The Promise in a Kiss

by Stephanie Laurens

  So it was on the morning of Christmas Eve, with snow covering the grass, crisped by a hard frost and scattered with diamonds, a gift from the sun that shone in the clear sky, Helena stood in the chapel in the grounds of Somersham Place and took the vows that would bind her to Sebastian, to his home, to his family, for all time. Heard him take the corresponding vows to protect and cherish her, now and forever.

  In the atmosphere of blessed peace, of joy in love, in the time of the year when those emotions held sway and touched every heart, they were married.

  She turned to him, set back the delicate veil that had been his mother’s, noting the jeweled lights playing over them as the sun shone in benediction through the rose window. She went into his arms, felt them close around her. Knew she was safe.

  Knew she was free—free to live her life under the protection of a loving tyrant.

  She lifted her face, and they kissed.

  And the bells rang out, joyously pealing in salute to the day, in salute to the season—in salute to the love that bound their hearts.

  Frost etched the glass in myriad patterns in the window beside which Sebastian sat writing. It was the next morning, and the huge house lay still, slumbering lazily, the guests too worn out by the revelry of the day before to bestir themselves so soon.

  In the large, luxuriously appointed ducal bedchamber with its massive four-poster bed, the only sounds to break the silence were the scritch-scratch of his pen, crossing and recrossing the parchment, and an occasional crackle from the fire. Despite the freeze that had laid siege beyond the glass, the temperature in the room was comfortable enough for him to sit and write in just his robe.

  On the desk, beside his hand, lay a dagger, old and worn, sheathed in leather. The hilt was gold, ornate, supporting a large, pigeon’s-egg-size star ruby. Although worth a small fortune by weight alone, the dagger’s true value could not be measured in any scale.

  Reaching the end of his missive, Sebastian laid down his pen, then glanced at the bed. Helena hadn’t stirred; he could see the tangle of her black curls lying on his pillow, just as he’d left them when he’d slipped from her side half an hour before.

  She’d been welcomed into the Cynster clan with a joy that had transcended even the joy of the season. During their wedding breakfast, which had lasted all day, he’d seen her blossom—shackling Martin and George with her eyes, with her laughter and her smiles, making them forever her slaves, exchanging glances with Augusta, conspirator and companion, already firm friends. He’d seen her deal calmly and graciously with Almira, with an understanding he lacked. Watched her charm Arthur, the most reserved of them all.

  As for the rest—the wider family, friends, and connections gathered to witness and pass judgment—as Therese Osbaldestone had baldly informed him, they all thought him a lucky dog.

  Little did they know—much less did they see, except perhaps for Therese. Helena, after all, was too much like him.

  He’d never be able to take her love for granted, to expect her love as his due. Powerful he might be, noble and wealthy, yet there remained one thing he could not command. So he would always be there, watching, always ready to protect her, to ensure that she remained forever his.

  Such was the vulnerability of a conqueror.

  Therese would doubtless say he’d got all he deserved.

  Lips curving, he looked back at his letter. Read it through.

  I am returning with this an item to which I believe you are entitled. You will recall the circumstances in which it came into my hands, seven years ago. What you never knew was that in sending me to the Convent des Jardinières de Marie, you set me in the path of your ward, then staying there.

  That, my friend, was the one piece of information you lacked. We had met before you sent her to retrieve your item, met and exchanged a promise. In sending her to me to secure that item, you gave us the chance to revisit that earlier promise, to explore it as we had not had a chance to do before.

  We have now explored the potential fully and have reached our own agreement. I am now in possession of something worth inexpressibly more than your item—and for that I must thank you. Our future, hers and mine, we owe to you.

  Pray accept the enclosed item—yours once again—as a token of our thanks.

  You will be interested to know that your ward was not seriously inconvenienced by the accident that unfortunately marred our recent visit. Her energy and inventiveness are undimmed—to that I can personally attest.

  And yes, mon ami, she is now the Duchess of St. Ives.

  Bonne chance—until next we cross swords.

  Sebastian smiled, imagining Fabien reading it. He signed the letter, then sanded it; as he replaced the shaker, a rustling had him turning to the bed.

  Brushing back her mane of hair, Helena smiled, languid and sultry, and sank back on the pillows. “What are you doing?”

  Sebastian grinned. “Writing to your guardian.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, then lifted one hand and beckoned. The gold band he’d placed on her finger the day before glinted. “I think now that it is I you should deal with first, Your Grace.”

  His title on her lips, the Rs heavily rolled, was a blatant invitation.

  Sebastian left the letter and rose, returned to the bed.

  To her.

  To the warmth of her arms.

  To the promise in her kiss.

  Afterword

  REGRETTABLY, neither Sebastian, fifth Duke of St. Ives, nor Helena, his duchess, kept diaries. The following, however, was extracted from the diaries of the Reverend Julius Smedley, who filled the position of chaplain to the Duke of St. Ives from 1767 to 1794. Reverend Smedley officiated at the marriage of Sebastian and Helena and was a faithful recorder of all that took place in his circumscribed world. From him we learn that:

  Ariele de Stansion and Phillipe de Sèvres remained at Somersham Place for some years, Phillipe assisting with the management of the estate and Ariele spending much time with her sister. She assisted at the difficult birth of Helena’s only child, Sylvester. Phillipe remained devoted to Ariele through the years, and for her part, Ariele never looked at another, although there were gentlemen aplenty who sought to attract her notice. Consequently, with Sebastian’s assistance, Phillipe bought a sizable holding north of Lincoln. He and Ariele married and moved north, and thus beyond the Reverend Smedley’s purview.

  The only other note of interest over those early years of the duke’s marriage was an oblique reference to the death of one Marie de Mordaunt, Comtesse de Vichesse, the wife of the duchess’s and her sister’s erstwhile guardian, also Phillipe’s uncle.

  Shortly after, the Terror came to France. Sebastian, working with Phillipe and his own extensive contacts in that country, had already acted to liquidate and remove to England much of Helena’s and Ariele’s inherited wealth, as well as a number of their loyal servants.

  Phillipe’s brother, Louis, disappeared during this time, and no more was heard of him.

  The St. Iveses, after considerable searching, learned that the comte de Vichesse, called back from Paris to his fortress in the Loire, found Le Roc besieged. The tale that reached London was that the comte, at considerable risk to himself, gained access to the fortress, where he dismissed all his loyal retainers, instructing them to save themselves. Thereafter the comte disappeared. No further mention of the comte appears, either in the Reverend’s diaries or indeed in any account of those times.

  However, there is a fascinating mention of a French gentleman who arrived at Somersham a month after the fall of Le Roc. He is described as tall, lean, fair of face and hair, and indeed of address. He commonly wore all black and was observed to be a close comrade of the duke’s; the pair were often to be seen fencing on the terrace.

  In a departure from his usual love for detail, Reverend Smedley coyly leaves this French gentleman unnamed.

  The Frenchman remained at Somersham for some months, but then, to the duke and duchess’s clear sorrow, determined to leav
e England. He left Somersham for Southampton, there to take ship for the Americas.

  Why Set Romances in the Regency?

  TO someone unfamiliar with the genre, the question fairly leaps to the eye—why, of all the time periods in history, is the British Regency (1811-1820) and its flanking time periods so frequently used as the setting for romances?

  As a longtime reader of Regency romances, and as an author of fourteen romances all set in the Regency, I have some inklings as to why that might be so—why romance authors and readers both find the Regency so rewarding.

  First—and for a romance author very definitely foremost—the concept of love as an appropriate, useful, and perhaps even desirable element within marriage within the upper echelons of society evolved and gained acceptance during the Regency.

  Prior to that time, while the concept of romantic love between a man and a woman had been recognized for centuries, among the upper classes, it had not been considered at all necessary in marriage. Indeed, in the minds of many who had lived primarily in Georgian times and were old in the Regency, the new-fangled fashion for ladies to wear their hearts on their sleeves was shocking. And even more shocking when the objects of their affections were their own husbands!

  While there were rebels to this prevailing view, both in Georgian times and earlier, they were the exceptions, very definitely not the norm. While much milder “affection” was considered a felicitous circumstance within marriage and entirely appropriate, love was something else again.

  The attitude against love (as distinct from affection) in marriage in all likelihood sprouted from the view that love was a potentially dangerous force, one too powerful to be allowed to influence such vital contracts as marriages then were. Marriages were the primary means of merging and furthering familial estates, many of which were huge, politically powerful and wealthy. Divorce, and all the potential legal difficulties which could arise, or any form of marital disruption or instability, were to be avoided at all costs. Love being a force not amenable to the control of men and their laws, it was considered too dangerous to be allowed to touch the institution of marriage. Marriage was, indeed, a civil contract blessed by the church, and as such should not be subject to emotional urges. Thus ran the prevailing wisdom.

  Thus, until the Regency, marriage within the upper classes had very little to do with love. It was not only not required, but actively disapproved of. During the Regency, this changed.

  What caused this fairly fundamental shift seems buried in the mists of time. But the romantic poets certainly heard the bugle call, and lent their strong and at the time highly influential voices to the push for change.

  The waning of French influence on British society was one factor which not only contributed to, but was essential for, the emergence of the acceptance of love within marriage. When it came to love in marriage, the French were even stricter and more disapproving than the English (that was where the attitude had originally evolved from). While very strong during the Georgian era prior to the French revolution, and in the years immediately after, French influence on British society waned and then was eclipsed during the Napoleonic years. During this time, English fashions mirrored the change in English society, as it evolved beyond centuries of French influence, into something distinctly English.

  So change came, but it came slowly—even in the 1820s and later, it is likely the majority of marriages within the upper classes were still arranged on the basis of other, unemotional criteria. But love had become acceptable—and having been let into the equation, as it were, love within marriage was always destined to become the ideal. Very much along the lines of monkey see, monkey like, monkey do.

  It could be said that the Regency is the first time we see love within marriage as we now know it, and the very fact that this circumstance was unusual—not the norm—makes it easier to highlight, easier to showcase its desirable qualities.

  One aspect useful to the romance author which directly derives from this “newness” of love within marriage, is that the characters know this is not the “required” state—they could just as well marry without it. So there is also an element of “choice"—at some point our Regency hero and heroine must actively choose to accept and pursue love, rather than do without it. This is a natural consequence of the fact that in the Regency, love was not an automatic given in marriage.

  During the Regency, time was also on love's side. For a young lady of good family, of course, there was no other desirable career—anything less than marriage was considered a failure. So young women were encouraged to spend all their waking hours considering matrimony, and their entrance to that state. As for the gentlemen, both within the ton, and in the wealthy families in the shires, there were men aplenty who did not have to work for a living, but could spend serious time pursuing the objects of their desire—or their heart. Partly as a reflection of this, the Regency was a time when gallantry and elegance still held sway, and where such characteristics remained the yardstick of gentlemanly behavior.

  Furthermore, society considered it wise to spend time choosing and negotiating the best matrimonial alliances—hence, there was plenty of time to be legitimately devoted to courting rituals, and a plethora of suitable social events at which eligible parties could meet and explore their mutual situations. In the upper classes during the Regency, marriage was a serious business, pursued with due consideration.

  By the dawn of the Regency, society itself had become distinctly English in a highly recognizable way—rules abounded. It was an extremely strictly-mannered society. At no other time in history, before or after, were there so many things that were “simply not done!"

  Etiquette ruled. Period.

  A lady's reputation could be destroyed through some simple and harmless, quite inadvertent action. There were rules for this, rules for that—even rules for the exact degree of depth of curtsies, which varied according to who one was curtsying to. If you got it wrong, either too deep or too shallow, you might very well never see the inside of Almack's.

  But, like all things English, for instance, the English language, all the rules of the Regency had their exceptions.

  So while there were countless rules about just about everything, there were always exceptions – this creates a very dynamic situation, where virtually every case has to be considered on its merits. If a lady walks down a street alone, is this reprehensible, or perfectly acceptable? It depends on the street, on the lady, her age and station in life, her clothing, who was potentially watching, on the time of day—and on a host of other variables.

  While such a rigid but exceedingly variable social structure imposes and requires a great deal of care to be exercised by the author, it simultaneously presents untold opportunities for all sorts of situations guaranteed to a) bring our hero and heroine together, b) put them in circumstances where they have to act, or are impelled to act demonstrating their characters and c) to create satisfyingly exciting scenarios through which they move as their love develops and evolves into a grand passion.

  Where, you ask, do the exciting scenarios come from?

  Ah—that's the other side of the Regency that makes it so beloved of romance authors. For beneath the glitter and glamor of the ton's balls, behind the elegance and wealth of the upper classes and their indolent and hedonistic lifestyles, England was changing dramatically. It would never be the same again. The Regency was one of those rare times in history when an old order was being put aside, superseded, by a new order—but it all happened peaceably.

  The Regency was a time of social revolution, culminating in the Great Reform Bill of 1832. This extended voting rights to the majority of adult males and restructured representation in Parliament in the most sweeping social reform of the century. It changed Britain forever.

  And its seeds were sown and nurtured during the Regency.

  It is beyond the scope of this short essay to go into the depth and breadth of the social changes, but the interested reader will find no better source than J
.B. Priestley's The Prince of Pleasure.

  Suffice to say there was an awful lot happening during the Regency. And it happened against a backdrop of war, victory, an extravagant Prince Regent, a fabulously wealthy and powerful elite, an emerging middle class and an upper echelon of society who could waltz while the cannons rolled past. Indeed, as Priestley intimates, throughout the Regency there was a sense of waltzing while London burned—of living on the edge of great upheaval—of living through times that were rapidly and fundamentally changing, when the very ground of society shifted— of living life to the limits, as if there was no tomorrow.

  All of this resonates with the here and now—and is, I believe, deep down, one of the reasons the Regency continues to fascinate—because, from nearly two hundred years' distance, it holds up a mirror to our lives today.

  — Stephanie Laurens

  The Hero As Pursuer

  IF there is any unifying concept in the romances I have written, this is it. My critique partner noticed years ago that every one of my heroes want their heroine the instant they set eyes on her. Want her sexually, that is. This fact is simply a reflection of my experience of how the male of the species reacts on seeing a desirable female. It's not logic that rears its head.

  I didn't intend to specifically create books on this theme—it simply happened—but looking back over all the romances I've had published, plus the works in various stages of production, I have to admit that “the hero as pursuer” is a feature of every last one. And very likely will be in all the ones to come.

  Why? Because I write Regency-era historicals, and all my heroes are a certain type of man. They are powerful men in all senses of the word—physically and mentally, socially and sexually. They see—they want—they take. Which means all my heroines must be a certain sort of woman, meaning the sort of woman strong enough to stand up to, and wring concessions from, that type of man.