Stephanie Laurens - The promise in a kiss

Closing her eyes, she felt the promise of the season pour in, overflow.

The next day she insisted she was well enough to travel. Sebastian viewed her critically but agreed. After a large breakfast they set out through the melting snow and found the way clearer the farther south they went. They reached Saint-Nazaire as evening approached. Sebastian’s yacht lay bobbing by the quay—they spotted it from the cliffs above the town, Helena with some relief.

Then they were aboard. The sails were set; they filled with the freshening breeze, and the sleek vessel turned and headed home.

It was an uneventful passage, much of which she spent in the main cabin with Sebastian. Whether it was some ploy of his to keep her resting or, as she increasingly suspected, a delayed reaction to her injury, the danger he’d seen her in, those hours were filled with a heated passion more possessive and undisguised than all that had gone before.

Her murmurs that Ariele was in the next cabin had little effect; when she met her sister on the deck, strolling in the calm of the evening, Ariele only smiled shyly, a little too knowingly, and hugged her.

That her sister went in no fear of Sebastian was apparent; he treated her with fraternal indulgence while she laughed and teased. Helena watched them and felt her heart fill until she thought it might burst.

After a day and another night, the yacht laid into Newhaven with the morning tide. The coach was waiting; after breakfast, with her and Ariele tucked up in furs and silk wraps, they set out on the last leg of their journey home.

Home.

As the miles vanished beneath the heavy hooves of Sebastian’s powerful horses, Helena considered that. Cameralle—in truth, she’d left her childhood home long ago. Le Roc? The fortress had never been home, not in the sense of a place of comfort, somewhere to return at journey’s end. A place of contentment.

Somersham?

Her heart said yes even though her mind still questioned, still hesitated. Not over him, but, as the houses of London rose and engulfed them, she could not ignore the fact that both he and she held positions that embodied, and affected, more than their individual selves.

Family. Society. Politics.

Power.

His world, and hers. She’d been wrong to imagine she could ever walk away; it was in her blood as well as in his.

The horses checked, turned. She glanced out as the coach clattered into a fashionable square. The horses slowed even more, then halted before the steps leading up to an imposing mansion.

She glanced at Sebastian.

He met her gaze. “St. Ives House. This is Grosvenor Square.”

She looked at the house. “Your town residence?”

“Ours. We’ll stop here for half an hour. There are matters I need to check into, then we’ll go on.”

Ariele had been sleeping; now she stretched and shook out her gown—grimaced at its state.

“No matter.” Sebastian laid his hand on her wrist briefly as he moved past her and descended to the pavement. He held out a commanding hand—helped Helena down, then Ariele. “My aunt Clara’s at Somersham, and my sister, Augusta, too—they’ll be thrilled to help organize gowns for you. But there’s no one here at present, so you needn’t worry.”

Helena was relieved on the same score; she felt just a little bedraggled. Sebastian led her up the steps. The day was dark and gloomy; lights burned in the hall and lit the fanlight.

A very correct butler opened the door; seeing them, he struggled to suppress a delighted smile. He bowed low. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

Sebastian, leading Helena into the warmth and welcoming ambience of elegant luxury, raised a brow, directing a sharp glance his butler’s way. “Why, Doyle?”

“We’ve been entertaining guests, Your Grace.” With unimpaired calm, Doyle switched his gaze to Helena.

Sebastian sighed. “This is the comtesse d’Lisle—soon to be your mistress. Her sister, Mlle de Stansion, and M. de Sèvres.” He glanced around as the butler took his cloak, then moved to take Helena’s. “Where the devil are the footmen?”

“I regret that they’re currently required in the library, my lord.”

Sebastian turned to fix his gaze on the man. “Doyle—”

The door to their left opened. “ Really, Doyle, what do you mean by it? Why haven’t you shown whoever it is in? . . .”

Lady Almira Cynster froze on the threshold of the drawing room and stared—stunned—at Sebastian. Then she colored. “Sebastian! Well! I thought you were in the country or . . .” Her words trailed off as she took in their party. She dismissed Phillipe and Ariele with a cursory glance; her gaze darkened as it fixed on Helena. Her face set in uncompromising lines.

“What are you doing here, Almira?”

Sebastian’s soft, almost menacing tones brought Almira’s gaze back to his face. Helena quelled a shiver; it had been weeks since she’d last heard such tones from him.

“I . . . ah, well . . .” Almira gestured vaguely, coloring even more.

After a brief, uncomfortable pause, Sebastian murmured, “Doyle, please show mademoiselle and M. de Sèvres to the library . . . ah, no, I forget—perhaps the parlor will be more to their taste—and serve them suitable refreshments. Mademoiselle la comtesse and I will join them shortly. We will be leaving within the hour for Somersham.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Doyle bowed, then ushered Ariele and Phillipe down the long hall and away.

“Now, Almira, perhaps we might continue in my drawing room, rather than the hall.”

She turned with a humph and flounced ungracefully back to plump down in the middle of a silk-covered sofa. Accepting that if she was to become Sebastian’s wife she would have to deal with the woman, Helena suppressed the urge to slink cravenly away with Ariele and Phillipe; instead she let Sebastian lead her into the drawing room.

A footman materialized and shut the door behind them. If it had been any other lady, Helena would have felt dismayed to be seen in her brown gown, washed and with the hole at the shoulder repaired by Ariele, but still crumpled and stained. Almira, however . . . she simply couldn’t consider the woman as one whose opinion should worry her.

As they neared the sofa, she saw that the table before it supported teapot, cups and saucers, and two plates with biscuits and cakes. There were four cups set out, all with tea in them, three untouched.

Sebastian regarded the display and faintly raised one brow. “I repeat—what are you doing here, Almira?”

His tone was softer, less frightening.

Almira humphed. “I’m practicing, aren’t I? I’ll have to do it someday—indeed, we should be living here now. Scandalous to have such a great house with no lady to run it.”

“I agree—at least with your last statement. So you’ll be pleased to hear that Mlle d’Lisle has consented to become my wife. My duchess.”

Reaching for her teacup, Almira stilled, then looked up. “Don’t be daft!” Her face filled with dismissive contempt. “They all said you were going to marry her, but you’ve just spent the better part of a week gadding about alone with her.” She snorted and picked up her cup. “You won’t catch me with that. You can’t marry her—not now. Think of the scandal.”

The thought of the scandal clearly heartened Almira; she smiled gloatingly as she lowered her cup.

Sebastian regarded her, then sighed. “Almira, I don’t know why you fail to perceive it, but as I’ve told you before, there’s a vast difference between the unwritten laws that govern the conduct of one such as I, or Mlle d’Lisle, and those that apply to the bourgeoisie.” His tone left little doubt as to the difference. “Hence, you will most definitely be required to attend our wedding, and that in the not overly distant future.”