Stephanie Laurens - The promise in a kiss

Looking back at Helena, Lady Osbaldestone smiled. “One never knows what Sebastian will be at next, but—”

“Therese.”

The softly spoken word held enough menace to halt the flow of Lady Osbaldestone’s not-quite-artless discourse. She grimaced and turned to him. “Spoilsport. But you can hardly expect me to be blind.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Anyway”—much of her ladyship’s sharpness evaporated—“I wanted to thank you for your help in that small matter of mine.”

“It’s been settled satisfactorily, I take it?”

“Eminently satisfactorily, thank you.”

“And would I be correct in assuming Osbaldestone remains in blissful ignorance?”

“Don’t be daft, of course he doesn’t know. He’s a man. He’d never understand.”

Sebastian’s brows rose. “Indeed? And I am . . . ?”

“St. Ives,” her ladyship promptly retorted. “You’re unshockable.”

A faint smile curled Sebastian’s lips. Lady Osbaldestone turned to Helena. “The mind boggles at the number of ladies’ secrets he keeps.”

Helena’s mind boggled at the fact they trusted him with such secrets at all. The notion of any lady willingly trusting Fabien was beyond ludicrous.

She chatted with Lady Osbaldestone, who had recently visited Paris. It transpired they had acquaintances in common; despite her sharp tongue, her ladyship was both interesting and entertaining. Helena enjoyed the short interlude but was conscious that Sebastian was alert, his blue eyes beneath their heavy lids fixed on her ladyship.

Lady Osbaldestone proved equally aware; she eventually turned to him. “All right, all right, I’m going. But I take leave to tell you you’re becoming transparent.”

She bobbed a curtsy to him, bowed to Helena, then swept away.

Helena glanced at Sebastian as he retook her hand. Did she dare ask what about him was becoming transparent? “She seems very well informed.”

“Unfortunately. I don’t know why I bear with her—she’s the most enervatingly astute woman I know.”

Helena debated whether to ask for an explanation, then realized she’d spent most of her evening thus far with him, learning more about him, becoming more fascinated—which was not necessary at all. She lifted her head, looked around. “Is Lord Were here, do you know?”

An instant’s hiatus ensued; she could have sworn Sebastian tensed. But then he murmured, “I haven’t seen him.”

Was she imagining it, or was there steel beneath his smooth tones? “Perhaps if we stroll . . .”

He steered her along the side of the room, skirting the crowd congregating at its center about a monstrous decorative piece formed of gilded, star-shaped lanterns surrounding and supporting a gilt and porcelain setting of the Nativity. Viewing the closely gathered ladies, Helena noticed that, presumably in celebration of the season, many had taken to wearing bright red or forest green.

Among the throng she spied Louis, keeping an eye on her. Dressed as usual in black, emulating his uncle Fabien, he stood out against the multihued crowd. He was usually hovering somewhere in sight. Despite Sebastian’s reputation, Louis hadn’t overtly interfered in his squiring of her.

They were nearing the end of the room. She couldn’t see past the outer ranks of the crowd; she knew that Sebastian could. “Can you see—”

“I can’t see anyone you would wish to meet in furthering your goals.”

To her surprise, he drew her on and then to the side, to where an alcove partially screened by potted palms looked out over gardens. The alcove was deserted.

The day had been fine; the night was, too, cold and frosty. Beyond the glass, the shrubs and walks were bathed in silver-white moonlight, the barest touch of snow crystallizing like diamond frosting on each leaf, on each blade of grass. Helena drank in the view; it shimmered, touched by a natural brilliance infinitely more powerful, more evocative of the season, than the effort of mere mortals at her back. The scene, so reminiscent, whisked her back to that moment seven years before—the moment they’d first met.

Quelling a shiver, she turned to find Sebastian regarding her, his expression indolent, his gaze intent.

“It occurs to me, mignonne, that you have not yet favored me with a complete list of your guardian’s stipulations concerning the nobleman he will accept as your husband. You’ve told me this paragon must bear a title the equal of yours. What else?”

She raised her brows, not at the question—one she was ready enough to answer—but at his tone, for him unusually clipped and definite, quite different from his customary social drawl. Much more like the voice in which he spoke to his sister.

His lips quirked, more grimace than smile. “It would help in determining your most suitable suitor.”

He’d softened his tone. Inwardly shrugging, she turned back to the windows. “Title I’ve mentioned. The other two stipulations my guardian made concerned the size of my suitor’s estate and his income.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian nod. “Eminently sensible conditions.”

Hardly surprising he thought so; he and Fabien could be brothers in some respects—witness his despotic attitude to his sister, even if he was moved by caring rather than some colder reason. “Then, of course, there are my own inclinations.” She stopped. There was no need to tell him exactly in which direction her inclinations lay.

A wolfish smile touched his lips. “Naturally.” He bowed his head. “Your inclinations should not be forgotten.”

“Which is why,” she said, turning from the windows, “I wish to seek out Lord Were.”

She intended to return to the room and do so.

Sebastian stood in her way.

Silence stretched, suddenly tense, unexpectedly fraught. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. His eyes were hooded, so blue they seemed to burn. Her nerves flickered, senses older than time screaming that she was baiting something wild, unpredictable—something well beyond her control.

Dangereux .

Marjorie’s warning whispered through her mind.

“Were.”

A statement uttered in a flat tone she had not before heard. He held her with his gaze; she couldn’t break free.

Raising a hand, he slid one long finger beneath her chin and tipped her face to his. He studied her expression; his gaze fastened on her lips, then rose once more to her eyes. “Has it not yet occurred to you, mignonne, ” he murmured, “that you could do a great deal better than a mere marquess?”

Helena felt her eyes flare, in shock, in reaction to what she sensed rather than knew. His fingertip was cool beneath her chin; his blue eyes were hot, his gaze heated.

Her heart thudded, racing—then a commotion behind him drew her gaze.

At the edge of the crowd, Marjorie shook free of Louis’s restraining grip; from her frown and the quick word she threw him, he’d been holding her back. Twitching her shawl into place, Marjorie swept forward.

Sebastian had turned his head and looked; his hand fell from her face.

“ Ma petite, it is time we left.” Marjorie shot him a censorious look, then turned to Helena, her expression determined. “Come.”

With barely a nod to Sebastian, Marjorie swept away.

Puzzled, Helena curtsied, then, with one last glance at Sebastian and a murmured adieu, she followed Marjorie.

As she glided past him, Louis was scowling.

H E was the only unmarried duke she’d met. Helena tried to make sense of his last comment; it kept her awake half the night. But he couldn’t mean himself. He’d declared years ago he would not wed. She couldn’t see why he would change his mind. He might want her—she accepted that, although she didn’t, truth be told, entirely understand such predatory desire—but to his mind, to his way of thinking—to society’s way of thinking—he could have all he wanted without marrying her.