chest, hips to thighs—didn’t show, valiantly ignoring the fascinating contrast between the silken softness of his coat and the hard body it covered, she drew his head down, stretched up on her toes, and set her lips to his.

  She kissed him, and he kissed her back, but only in response, in equal measure. Reassured, pleasantly distracted, she repeated the caress, a little firmer, a little longer. His lips returned the pleasure, then parted slightly. She couldn’t resist the temptation.

  He tasted . . . male. Different, enticing. His tongue met hers, retreated, returned. Another dance, another play, the ebb and flow of a physical touch, one rather more intimate than the meeting of hands.

  It was novel, exciting. She wanted to know more, learn more. Feel more.

  Ten minutes later—ten totally enthralling, fascinating minutes of complete and utter abandon—she surfaced on a gasp. Lips parted, her heart thudding in her ears, she stared into his eyes, gleaming from beneath his heavy lids. Then she stared at his lips. Long, lean, lightly curved—so mobile.

  So satisfying.

  She swallowed. “The music’s stopped.”

  “As you say.”

  Sometime while her wits had been distracted, his arms had closed around her, supporting her against him. She was caged by muscles that felt like steel, yet she’d never felt so comfortable, so secure. So uninterested in safety.

  She dragged in a breath and kissed him again—just one last time to imprint the sensation on her memories. To let the feel of him, hard as rock beneath his finery, sink to her bones, to revel in the way her softer flesh sank against him.

  He drew her deep but didn’t try to hold her. When she pulled away, he let her.

  She looked into his eyes. “You may set me down now.”

  “If you’re quite sure you’ve finished?”

  He didn’t smile as he said it.

  “Quite sure,” she replied.

  He let her slide down, set her on her feet; his arms fell from her, but reluctantly.

  “My compliments, mignonne.” Capturing her hand, he raised it, kissed it. “You play fair.”

  “Certainement.” She lifted her head, fighting down her dizziness. “I believe we should return to the ballroom.”

  She turned for the door; he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “No—not that way. We’ve been here, alone, too long. It would be best to go by another route so the dowagers don’t see us return.”

  She hesitated, then inclined her head. He had given his word; if the last ten minutes had proved anything, it was that she could place her trust in that.

  Sebastian led her through a maze of corridors; they reentered the ballroom at the opposite end. He returned her to Madame Thierry’s side, wondered fleetingly at that lady’s clear encouragement, then, well satisfied, retired.

  If Helena Rebecce de Stansion could resist the temptation to enjoy all he offered without risk, he’d eat his chapeau. And once she’d enjoyed, if he couldn’t convince her to declare herself his . . .

  He couldn’t think of a suitable punishment, but no matter. He wasn’t about to fail.

  “It is all going well—fabulously well. Uncle Fabien’s plan, under my guidance, is unfolding just as it ought.” Louis stripped off his waistcoat and flung it in Villard’s direction.

  Stooping to pick up the garment, Villard murmured, “So she has caught his eye?”

  “He has her in his sights, no doubt of that. He is hunting in earnest now. Until tonight”—Louis waggled his hand—“it could have been mere idle interest. But he is not idle now. And she, the prey, she is running. The chase is on!”

  “Perhaps—if I might suggest—a note to your uncle to apprise him of your good news?”

  Louis nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, you are right. Uncle Fabien likes positive results. No sense in missing a chance to claim his notice.” He waved at Villard. “Remind me to write first thing in the morning.”

  “If I might be so bold, m’sieur, the fast packet leaves early in the day. If you were to write this evening and a rider left tonight, monsieur le comte would have your good news days earlier.”

  Louis plopped down on the bed and stared at Villard.

  Villard calmly added, “And monsieur le comte does like to have the most up-to-date news.”

  Louis continued to stare, then he grimaced and waved at Villard. “Bring me my writing case. I will write my communiqué now, and you may see it off immediately.”

  Villard bowed. “At once, m’sieur.”

  Chapter Four

  THE next morning Helena paced her bedchamber; eyes narrowed, she considered the night before.

  Considered the unexpected tack Sebastian had taken.

  Remembered her dreams.

  Wondered again what it would have felt like to spread her hands over his chest, beneath the silk and satin of his coat, to feel the width and weight of his muscles . . .

  “Non, non, non, et non!”

  Furious, she whirled, kicking her skirts before her. “That is why he did it!”

  To make her dream, yearn, desire . . . want. To make her come to him, surrender like some witless lovelorn maid.

  A sneaky, underhanded conquest.

  Safe and alone in her bedchamber, she could admit it might have worked.

  “But not now.” Not now that she’d realized his true goal. She was twenty-three—no starry-eyed innocent when it came to the games men played. A seduction could be achieved by more than one route; monsieur le duc assuredly knew every road.

  “Every twist in every road. Hah!”

  He would not catch her.

  There was only just over a week to go before the ton left London; she could assuredly hold him at bay until then.

  “Mignonne, it is customary to pay some attention to the gentleman who partners you in the dance.”

  Helena shifted her gaze to Sebastian and widened her eyes. “I was merely taking note of the ladies’ jewels.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She stepped around him, circled, then returned to face him, her gaze straying once more to the ladies nearby. “Because the quality here is quite remarkable.”

  “Given your heritage, you must possess a king’s ransom in jewelry.”

  “Oui, but I left most of it in the vault at Cameralle.” She gestured at the simple sapphire necklace she was wearing. “I did not bring the heavier pieces—I did not realize the need.”

  “Your beauty, mignonne, outshines any jewels.”

  She smiled, but not at him. “You have a very quick tongue, Your Grace.”

  Helena was at the breakfast table the next morning when a package was delivered.

  “It’s for you.” Louis dropped it beside her plate as he joined her.

  Marjorie peered up the table. “Who is it from?”

  Helena turned the package in her hands. “It doesn’t say.”

  “Open it.” Marjorie set down her cup. “There will be a card inside.”

  Helena tore open the wrappings and reached in. Her fingers touched the plush cover of a jeweler’s case—a frisson of presentiment raced over her skin. She stared at the open package, almost afraid to draw out the contents. Then she steeled herself and pulled.

  A green leather case. She set aside the paper, opened the case. Inside, on a bed of deep green velvet, nestled a very long double strand of the purest pearls. The st
rands were interrupted at three points by single stones, each a perfect rectangle, cut very simply to showcase their color. At first she guessed peridot, but as she lifted the necklace and draped it between her hands, the stones flashed and the light caught them; their depth of color was revealed. Emeralds. Three large pure emeralds more vividly green than her eyes.

  Earrings, each with a smaller emerald set above pearls, and a matching pair of bracelets—miniature versions of the necklace—completed the set.

  Of the king’s ransom she already owned, no piece appealed to her half as much.

  Helena dropped the necklace as if it had burned her. “We must send it back.” She pushed the case away from her.

  Louis had been examining the packaging; now he glanced at the case. “There is no card. Do you know who sent it?”

  “St. Ives! It must be from him.” Helena pushed back her chair; some impulse was urging her to run, to flee from the necklace—from her wish to touch it, to run her fingers along the smooth strands. To imagine how it would feel around her throat, how it would look.

  Damn Sebastian!

  She stood. “Please arrange to have it returned to His Grace.”

  “But, ma petite.” Marjorie had searched the packaging for herself. “If there is no card, then we cannot be sure who sent it. What if it wasn’t monsieur le duc?”

  Helena looked down at Marjorie; she could almost see Sebastian’s smug smile. “You are right,” she eventually said. She sat again. After a moment of staring at the pearls lying like temptation on their velvet bed, she drew the case closer. “I will have to think what is best to be done.”

  “You sent me these, did you not?”

  The fingers of one hand caressing the pearls encircling her throat, Helena turned to face Sebastian. The silk of her pale green skirts swished sensuously; she let her fingers trail lovingly over the pearls, following the strands over her breasts.

  Lips lightly curved, Sebastian watched every move. She could tell nothing from his face or his eyes.

  “They look very well on you, mignonne.”

  She refused to think how well, how they made her feel.

  As if she were dangereuse, too.

  Only he could have delivered the ultimate temptation to play his game. Never before had she felt so powerful—powerful enough to engage with a man such as he.

  A thrill of excitement, of insidious attraction flared; she turned, paced, unable to keep still.

  When he’d appeared by her side in Lady Carlyle’s ballroom, his eyes had gone straight to the necklace, then he’d quickly noted the other pieces she’d also donned. She’d acquiesced readily to his invitation to stroll the room. Sure enough, he had, as only he could, found an anteroom giving off the ballroom. An empty room, poorly lit by wall lamps, with a tiled floor and a small fountain splashing at its center.

  Her heels clicked on the tiles as she paced before the fountain; she threw him an openly considering glance. “If not you . . . perhaps it was Were? Perhaps he is missing me.”

  Sebastian said nothing, but even in the weak light she saw his face harden.

  “No,” she said. “It was not Were—it was you. What do you expect to gain by it?”

  He watched her—whether considering his answer or merely stretching her nerves tight, she could not tell—then said, “If I had sent such a gift, I would expect to receive . . . whatever response you would naturally give to one who had so indulged you.”

  She let her eyes flash, let her temper show. She’d grown accustomed, over the weeks, to letting him see it. Even now there seemed no reason to hide her feelings from him. With a swish of her skirts, she swung to face him and lifted her chin. “The thanks I would give to whoever had so indulged me . . . that I could give only if I knew who that gentleman was.”

  He smiled. With his usual prowling gait, he closed the distance between them. “Mignonne, I care not, in truth, whether you judge me the one deserving of your gratitude.”

  Halting before her, he raised one hand and tangled his long fingers in the strands below her throat. He lifted the pearls; fingers sliding, he gathered the lengthy strands in his hand until the slack was locked in his fist, poised above her neckline.

  “I would much rather be assured,” he murmured, voice deepening to its most dangerous purr, “that every time you wore this piece, you thought of me.”

  He opened his fist, let the pearls fall.

  Weighted by the largest emerald, the strands dropped down her cleavage, slithered between her breasts.

  She gasped at the heat—the heat of his hand held trapped in the pearls.

  “I would much rather know that every time you wore this, you thought of us. Of what will be.”

  He hadn’t completely released the necklace; one long finger remained hooked in the strands. Watching the strands, he raised them, then let them slide and slither down, around, caressing her bare breasts in defiance of her gown and chemise—her completely clothed state. Deliberately, he made the pearls rise and fall to a slow, sensuous rhythm, one she could all too readily imagine his fingers themselves following.

  Her lungs had locked; she dragged in a shuddering breath, briefly closed her eyes. Felt her breasts rise, swell, heat.

  He shifted closer—she sensed rather than saw or heard it, felt him like a flame on her skin. She opened her eyes—and fell into the blue of his.

  “Every time you wear these, mignonne, think of . . . this.”

  She hadn’t meant to let him get so close. Hadn’t meant to tip up her face and let him kiss her. But with the intoxicating warmth of him so near, the murmurous sound of his deep voice in her ear, the sense-stealing sensation of the pearls, still warm, still shifting provocatively between her breasts, she was lost.

  His lips closed over hers. At the first hint of pressure, the first demand, she opened to him, not submissively but defiantly, refusing, even now, to surrender.

  She could kiss him and survive, let him kiss her and still not be his. If he thought otherwise, he would learn. Reaching up, she slid her fingers into his hair and boldly kissed him back. Surprised him for a second, but only that.

  His response was unexpected—no suffocating rush of passion, of overwhelming desire. Instead, he matched her, gave her all she wanted, hinted at more. Lured her on.

  She knew it, but resistance was impossible. The only way she could hold on to her self, retain some semblance of awareness and self-will, was to immerse herself in the kiss, give herself over to it and follow his lead, noting each step along the way, knowingly taking each one.

  Within seconds he had taken her from this world. Only he could lead her back.

  Sebastian released the pearls, left them to lie, a faint memory between her bare breasts. Closing his arms about her, he drew her to him, until her soft flesh was once again pressed against his much harder frame. Desire swelled, gnashed like some ravenous beast, wanting more—much more.

  Wanting her beneath him, sheathing him.

  He knew it couldn’t be—not yet. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. He didn’t even dare caress her more definitely, his rake’s instincts warning not yet, not yet.

  She was driving him slowly, steadily, mad. If he didn’t have her soon . . .

  Never had he waited so long; no other woman—none he had desired—had ever denied him. Had ever refused to take the journey with him.

  Yet despite the fact that her body was his, despite the fact that her pulse leaped when he neared, her pupils dilated and her skin warmed the instant he touched her, her mind refused to yield—her will stubbornly stood in his way.

  Every night he went without her only increased his desire, that primitive urge to seize, slake his lust . . . possess.

  Her hands touched his cheeks, framed his face, held it steady as she pressed a flagrantly passionate kiss on him in return for his most recent foray. He felt his control shake, quake, as she teased and taunted him to reply . . .

  He did, for one instant let his shield slip, let her glimpse what waited for her—
the heat, the unbridled passion behind his suave mask.

  All resistance fled before his onslaught; her spine, until then infused with her stubborn will, softened. Melted.

  He drew back, quickly, before desire and rampant passion ran away with him—with them. Chest laboring, he lifted his head. Felt her drag in a long breath, felt her breasts press against his chest.

  Then her lids fluttered; from beneath the lace of her long lashes, he saw her eyes gleam. They were more jewel-toned than his emeralds about her throat, hanging at her ears, circling her wrists.

  Despite his frustration, satisfaction welled and warmed him. He eased his hold on her; she opened her eyes, blinked, stepped back.

  Glanced at him warily.

  He managed not to smile. “Come, mignonne—we must return to the ballroom.”

  She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the door. He paused as they reached it. Raising one hand, he hooked a finger in the pearl strands and lifted them from beneath her bodice, then draped them over the silk once more.

  “Remember, mignonne.” He caught her wide gaze. “Whenever you wear them, think of what will be.”

  When Helena awoke the next morning, the first thing she saw was his pearls cascading out of the green leather case. They sat on her dresser where she had left them—and mocked her.

  “Je suis folle.”

  With a groan, she turned her shoulder on them, but she could, like phantoms, feel them as if they were still about her throat, at her ears, on her wrists.

  She’d been mad indeed to think that, in that arena, she could hope to stand against him and prevail.

  Her eyes narrowed as she thought back over the entire episode. Turning, she looked at the pearls again. Her first impulse had been to bury them at the bottom of her trunk. Pride dictated that she wear them every night. He’d comprehensively won that round, but she couldn’t let him know it.

  Which meant . . . that she would indeed remember every touch of the pearls, warm from his hand, against her bare breasts. Would indeed wonder . . .

  She was getting very close to being out of her depth. She couldn’t let him win the next round.