The Promise in a Kiss

by Stephanie Laurens

The hair on his chest rasped her breasts as he moved over her, until she could stand it no more. She grasped and tugged—tried to pull him down to her. He glanced at her, then obliged, let his weight sink fully upon her, his chest to her aching breasts.

  She sighed, tipped her head back—he had to angle his head, but he found her lips. Sank into her mouth.

  And the dance changed again.

  To two bodies fused by one aim.

  To a whirlpool of sensation and feeling, of emotions that had no name, of urgent needs and desires, primitive wants and passions, of a glory that was never the same.

  They all built and built, until she was writhing, his name on her lips, her body all his. Then the kaleidoscope fractured, and she was spinning through rapture, shards of bright sensation flying down her veins to melt, in heat, in glory, as she sighed and let go.

  Let the last hold on reality slip from her grasp, let the glory claim her soul. Aware, at the last, of him thrusting deep within her, of his muted groan, of the pleasure that washed through her as his seed spilled deep, of the joy that suffused her as his hard body collapsed, spent, upon her.

  She reached a hand to his hair, twined her fingers through it, held him close. Listened to his heart thunder, then slow.

  Sensed, in that last precious minute of heightened lucidity, an unexpected vulnerability.

  She smiled, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight.

  Before she recalled how dangerous that was, she slipped over the threshold into sleep.

  The clocks throughout the house chimed three o’clock. Sebastian was already awake, but the sound drew him to full consciousness, out of the deep, soul-satisfying warmth that had held him.

  He eased onto his back in the bed, glanced down. Helena lay sleeping, curled against him, pressing close, her small hands holding him as if she feared he would leave her. He considered her face, and wondered.

  Mignonne, what are you hiding?

  He didn’t voice the thought, but he wished he had the answer. Something had happened, yet he was damned if he knew what. She’d arrived, and all had been well, then . . .

  He’d checked with his staff; they knew nothing, had seen nothing. He hadn’t asked specifically, but Webster would have mentioned if any letters had arrived and been waiting for her. Yet there were two letters on her dressing table; his sharp eyes had detected flecks of wax on the floor. She’d opened the letters here—he would swear that first night, before she’d come down for dinner.

  That was when things had changed. When she had changed.

  Yet precisely how she had changed—given the events of the last few hours—he was at a loss to understand.

  Something had upset her, upset her deeply. A mere irritation and she would have let her temper show. But this was something so deeply troubling she’d sought to hide it, and not just from him.

  She didn’t yet realize, but matters between them had already—even before the last hours—progressed to a point where she couldn’t hide her feelings, her emotions, not completely, from him. He could see them in her eyes, not clearly, but like some shadow clouding the peridot depths.

  Her behavior had only reinforced his suspicion; when she’d come to his arms, she’d been controlled on the surface, and so fragile, so defenseless—so yearning—beneath. He’d sensed it in her kiss, a kind of desperation, as if what passed between them, what they’d shared in the last hours, was achingly precious, yet transitory. Doomed. That no matter how much she wanted it, yearned for it, regardless of his wishes, his strength, it would not last.

  He hadn’t liked that—not any of it. He’d reacted to it, to her, to her need.

  He grimaced as he recalled all that had passed. Knew she wouldn’t fully understand.

  He’d seen her need for protection, her need to be possessed and cherished, and had responded and made her his in the only way that truly mattered to him. Or, in truth, to her.

  His.

  She wouldn’t see what that meant, not immediately. Ultimately, of course, she would. She could hardly go through life without realizing that from this moment she was, and always would be, his.

  A difficulty, that, for them both.

  Inwardly sighing, he glanced down at her dark head, then brushed a kiss across her forehead, closed his eyes—and left fate to do her worst.

  Helena was not proud of herself the next morning. She woke to find herself alone, yet the bed bore eloquent testimony to all that had transpired. The tangled sheets were still warm with Sebastian’s heat. Without him, she felt chilled to the marrow.

  Clutching a pillow, she stared across the room. What was she doing, allying herself so intimately with such a powerful man? It had been madness to have let it happen. Yet it seemed pointless now to pretend regret.

  A regret that, despite all, she didn’t feel.

  Her one real regret was that she couldn’t tell him everything, couldn’t lean on his strength, draw on his undeniable power. After last night it would be such a relief to throw herself on his mercy, beg for his help. But she couldn’t. Her gaze fell on the letters, folded on the dressing table.

  Fabien had made sure she and Sebastian were on opposing sides.

  Before she could sink deeper into the mire of her fears and wallow in despair, she rose and tugged the bell for her maid.

  Sebastian was sitting at the head of the breakfast table, sipping his coffee and glancing over a news sheet when Helena walked into the room.

  He looked up; their gazes met. Then she turned away, exchanged an easy smile with Clara, and headed for the sideboard. His gaze remained on her, delectable in a silk print gown, while his mind rolled back through the night past, through the passion and fulfillment, both so intense, to the question—questions—to which he yet lacked answers.

  Helena turned; he continued watching, waiting . . .

  Plate in hand, she approached the table. She traded mild comments with Marjorie and Clara, then continued on to the chair at his right.

  Just as well.

  He waited until she sat and settled her skirts, then drew breath.

  She looked up at that moment. He glimpsed the shadows swirling in her eyes, dulling the peridot depths. He started to reach for her hand—stopped as she looked down.

  “I wondered . . .” With her fork, she toyed with a portion of kedgeree. “Do you think we might go for another ride—like yesterday?” She glanced at the window, at the day outside. “It’s still clear, and who knows how long that will last.”

  There was a wistfulness in her voice, evoking the memory of how relaxed and, if not carefree, then at least temporarily relieved of her dark burden she had seemed the previous morning, when they’d flown across his fields before the wind. She glanced up again, brows gently arched.

  Again he glimpsed her eyes.

  Shackling his impatience, he inclined his head. “If you wish. There’s a long ride north we could try.”

  She smiled, a fleeting gesture that too quickly faded from her lips. “That would be . . . pleasant.”

  Why she didn’t simply say “a relief,” Sebastian didn’t know. That their ride together was that—a relief, a distraction from her troubles—was transparently obvious to him. And while she was in that state, relieved of that inner burden, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the mood and press her for details.

  Thus, when they returned to the house three hours later, he was no nearer to answering either of his questions. One he would have to wait for her to tell him of her own accord; trust could not be forced, only earned. At least between them. From others he might command it, but not from Helena.

  That left the more obvious question he had to ask her. There was no longer any reason he could not put that before her, on the table between them.

  It might even help with the other, by encouraging the trust he sought to gain.

  When they rose with the others from the luncheon table, he took her hand and drew her aside. “If you would grant me a few minutes of your time, mignonne, there are a few d
etails I believe we should address.”

  He couldn’t read her eyes as she studied his face. Then she glanced at the windows, to the prospect dimmed by the sheeting rain. No escape there. Marjorie and Clara passed them, going ahead as if they hadn’t noticed. Thierry and Louis had already left for the billiard room. She drew in a breath as if girding her loins, then glanced at him and inclined her head. “If you wish.”

  He wished . . . a great many things, but he took her hand in his and led her to his study.

  Helena struggled to mask her tension, her trepidation—not of him but of what he might tempt her to say, to do. To confess. He ushered her through the door a footman threw open, into what she perceived to be his study. The wide desk, obviously in use by the stacks of papers and ledgers on its top, the large leather chair behind it and the plethora of document boxes and ledgers packed into shelves around the room confirmed that. The room was, however, unexpectedly comfortable, even cozy. Wide windows looked over the lawns; although the light outside had dimmed, lamps had been lit, their golden glow falling softly on well-polished wood, on velvet and leather.

  She crossed to where a fire burned brightly in the hearth, dispelling the chill creeping through the glass. On the way, she glanced about, surreptitiously searching for a case or a display cabinet—somewhere Fabien’s dagger might reside. She felt driven to look, yet despaired at having to do so. For having to repay Sebastian in such a deceitful way.

  Halting before the hearth, she held her hands to the fire, then straightened as he joined her.

  He stopped before her, took her hands in his. Looked into her face, into her eyes. She couldn’t read his, felt confident he couldn’t read hers. As if acknowledging their mutual defenses, the ends of his lips lifted in a wry, self-deprecatory smile.

  “Mignonne, after the events of last night, you know, and I know, that we’ve already taken the first steps down our joint path. In terms of making decisions, we’ve already made ours—you yours, me mine. Nevertheless, between such people as we are, there is a need for a formal yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question.”

  He hesitated; searched her eyes again. She didn’t glance away, try to avoid the scrutiny—she was too busy searching herself, trying to sense his direction. Wondering if the uncertainty she sensed came from him—or her.

  Then his lips twisted. He looked down, simultaneously raising her hands to kiss one, then the other.

  “Be that as it may”—his voice had deepened, taken on that tone she now associated with intimacy—“I do not wish to press you. I will ask you my simple question when you are ready to give me a simple answer.” He glanced up, met her eyes again. “Until then, know that I am here, waiting”—again his lips quirked—“albeit not patiently. But for you, mignonne . . . rest assured I will wait.”

  That last sounded like a vow. Her surprise must have shown in her face, in her eyes—in his a markedly self-deprecatory light glowed, as if he were shaking his head at himself over how lenient he was being with her.

  And he was. More than most she understood that—that his natural impulse would be to press her to accept his offer, to declare herself won. To admit she was his, his to rule, to command.

  She’d expected a demand to surrender formally; she’d steeled herself to vacillate, to prevaricate if need be, to use every feminine wile she possessed to delay any such declaration. If she gave in and allowed him to assume he’d triumphed and to crow, presumably publicly, over it, then when she fled, the damage would only be worse.

  The rage her defection provoked would be only more intense.

  She’d come into the room prepared to do whatever violence to her feelings was necessary to accomplish all she wished—to save Ariele while minimizing harm to him. “I . . .” What could she say in the face of such empathy? He knew nothing of her problem, yet he’d sensed her difficulty and drawn back from exacerbating her situation, even though he didn’t understand.

  “Thank you.” The words left her lips in a soft sigh. Lifting her head, she held his gaze, smiled, let her relief and gratitude show in her eyes, in her expression. She drew breath—and it came easier. Gently tugging her hands from his, she clasped them before her. “I will . . . I promise I will tell you when I can answer your simple question.”

  She would never be able to do so, but there was nothing she could do to change that.

  His gaze, piercing blue, searched her eyes again, but there was nothing more she was willing to show him. She kept her sadness at that last thought well hidden; for Ariele’s sake, she had to remember that they were, in effect, adversaries now.

  Already hard, his features hardened further. His expression a stony mask, he inclined his head. “Until then.”

  The strength of his reined temper reached her; she instinctively lifted her chin. He considered her for a moment, then said, his tone even, controlled, almost distant, “Clara will be in the back parlor. It would be wise if you were to join her there.”

  The warning could not have been more blunt. She held his gaze for one moment, then inclined her head. “I will leave you, then.”

  Gracefully, she swept around, her gaze taking in the room in one comprehensive glance. There were four large chests, set against the walls at various points, all shut, all with keyholes.

  She crossed to the door, opened it, and went out, drawing it closed behind her. Only then losing the telltale warmth of Sebastian’s gaze.

  She would have to search his study.

  Sometime.

  Chapter Ten

  NO suitable time presented itself. In truth, as the days passed, Helena made little effort to further Fabien’s goal, too focused on Sebastian, on his finer qualities, on all she would have gained by his side—all she would forgo when the time came and she had to act, steal the dagger, and run.

  She knew how many days she had left, exactly how many hours; she was determined to make the most of every one.

  If the morning was fine, they would ride—indeed, he seemed to take it for granted they would, unless rain intervened. She was too grateful for the moments of unalloyed peace to complain at his somewhat cavalier expectation that she would accompany him as a matter of course.

  However, despite the fact that she did not, as he had so perspicaciously noted, like being taken for granted, she felt disappointed when he didn’t appear at her door the next night. Or the next.

  The following morning, as they returned from the stables and took their habitual shortcut through the small parlor, she slowed, then halted and faced him.

  He stopped, studied her face, arched a brow.

  “I . . . You . . .” She lifted her chin. “You have not again come to me.”

  Had once been enough? A disturbing thought—as disturbing as the notion that he’d found the experience less than satisfactory.

  She could read nothing in his face or his eyes. After a moment he replied, “Not because I don’t wish to.”

  “Why, then?”

  He seemed to consider—to take note of the tone of her voice, the puzzlement she allowed to show—then he sighed. “Mignonne, I am rather more experienced in such matters than you. That experience suggests—no, guarantees—that the more we . . . indulge, the more I shall . . . require. Come to expect to have.”

  She folded her arms, fixed her gaze on his eyes. “And that is bad?”

  He held her gaze. “It is if in the . . . having, I remove—take from you—all choice over the question of being my duchess.” His tone hardened. “Once you’re carrying my child, there will be no question, no choice for you to make. You know that as well as I.”

  She did, and she accepted it. But . . . She tilted her head, considered all she could see in his face. “Are you sure this . . . attitude of yours is not perhaps equally motivated by a hope that I will”—she gestured—“grow impatient and agree to answer your question quickly, and as you wish?”

  He laughed, the sound cynical, not humorous. “Mignonne, if I wanted a lever to pressure you into marriag
e, you may be assured that particular tack is not one I would choose.” He met her eyes. “The degree of impatience you feel is nothing to the . . . torment that racks me.”

  She glimpsed it in his eyes—a prowling need—sensed its force before his shields slid back and he shut her out once more. She frowned. “I do not like the idea that you are tormented over me. There must be some way . . .”

  With one hand he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Captured her gaze. “Before you follow that thought too far, consider the fact that if there were, I would know of it and would certainly have employed it. But to ease my particular torment . . . no, there is only one remedy for that. And before you ask, I did not tell you how much I desire you, because that, too, is just another form of coercion.” He searched her eyes. “Mignonne, I wish you to marry me because you desire to be my wife—not for any other reason. As far as I am able, I will not pressure you in making that decision, will not manipulate your feelings in any way. I will even engage to shield you from any pressure others might seek to bring to bear.”

  “Why? Why, when you want me as your duchess, why be so forbearing?” Given his nature, that was a highly pertinent point.

  His lips curved, wryly cynical. “Yes, there is something I wish in return. But for my forbearance, I ask only one thing.” His eyes were very blue as he gazed into hers. “The simple answer you eventually give me, mignonne, I wish it to be yours. Not one logically derived after due consideration of the facts, but the real truth of what you desire.” He paused, then added, “Look into your heart, mignonne—the answer I want will be written there.”

  His last words echoed in her mind. All about was silent and still. Their gazes held, then fell away. He bent his head.

  “That is what I want, what I will give a great deal to have.” His words feathered her lips. “I want you to answer truly, to be true to yourself—and to me.”

  Sebastian kissed her, even though he knew it was unwise, that he would pay dearly for the indulgence. For giving in to the urge to reassure her, to wipe from her mind any notion he did not want her. He would pay, and she was too innocent to know the price—the effort it would take to stop at just a kiss and let her go.