“They’re not the sort of things it would be wise to discuss in a crowded ballroom, mignonne.”
“I see.” She nodded, her gaze going beyond him. “In that case, I do not believe we have anything to discuss, Your Grace. I will not, not for any reason, go apart with you.”
On the words, her brilliant smile lit her face. “Ah, my lord—what perfect timing. His Grace was about to retreat.”
Swallowing that word—retreat be damned—ruthlessly suppressing his reaction to the flash of fire in her green eyes, Sebastian exchanged bows with Chomley, returning with a glass of orgeat, then turned back to Helena and reached for her hand. She was forced to extend it.
“Mademoiselle la comtesse.” With exquisite grace, he bowed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He caught her gaze as he straightened. “Until later, mignonne.”
With a calm nod, he strolled away, leaving Lord Chomley staring after him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
His lordship turned to Helena. “Later?”
She smiled serenely, quashing the impulse to scream. “His Grace has an odd sense of humor.”
A dry, rather caustic wit that, despite all her intentions, all her self-admonitions, Helena missed. Increasingly missed. She used the fact that she’d come, unwittingly, to rely on his company to leaven her evening entertainments as a prod to stiffen her resolve. To ensure she did not weaken. None knew better than she how foolish it was to become dependent in even the smallest way on a powerful man.
He’d exploit her weakness if he knew.
She concentrated on ignoring him, despite the fact that she was, as always, aware of his presence, his gaze—forced herself to give her attention to the increasingly urgent task of choosing a suitable nobleman to marry.
About her, Lady Castlereagh’s ball was in full swing. The ton, it appeared, flung itself into this last week’s entertainments with an energy to rival Parisian society at its most frenetic. Tonight, a troupe of Morris dancers had opened the ball, decked out in festive colors, twirling ribbons of green and red. In addition, a concoction derived from mead, claimed to be a modern equivalent of the ancient wassail, was being freely served; its effect on the guests was already evident. Helena smiled and declined to imbibe—she needed to keep her wits about her.
Two nights had passed since Lord Chomley had failed to discern the humor in St. Ives’s “later”; his lordship had clearly not been for her. Since then she’d been doggedly paring her list—thanks to the weather, she could accomplish little else through the days. Other than Were, currently out of town, there were three others who might do. She didn’t doubt her ability to dazzle them, to successfully encourage them to offer for her hand, but which one should she choose?
As far as she’d been able to learn through all manner of discreet inquiries, in title, estates, and income there was little difference between them. Each possessed, it appeared, an easygoing nature; any of the four should be easy to manage. With all her criteria met, she’d had to add another—a deciding factor.
She’d spent seven years being paraded before the most exacting connoisseurs of the French nobility; she had long ago realized that, for her, physical touch was a most useful means of categorizing men. There were those whose touch made her flesh creep—she’d met too many of that group for her liking. Not one had been kind or trustworthy. Then there were those whose touch might have been that of a friend or a maid. Such men were generally decent, upright souls, but not necessarily of strong will or strong mind.
There had ever been only one whose touch had made her glow.
To her, he was the most dangerous of all.
So . . . it was time to assess the three candidates now in London for how their touch affected her. She’d already danced with Were, strolled with him. His touch did not warm her, excite her, but neither did it make her flesh creep. Were had passed the test. If the others did not make her flesh creep, or glow, they would remain on her list, too.
Lord Athlebright, heir to the Duke of Higtham, was at this moment dancing attendance on his mother, but Viscount Markham, an amiable gentleman of some thirty-odd years, heir to the Earl of Cork, was approaching.
“My dear comtesse.” Markham bowed gracefully. “You must have only recently arrived. I could not have remained in ignorance of your fair presence for long.”
Helena smiled. “We have just arrived.” She extended her hand. “I would like to stroll, if you’re agreeable?”
His lordship took her hand, smiling easily. “It would indeed be my pleasure.”
The touch of hands, more precisely of fingertips, was not enough to judge. Helena glanced around but couldn’t see any musicians. “Will the dancing start soon?”
“I doubt it.” Markham looked at her. Was she imagining the calculating gleam in his eye? “Lady Castlereagh calls her evenings balls, but in reality, dancing is the last thing on her mind. Consequently, there’ll be but a few dances, and those most likely late.”
“Ah, I see.” Helena bided her time as they stopped and chatted, then moved on through the crowd. “I have to confess”—she leaned closer to Markham and lowered her voice—“that I find the English penchant for such crowded rooms somewhat . . . enervating.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “Dancing, that gives one a little space for a time, but . . . tiens, how is one to breathe?”
She made the question a laughing one, but Markham had already raised his head, looking over the crowd to scan the room. Then he looked down at her, his gaze unreadable. “If you would like to stroll in less crowded surrounds, there’s a conservatory just off the music room. We could repair there if you wish.”
There was an eagerness in his tone that alerted her, but she needed her list narrowed to one name by the end of tomorrow night—the night of Lady Lowy’s masquerade, the last night the ton would grace the capital. “You know the house well?” she asked, temporizing.
“Yes.” Markham smiled ingenuously. “My grandmother and Lady Castlereagh were bosom-bows. I was often dragged here to be shown off when I was young.”
“Ah.” Helena smiled back, feeling rather more comfortable. “Where is this music room?”
He led her into a side corridor, then down an intersecting corridor. The music room lay at its end; beyond, through glass-paneled doors, stood a room with walls and roof primarily composed of glass. Built out into the gardens, it was lit by weak moonlight.
Markham opened the door and ushered her in. Helena was entranced by the plethora of shadows, the odd shapes cast upon the green tiles. The air was cool but not chilly, the gentle splash of raindrops on the glass a curiously soothing sound.
She sighed. “It is very pleasant here.” She did find the crowds trying, the sense of being hemmed in with nothing but hot, heavily perfumed air all about her suffocating. But here . . . gratefully, she drew in a deep, deep breath. As she turned to Markham, she was surprised to find his gaze somewhat lower than her face.
He recovered swiftly and smiled. “There’s a pond—this way, from memory.”
His memory was good. The conservatory was bigger than she’d guessed; within a minute of leaving the area before the door and plunging down a series of narrow paths, she wasn’t sure which way led back.
“Ah—here it is.”
The pond, quite a large one, was set into the floor, its raised lip and the inside surface covered in bright blue tiles. It was filled to the level of the floor; against the tiles, Helena could see shapes drifting in the water.
“Fish!” Looking down, she leaned over the pool.
Markham leaned beside her. “There’s a fat one—look!”
Helena edged farther; Markham shifted. His shoulder bumped hers.
“Oh!”
She grabbed for Markham—he grabbed her.
“Helena! My dear, dear comtesse.”
He tried to kiss her.
Abruptly bracing her arms, Helena struggled to hold him off.
“Don’t fight me, sweet, or you’ll fall in the water.” Markham’s tone
was warm and far too knowing, too amused.
Helena inwardly cursed. She’d been too trusting.
His hands shifted on her back and her nerves leaped—not pleasurably. He’d yet to touch her bare skin, but every sense she possessed was rebelling at the mere thought.
“Stop this!” She put all the command she could muster into her tone.
Markham chuckled. “Oh, I will—eventually.”
He tried again to draw her to him. She resisted. Struggled. “No!”
“Markham.”
He started so much he nearly dropped her. The single word—and its tone—sent relief pouring down Helena’s veins. She didn’t even care what the fact portended—she just wanted to get out of Markham’s arms.
They’d gone slack. She got her balance, then, with a wrench, pulled back. Stepped back, glanced around.
Markham shot her a frowning glance but immediately returned his gaze to her savior.
Sebastian stood half obscured by the shadows, yet no shadow could dim the menace he projected. It was there in his stance; it hung in the tense silence. Helena had experience aplenty of being in the presence of displeased powerful men. Sebastian’s displeasure rolled past her like a wave and broke over Markham.
Involuntarily, Markham stepped back, putting more space between himself and her.
“I believe you were about to apologize?”
Sebastian’s voice held the chill of hell, the promise of damnation.
Markham swallowed. Without taking his gaze from Sebastian, he bowed to Helena. “Pray accept my apologies, comtesse.”
She did nothing, said nothing, regarding him as coldly as Sebastian.
“As mademoiselle has grown weary of your company, I suggest you leave.” Sebastian, ever graceful, walked forward; Markham backed, glanced around wildly, then edged toward one path. “One thing—I take it I don’t need to explain how . . . unhappy I would be if any mention of this incident or, indeed, of mademoiselle la comtesse at all were to be traced to you?”
“No need at all.” His face set, Markham looked at them both, then nodded curtly. “Good night.”
He left; they heard his footsteps striding along, faster and faster, then they paused; the door opened, shut, and he was gone.
Helena let out a shuddering sigh of relief; crossing her arms, she shivered.
Sebastian had halted two feet away; he turned his head and his gaze to her. “I think, mignonne, that you had better tell me just what you are about.”
The evenness of his tone did not deceive her; behind his mask he was angry. She lifted her chin. “I do not like such crowds. I thought to walk in less stifling surrounds.”
“Perfectly understandable. What is somewhat less understandable is why you chose Markham as your escort.”
She threw a frowning glance in the direction the viscount had gone. “I thought he was trustworthy.”
“As you have discovered, he is not.”
When she didn’t respond but continued to frown distantly, Sebas-tian ventured, “Do I take it you’ve struck him off your list?”
That got her attention; she turned her frown on him. “Of course! I do not like to be mauled.”
He inclined his head. “Which brings me back to my original question—what are you about?”
She considered him, then drew herself up. “My actions are no concern of yours, Your Grace.”
“Except that I choose to be concerned. I repeat, what game are you playing with your prospective suitors?”
Her chin rose another notch; her eyes flashed. “It is none of your business!”
He merely arched a bored brow and waited.
“You cannot”—she gestured at him with both hands as she searched for the word—“compel me to tell you just because you wish to know!”
He said nothing, simply looked at her—let his intent reach her without words.
She met his gaze, read his eyes, then flung her hands in the air. “No! I am not some weak-willed pawn in some game. I am not part of any game of yours. This is not some battle you must win.”
His lips curved, his smile wry. “Mignonne, you know what I am—precisely what I am. If you insist on standing against me, then . . .” He shrugged.
The sound she made was one of muted fury. “I will not tell you, and you cannot make me.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “I doubt you carry thumbscrews in your pockets, Your Grace, so perhaps we should adjourn this discussion until you have had time to find some.”
He laughed. “No thumbscrews, mignonne.” He caught her irate gaze. “Nothing but time.”
Her thoughts flitted through her eyes, which then widened. “That’s preposterous. You cannot mean to keep me here . . .”
She glanced at the nearest path.
“There is no possibility whatever that you will leave this clearing until you tell me what I wish to know.”
She glared at him, belligerently furious. “You are a bully.”
“You know very well what I am. Equally, you know that you have no choice, in this instance, but to concede.”
Her breasts rose; her eyes sparked. “You are worse than even he!”
“He who? Your guardian?”
“Vraiment! He is a bully, too, but he would never admit it.”
“I regret that my lack of duplicity offends you, mignonne. However, unless you wish to feature in a scandal, even at this last gasp of the year, you would do well to start explaining. You have been absent from the ballroom for twenty minutes.”
Helena shot him a furious look but knew she had no choice. “Very well. I wish to narrow my list to one by tomorrow night, before the ton leave for their estates. There were four gentlemen to consider—now there are only three.”
Sebastian nodded. “Were, Athlebright, and Mortingdale.”
She stared at him. “How did you know?”
“Acquit me of ignorance, mignonne—you told me your guardian’s criteria, and I guessed yours some nights ago.”
“Eh, bien!” She put her nose in the air. “Then you know all, so we may return to the ballroom.”
“Not quite.”
She glanced at Sebastian; he caught her eye.
“I know why those three and Markham were on your list. I know why Markham no longer is. I do not know what other quality you have chosen to assess, only that you’ve chosen something and that is what brought you here.”
She looked toward the path. “I merely wished for a moment’s peace.”
Sebastian’s long fingers slid around her chin and firmed; he turned her face to his. “It’s pointless to lie to me, mignonne. Despite all you say, you are much like those you run from—powerful men. You are enough like me that I can see at least part of what is in your mind. You are coolly and calmly assessing these men as your suitors. You care nothing for those three, only that they meet your needs. I am . . . concerned, if you wish, over what the final need you’ve focused on is.”
Her temper unfurled—she felt it spread its wings; she lunged and tried to drag it back, but it shrugged aside her will and flew free.
It wasn’t simply the fact that he did indeed understand her well—as well as Fabien had always seemed so effortlessly to do; while she might, in some cool part of her mind, admit that he was right in comparing her to them, she did not like the notion at all, did not like hearing it so calmly stated as truth. But it wasn’t that that loosed her fury.
It wasn’t even that, this close to him, she was acutely aware of the weight of his will, a tangible entity pressing her to submit.
It was her reaction to his touch, to the heat of his fingers cradling her chin—the instantaneous leaping of her heart, the tightening of her breathing, the sudden focus on him, the wash of heat within. The flare of recognition, the flash of a fire as old as time.
Her suitors were as nothing to her. Fabien’s touch did not set her heart racing. But this man—his touch—did.
Madness.
“Since you are so boorish as to insist, I will tell you.” Mad
ness to do so; impossible to resist. “I have decided to test that each gentleman’s touch does not repel me.” She lifted her chin from his fingers, her eyes locked challengingly on his. “That is, after all, a most pertinent consideration.”
His face hardened, but she could read nothing in his eyes, blue on blue, oddly shadowed. He lowered his hand.
“Were—does his touch repel you?”
His tone had deepened; a lick of caution skittered up her spine. “I have danced with him, walked with him—I feel nothing when he touches me.”
Satisfaction glimmered briefly in Sebastian’s eyes; she deliberately added, “So Lord Were, at present, is the only one who has attained my final list.”
He blinked; his focus remained on her as he thought, weighed, considered . . .
“You will not attempt to test Athlebright or Mortingdale.”
Those who knew him not might have assumed the comment to be a question; Helena recognized it as a decree, an order not to be disobeyed. Supremely assured—flown on temper—she lifted her head. “But of course I shall test them. How else am I to decide?”
With that eminently rational response, she turned to the path leading back the way she’d come. “And now, as I have told you all, you will hold by your word and allow me to return to the ballroom.”
Buoyed by even so mild a triumph, she stepped out.
“Helena!”
A growl—a clear warning. She didn’t stop. “Mme Thierry will be growing worried.”
“Damn it!” He broke from his stance by the pool and stalked after her. “You can’t be so witless—”
“I am not witless!”
“—as to imagine, after your success with Markham, that encouraging men to take you in their arms is a good idea!”
He was speaking through his teeth—a most wonderful sound. “I did not encourage Markham to be so . . . outré. He engineered the incident and grabbed me. I did not know he was no true gentleman.”
“There are many things you don’t know.” She only just caught Sebastian’s mutter, although he was following close behind her. The next instant he said, “I want you to promise me you won’t plot to get Athlebright or Mortingdale alone—that any testing you do will be done in the middle of a damn ballroom in sight of the entire ton.”
The Promise in a Kiss Page 10
