Stephanie Laurens: The promise in a kiss

Silence returned; the shouts and yells faded into the night. Rewrapping her shawl, refolding her arms, she turned to see the gentleman step from the shadows.

“My thanks, mademoiselle. I am not, needless to say, a madman.”

His deep voice, his cultured diction reassured her more than his words. Helena glanced at the wall from which he’d fallen. Collette Marchand had left the convent the year before but had been returned to its safety two days ago by her incensed relatives, there to await her brother who would come to fetch her away to the country. Collette’s behavior in the Paris salons had, it was rumored, caused quite a stir. Helena looked at the stranger, prowling nearer. “What manner of man are you, then?”

His lips, long, somewhat thin, fascinatingly mobile, quirked as he halted before her. “An Englishman.”

She would never have guessed from his speech—he spoke with no discernible accent. The revelation did, however, explain much. She’d heard that the English were often large, and quite mad, wild beyond even Parisians’ lax standards.

She’d never met one before.

The fact was clearly written in her expression, in those hauntingly lovely pale eyes. In the silvery light, Sebastian couldn’t tell if they were blue, gray or green. And regretted that he couldn’t dally to find out. Raising a hand, with the back of one finger he traced the upward line of her cheek. “Again, mademoiselle, my thanks.”

He tensed to step away, told himself he should, that he must. Yet still he hesitated.

Something shimmered in the gloom—he glanced up. Just behind her, a clump of mistletoe hung from one of the linden’s branches.

It was almost Christmas.

She looked up, following his gaze. Considered the trailing mistletoe. Then her gaze slowly lowered, to his eyes, to his lips.

Her face was that of a French madonna—not Parisian but more dramatic, more vital. Sebastian felt a tug more primal than any he’d felt before. He lowered his head.

Slowly. He gave her plenty of time to step back if she would.

She didn’t. She tipped up her face.

His lips touched hers, then settled in the most chaste kiss of his life. He felt her lips quiver under his, sensed her innocence in his bones.

Thank you. That was all the kiss said, all he allowed it to say.

He lifted his head yet still didn’t draw back. Couldn’t bring himself to do it. Their gazes met, their breaths mingled . . .

He bent his head again.

Her lips met his this time, soft, generous, hesitant. The urge to devour was strong, but he reined it in, took only what she innocently offered, and returned no more than that. An exchange—a promise—even though he recognized the impossibility, and was sure she did, too.

Ending the kiss took effort and left him slightly dazed. He could feel her warmth along his body even though he hadn’t touched her. He forced himself to step back, to look up, draw breath.

His gaze touched the mistletoe. On impulse, he reached up and snapped one trailing tendril—the feel of the twig between his fingers gave him something real, something of this world, to cling to.

He took another step back before letting his gaze meet hers. Then he saluted her with the twig, inclined his head. “Joyeux Noël.”

He kept moving back, forcing his gaze past her to the main gates over which he’d entered.

“Go that way.”

Her blood pounding in her ears, her head oddly dizzy, Helena waved him farther back, in the opposite direction to the main gates. “When you reach the wall, follow it away from the convent. You’ll find a wooden gate. I don’t know if it’s unlocked or . . .” She shrugged. “It’s the way girls go when they sneak outside. It gives onto a lane.”

The Englishman looked at her, studied her, then again inclined his head; his hand had shifted to his pocket, slipping the twig into its depths. His gaze remained on her as he stated, “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

Then he turned and melted into the darkness.

In less than a minute she could no longer see or hear him. Hugging her shawl more tightly about her, Helena drew in a breath, held it—tried to hold in the magic that had embraced them—then, reluctantly, walked on.

As if she’d stepped from a dream, the cold she hadn’t noticed cut through her gown; she shivered and walked faster. Raising a hand, she touched her fingers to her lips, gently, wonderingly. She could still feel the lingering warmth, the knowing pressure.

Who was he? She wished she’d been bold enough to ask. Then again, perhaps it was better she didn’t know. Nothing, after all, could come of such a meeting—from the intangible promise in a kiss.

Why had he been here? No doubt she would learn from Collette in the morning. But a madman?

She smiled cynically. She would never trust anything the comte de Vichesse might say. And if the Englishman was in some way engaged in tweaking her guardian’s nose, she was only too happy to have helped.

November 1783

London

COLLETTEhad refused to divulge his name, her mad Englishman, yet there he stood, long, lean, and as handsome as ever, albeit seven years older. Surrounded by fashionable conversation, on her way from one group to the next, Helena halted, transfixed.

About her, Lady Morpleth’s soirée was in full spate. It was mid-November, and the ton had turned their collective mind to the festive season. Holly abounded; the scent from evergreen boughs filled the air. In France, the approach to la nuit de Noël had long been another excuse for extravagance. Although the ties between London and Paris were slackening, in this, London still concurred; for glitter, for glamour, for richness and splendor, the ton’s entertainments rivaled those of the French court. In terms of honest cheer, they excelled, for here there was no threat of social unrest, no canaille gathering in the shadows beyond the walls. Here, those wellborn and wealthy enough to belong to the elite could laugh, smile, and freely enjoy the whirl of activities filling the weeks leading to the celebration of the Nativity.

The smaller room into which Helena had ventured was crowded; as she stood staring into the main salon, the incessant chatter faded from her mind.

Framed by a connecting archway, he—the wild Englishman who had been the first ever to kiss her—paused to chat to some lady. A subtle smile curved his lips, still thin, still indolently mobile. Helena remembered how they’d felt on hers.

Seven years.

Her gaze raced over him. She hadn’t seen him well enough in the gardens of the convent to catalog any changes, yet he still moved with the prowling grace she remembered, surprising in one so large. Devoid of powder and patches, the planes of his pale face seemed harder, more austere. His hair, now she could see its color, was a honey-toned brown, wavy locks drawn back in a queue secured with a black ribbon.

He was dressed with understated richness. Every garment bore the subtle stamp of a master, from the froth of expensive Mechlin lace at his throat, the abundant fall of the same lace over his long hands, to the exquisite cut of his silver-gray coat and darker gray breeches. Others would have had the coat trimmed with lace or braid. He had left it unadorned but for its big silver buttons. His waistcoat, darker gray heavily embroidered with silver, glimpsed as he moved, combined with the coat to create the impression of sleekly luxurious packaging concealing a prize even more sinfully rich.

In the salon crammed with lace, feathers, braids, and jewels, he dominated, and not just because of his height.

If the last seven years had left any mark at all, it was in his presence—that indefinable aura that clung to powerful men. He’d grown more powerful, more arrogant, more ruthless. The same seven years had made her an expert; power was, to her, as blatant as the color of skin.