Stephanie Laurens - The promise in a kiss

Sebastian looked up, studied his brother’s face. “I didn’t realize . . .” He hesitated, then said, “Neither you nor George need worry.” He grimaced. “Nor Arthur, come to that.”

Martin frowned. “What . . .?” Then his face cleared; light returned to his eyes. “You’re going to do something about it?”

“Disabuse your mind of the notion that I approve of Almira as the next Duchess of St. Ives.”

Martin’s jaw dropped; his eyes widened. “I don’t believe it. You’re truly serious?”

“I used to believe I had an iron constitution—Almira proved me wrong. I had hoped that motherhood would improve her.” Sebastian shrugged. “It appears I was overly optimistic there, too.”

His mouth still open, Martin looked in the direction in which Helena had gone. “You’re looking for a wife.”

The glance Sebastian shot him could have cut glass. “I would greatly appreciate it if you could refrain from letting such words pass your lips. To anyone.”

Martin stared at him for a moment; then understanding dawned. “Hell’s bells, yes!” His grin returned. He glanced around at the glamorous throng, at the eyes, the smiles that even now were surreptitiously cast their way. “If that little tidbit ever gets out—”

“You’ll be even sorrier than I. Come.” Sebastian started for the door. “There’s a new hell opened in Pall Mall—I’ve an invitation if you’re interested.”

Martin fell in by his side, grinning even more widely than before.

“T o my mind, mignonne , you could do much worse than Lord Montacute.”

Helena threw Sebastian a glance as they strolled beneath the trees. She and Marjorie had come to walk among the ton on what seemed likely to be the last fine afternoon of the year. Sebastian had joined them and offered her his arm. They’d left Marjorie chatting with friends to enjoy the Serpentine Walk. Along the way, Sebastian had introduced her to a number of potential husbands.

“I do not believe,” she said, “that I could stomach a gentleman who wears virulent pink coats and compounds the sin by adding pink lace.”

Her gaze swept Sebastian’s dark blue coat with its restrained use of gold at cuffs and pockets. His lace, as always, was pristine white and finely made.

“Besides”—she looked ahead—“there is the matter of his title.”

She felt Sebastian’s gaze touch her face. “He’s a baron.”

“Indeed. But my guardian has stipulated that any man I choose must be of a station at least the equal of mine.”

She glanced at Sebastian—he caught her gaze. “Earl or above.” He sighed, raised his head, looked around. “ Mignonne , it would have been helpful if you had told me this before. There are not so many earls or marquesses, let alone dukes, languishing unwed among the ton.”

“There must be some—there are some.”

“But we have other criteria to satisfy, do we not?”

Her criteria weren’t the same as his, but unfortunately, satisfying her criteria would also satisfy his. An acquiescent husband who would allow her to rule their marriage would not raise a fuss should she decide to take a lover. Indeed, who knew? She might. But any lover she took would be of the same ilk—a man who pandered to her wishes rather than expecting her to pander to his.

In other words, not the man walking by her side.

“Let us start with the title first. It will narrow the field.”

“It will indeed.” He considered the knots of people scattered over the lawns as they strolled slowly along. “Will your guardian’s stipulations stretch to viscounts? In most cases they will, after all, eventually be earls.”

“Hmm—it is possible, I suppose. If all other criteria were met.”

“In that case let me introduce you to Viscount Digby. He’s the heir to the Earl of Quantock, who has considerable estates in the west of the country. An estimable man, so I hear.”

He led her to a group of gentlemen and ladies, introducing her generally, then, as only he could, “arranged” for her to stand beside the young viscount. After ten minutes coping with the viscount’s tongue-tied adoration, Helena caught Sebastian’s eye.

“Well?” he asked as they strolled away.

“He’s too young.”

That got her a stony glance. “I was not aware there was an age minimum.”

“There isn’t. He’s just too young.”

“Viscount Digby is twenty-six—older than you.”

Helena waved dismissively. She looked around. “Who else is here?”

After a moment Sebastian sighed. “ Mignonne, you are not making a difficult task any easier.”

Nor was he. It occurred to Helena that spending so much time with him, with his often too-perceptive understanding and his accumulated experience in all manner of social intercourse, was not conducive to showing other men—younger, less experienced men—in any favorable light.

If one was accustomed to gold, one was unlikely to be dazzled by tin.

He introduced her to another viscount, a hedonistic youth almost too taken with his own beauty to notice hers. After listening to her opinion on that encounter with a resigned, somewhat paternal air, he led her to another group.

“Allow me to present Lord Were.” Sebastian waited until they’d exchanged bows, then asked Were, “Any news from Lincolnshire?”

Were was, Helena judged, close to Sebastian’s age. He was dressed well but soberly and had a pleasant countenance and a lively smile.

He grimaced. “Nothing yet, but the leeches tell me it’ll be any day.”

Sebastian turned to Helena. “Lord Were is heir to his uncle, the Marquess of Catterly.”

“Old devil’s about to pop off,” Were informed her.

“I see.” Helena spent the next ten minutes chatting on general subjects with his lordship. Beside her, she was conscious of Sebastian’s growing impatience. Eventually he drew her away.

She went reluctantly. “He seems a kind man.”

“He is.”

She glanced at Sebastian, unsure how to interpret the hard note in his voice. As usual, his face told her nothing.

He was looking ahead. “I’d better return you to Mme Thierry before she starts imagining I’ve kidnapped you.”

Helena nodded, willing enough to return; they’d been strolling for about an hour.

Despite knowing his ulterior motive in finding her a complaisant husband, she had, on reflection, concluded that there was no point refusing his aid. Once she’d found the right candidate to fulfill Fabien’s stipulations and hers and married him, any subsequent relationship between herself and Sebastian would, after all, still be at her discretion.

She would still be able to say no.

She was far too wise to say yes.

Over the past week she’d spent enough time with him, seen how others reacted to him, to be confident that, regardless of all else, he would ultimately accept her refusal. Despite his reputation, he was not the type of man to force or even pressure a woman to his bed.

She glanced briefly his way, then looked down to hide her smile. The idea was laughable; he had too much pride and too much arrogant self-assurance to need always to win.

The thought reminded her of Fabien. Sebastian and he were much alike, yet there were indeed differences.

A bevy of ladies resplendent in elegant walking gowns hailed them. They stopped to chat. Helena was amused that as the last week had progressed, her acceptance by the female half of the ton had steadily increased. She was still viewed as a too-beautiful outsider by some—primarily the mamas with marriageable daughters to establish—yet many others had proved eager to welcome her into their circles. Contrary to Marjorie’s oft-stated opinion, St. Ives’s squiring of her had helped rather than hindered.