The Promise in a Kiss

by Stephanie Laurens

  “There you are, m’dear. It’s time for our dance.”

  They could hear music wafting from behind him. One glance at his open expression was enough to tell them both that he suspected nothing scandalous. Helena stepped around Sebastian and swept forward. “Indeed, my lord. My apologies for keeping you.” She paused as she reached Were’s side and looked back at Sebastian. “Your Grace.” She curtsied deeply, then rose, placed her fingers on Were’s hand, and let him lead her out.

  Were grinned at Sebastian over her head. Despite all, Sebastian smiled and nodded back. He and Helena had not been apart, alone, for long enough to give the gossips sufficient cause to speculate, and Were had, intentionally or otherwise, covered the lapse.

  The curtain fell closed; Sebastian stared at its folds.

  And frowned.

  She was resisting—more than he’d anticipated. He wasn’t sure he understood why. But he was certain he didn’t approve. And he definitely did not appreciate her quick-wittedness in avoiding him.

  Society had grown used to seeing them together—they were now growing used to seeing them apart. That was not part of his plan.

  From the shadows of his carriage drawn up by the verge in the park, Sebastian watched his future duchess animatedly holding court. She’d grown more confident, even more assured; she controlled the gentlemen around her, with a laugh, with a grimace, with one look from those wonderful eyes.

  He couldn’t help but smile, watching her listen to some anecdote, watching her manipulate the strings that made her would-be cavaliers extend themselves to entertain her. It was a skill he recognized and appreciated.

  But he’d seen enough.

  Raising his cane, he rapped on the door. A footman appeared and opened it, then let down the steps. Sebastian descended to the ground. The carriage he’d used was not his town carriage; this one was plain black and bore no crest on its panels. His coachman and footman were also in black, not his livery.

  Which explained why he’d been able to sit and watch Helena without her noting him and taking flight.

  She saw him now, but too late to take evasive action, to discreetly avoid him. Social constraint was, for once, working to his advantage—she was too proud to create a public scene.

  So she had to smile and offer him her hand. She curtsied deeply, and he bowed, raised her. Then raised her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

  Temper flared briefly in her eyes. She fought to quell her reaction, but he felt it. Increasingly haughty, she inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Have you come to take the air?”

  “No, my dear comtesse, I came for the pleasure of your company.”

  “Indeed?” She was waiting for him to release her hand, too wise, after their recent meetings, to tug.

  He looked around the circle of gentlemen, all younger, far less powerful than he. “Indeed.” He glanced at Helena, met her gaze. “I believe these gentlemen will excuse us, my dear. I have a wish to view the Serpentine in your fair company.”

  He saw her breasts swell—with indignation and a hot-bloodedness he found unexpectedly alluring. Glancing around the circle again, he nodded generally, confident none would be game to cross swords with him.

  Then he saw Mme Thierry. She’d been part of the group but until then blocked from his sight. To his surprise, she smiled at him, then turned to Helena. “Indeed, ma petite, we have stood here in the breeze long enough. I’m sure monsieur le duc will escort you back to our carriage. I’ll wait for you there.”

  Sebastian could not have said who was the more surprised—he or Helena. He glanced at her, but she’d masked her reaction to the unexpected defection. However, her lovely lips set in a rather grim line as, after making her adieus to her cavaliers, she let him turn her down the walk to the water.

  “Smile, mignonne, or those interested will believe we have had a falling-out.”

  “We have. I am not pleased with you.”

  “Alas, alack. What can I do to make you smile at me once more?”

  “You can stop pursuing me.”

  “I would be happy to do so, mignonne. I confess, I find pursuing you increasingly tedious.”

  She looked at him, surprise in her eyes. “You will stop . . .” She gestured with one hand.

  “Seducing you?” Sebastian met her gaze. “Of course.” He smiled. “Once you’re mine.”

  The French word she muttered was not at all polite. “I will never be yours, Your Grace.”

  “Mignonne, we have been over this many times—you will, one day, most definitely be mine. If you were honest, you would admit you know it.”

  Her eyes spat fire. She bit back a retort, flung him a furious glare, then looked haughtily ahead.

  If they’d been in a room with a vase to hand, would she have thrown it? Sebastian found himself wondering—and then wondered at that fact. He had never before encouraged tantrums in his paramours, yet in Helena . . . her temper was so much an intrinsic part of her, so indicative of her fire, he found himself drawn to it—wanting to provoke all that energy so he could plunge into it, then deflect it into passion.

  He was aware that his imperviousness, his calm reaction to her outbursts, was irritating her even more.

  “There are not so many others around. Is it wise for us to be thus alone?”

  The walks along both banks of the Serpentine were nearly deserted.

  “It’s the end of the year, mignonne. Plans are being made, the last-minute whirl all-consuming. And the day is hardly encouraging.”

  It was gray, cloudy, with a definite breeze carrying the first chill of encroaching winter. His gaze sliding approvingly over Helena’s warm cloak, he murmured, “However, as to propriety, the gossipmongers have grown tired of watching us, grown weary of expecting a scandal. They’ve turned their eyes elsewhere.”

  She threw him an uncertain look, as if wondering just what he might risk in a nearly deserted public place.

  He had to smile. “No—I will not press you here.”

  He thought she humphed, but her eyes said she accepted the assurance. After a moment she said, “I am not a horse to be walked so I don’t chill.”

  Obligingly, he turned her up the next path, taking them back toward the carriage drive. “Mme Thierry’s words invoked an unfortunate allusion.”

  “Her words were ill judged.” Helena threw him a frowning look. “She has changed her opinion of you. Did you speak with her?”

  “If you mean did I buy her cooperation, no. I haven’t spoken with her except in your presence.”

  “Hmm.”

  They walked on in silence; the carriage drive lay not far ahead when he murmured, “I have enjoyed our walk, mignonne, but I want something more from you.”

  The glance she shot him was sharp—and furiously stubborn. “No.”

  He smiled. “Not that. All I wish for today is the promise of two dances at Lady Hennessy’s ball tonight.”

  “Two dances? Is that not frowned on?”

  “At this time of year no one will think anything of it.” He looked ahead. “Besides, you deliberately denied me any dances last night. Two tonight is fair recompense.”

  Her head rose haughtily. “You were late.”

  “I am always late. If I arrived early, my hostess would faint.”

  “It is not my fault there are so many gentlemen eager to partner me that there were no dances left for you.”

  “Mignonne, I am neither gullible nor young. You deliberately gave all your dances away. Which is why you will promise me two for tonight.”

  “You forgot the ‘or else.’”

  He let his tone lower. “I thought to leave that to your imagination.” He caught her eye. “How much do you dare, mignonne?”

  She hesitated, then, exceedingly haughtily, inclined her head. “Very well, you may have your two dances, Your Grace.”

  “Sebastian.”

  “I now wish to return to Mme Thierry.”

  He said no more but led her to the Thierrys
’ carriage, then made his adieus. He stood back, and the coachman flicked the reins; he watched the carriage roll away down the avenue.

  For four days they’d been sparring—he tempting her to him, she trenchantly resisting. A gentleman would have spoken, told her he meant marriage. As things stood . . .

  He was a nobleman, no gentleman—the blood of conquerors flowed in his veins. And often, as now, dictated his actions.

  It was impossible even to contemplate simply offering for her hand, not knowing she was so coolly appraising candidates and that he, more than any other currently in the ton, fitted her bill.

  Face hardening, he turned and walked to his carriage.

  Her resistance—unexpectedly strong—had only raised the stakes, focused his predatory senses more acutely, made it even more imperative that he win. Her.

  He wanted her to accept him on his own terms, because of who he was and who she was underneath the glamour, stripped of their rank, man and woman, an equation as old as time. Wanted her to want him—the man, not the duke. Not because his rank exceeded hers and his estates and income were considerable.

  Because she wanted him as he wanted her.

  He wanted some hint of surrender, some sign of submission. Some sign that she knew she was his.

  Only that would do. Only that would appease his need.

  Once she’d acknowledged what lay between them, then he would speak of marriage.

  The footman stood waiting, holding the carriage door. Sebastian called an order to return to Grosvenor Square, then climbed in. The door shut behind him.

  Steeling herself, Helena curtsied to Sebastian, then rose and linked hands, twirling into the first figure of her first dance with him. Think! she ordered herself. Of something other than him. Don’t meet his eyes. Don’t let his nearness swamp your senses.

  When, in the carriage on the way to the ball, she’d complained of his arrogance in demanding two dances, Marjorie had smiled and nodded, partonizingly encouraging, for all the world as if St. Ives were not one of the ton’s leading rakes. As if he weren’t the one Marjorie herself had labeled dangereux.

  More surprising still had been Louis’s complacency. He was supposed to be her protector. Helena stifled a snort. She suspected that Louis was not entirely aware of monsieur le duc’s reputation, nor of his determination to avoid matrimony. When St. Ives had come to claim this dance, Louis had looked stupidly smug.

  Aggravation, she’d discovered, was her best defense against Sebastian. Emboldened, she met his eyes. “I assume you’ll be leaving London shortly?”

  His long lips curved. “Indeed, mignonne. After next week, along with the rest of the ton, I’ll quit London for the country.”

  “And where will you spend the festive season?”

  “At Somersham Place, my principal estate. It’s in Cambridgeshire.” They circled, then he asked, “To where do you plan to retire, mignonne?”

  “The Thierrys have not yet decided.” As she crossed him in the dance, Helena noted the quality of Sebastian’s smile. Everyone, it seemed, was smug tonight.

  The devil prompted her to ask, “Has Lord Were returned to London?”

  She glanced up.

  His features hard, Sebastian trapped her gaze. “No. Nor is he expected in the near future.”

  They circled once more; she couldn’t drag her gaze from his—didn’t dare. The movements of the dance seemed to mirror their interaction, hands touching, parting, she twirling away only to have to return to him.

  She did, her skirts swishing as she turned before him, then paused, held up her hands. He stepped close behind her; his fingers locked about hers, and they stepped out in concert with the other dancers.

  “Tempt me not, mignonne. Lord Were is not here to save you tonight.”

  The softly murmured words were threat and promise; they feathered over her exposed shoulder—goose bumps spread over her bare skin.

  She turned her head slightly and murmured back, “I have told you, I am not for you, Your Grace.”

  He was silent for one instant, then whispered, “You will be mine, mignonne—never doubt it.”

  He released her and they separated, flowing with the dance—as she moved away, his fingers touched her nape, then trailed down and away.

  She felt the touch in the tips of her breasts, as a wash of heat flaring beneath her skin. She forced her expression to an easy smile, forced her eyes to meet his directly.

  At the end of the dance, he raised her, then carried her hand to his lips. “Soon, mignonne—soon.”

  Never! she vowed, but it wouldn’t be easy to gainsay him.

  She couldn’t break her promise to grant him another dance, but if he couldn’t find her . . .

  She chatted, laughed, smiled, and silently plotted. Louis, as always, hovered; on impulse she claimed his arm. “Stroll with me, cousin.”

  With a light shrug, he complied. Helena steered him toward the far end of the room where the dragonlike dowagers sat, sharp eyes scanning the throng, tongues wagging incessantly, brows poised to rise at the slightest sign of scandal.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “that Lord Were might suit me as a husband. Have you an opinion on his lordship and whether Fabien would welcome an offer from him?”

  “Were?” Louis frowned. “Is he the large, dark-haired, somewhat corpulent gentleman who favors brown coats?”

  She wouldn’t have called him corpulent. “He’s about to step into a marquess’s shoes, which will satisfy Fabien as to title. As for the rest, to me he seems eminently suitable.”

  “Hmm . . . from what I have heard, he is not highly regarded, this Were. He is quiet, retiring—self-effacing.” That last, Louis said with a sneer. “I do not believe Uncle Fabien would think it wise for you to ally yourself with a weak man.”

  “Weak”—to her the word was the highest seal of approval. But, “Bien sûr,” she said. “I must think more on that.”

  In the corner of the room beyond the dowagers, a door stood ajar.

  “Where are we going?” Louis asked as she led him to it.

  “I want to see what lies beyond here. The air in this room is so stale.” She stepped past him and through the door as the first strains of a minuet—her second dance with Sebastian—drifted over the crowd’s head.

  Louis followed her into a gallery. Three couples, summoned by the music, passed them, returning to the ballroom, leaving the gallery with its long windows overlooking the gardens deserted save for them.

  “Bon!” Helena smiled. “It is much more peaceful in here.”

  Louis frowned but was distracted by a sideboard. He went to investigate the decanter and glasses sitting atop it. Helena drifted down the narrow room, drawn to the windows.

  She was standing, gazing out at the stars, when a faint sound reached her.

  A second later a deep voice drawled, “De Sèvres.”

  She turned to see Louis bowing deeply. Sebastian strolled out of the shadows shrouding the door.

  He spoke to Louis. “Mademoiselle la comtesse is engaged to me for this dance, but as she feels the need for a few moments in quieter surrounds, I will remain with her here. No doubt you have engagements of your own in the ballroom.”

  Even through the gloom, Helena saw the sharp look Louis directed her way.

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” Louis hesitated for an instant, glancing once more at Helena. She couldn’t believe he would leave her.

  “You may rest assured,” Sebastian drawled, “that mademoiselle la comtesse will be safe with me. I will return her to Mme Thierry at the conclusion of the dance. Until then, I believe, her time is mine.”

  “As you say, Your Grace.” Louis bowed again, then turned on his heel and left. He closed the door behind him.

  Dumbfounded, Helena stared at the door. Louis couldn’t be so witless as to believe she’d be safe alone with a man of Sebastian’s reputation.

  “I do not know the answer, mignonne, but he has indeed left us alone.”

  Th
e faint amusement in Sebastian’s voice fanned her anger. She clung to it and faced him as he crossed the room toward her. She lifted her chin, ignoring the skittering panic chasing over her skin. “This is not wise.”

  “I must agree, but it was your choice, mignonne.” He halted before her; she saw he was smiling—a distinctly predatory smile. “If the minuet is not to your liking, there’s another dance we might try.”

  She studied his eyes, found them impossible to read in the poor light. “No.” She moved to cross her arms; he reached out and caught her hands, holding them lightly in his. She frowned at him. “I do not at all understand why you are doing this.”

  His lips quirked. “Mignonne, I assure it is I who do not understand why you are behaving as you are.”

  “Me? I would think the reason for my behavior was obvious. I have told you more than once that I will not be your mistress.”

  One brown brow arched. “Have I asked you to be my mistress?”

  She frowned. “No, but—”

  “Bon, we have that much clear.”

  “We have nothing clear, Your Grace—Sebastian,” she amended as he opened his lips. “You admit to pursuing me, to wishing to seduce me—”

  “Stop.”

  She did, puzzled by his tone, neither drawling nor cynical—straightforward.

  He considered her, then sighed. “Would it help, mignonne, if I gave you my word I will not complete your seduction at any function we might attend, such as this ball?”

  His word—she knew without asking that he would honor that to the death. Yet . . . “You said before that you are not playing a game with me. Is that true?”

  His lips twisted, half wry smile, half grimace. “If you are a pawn, mignonne, so am I, and it is some higher power that moves us on this earthly board.”

  Helena considered for one minute more, then drew breath and nodded. “Very well. But if you are not to seduce me en effet, then what . . . ?”

  She raised her hands, palms up, ignoring the light grasp of his. He changed his grip, took her hands in his. She saw his smile dawn again, still predatory, still too fascinating for her peace of mind.

  “The music will end soon. In lieu of my dance, I would claim a favor.”

  She let her suspicion show. “And what is this favor?”