The promise in a kiss c-8

by Stephanie Laurens

  Helena was fascinated. “Does he do the same for gentlemen in distress?”

  The countess caught her eye. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”

  Helena laughed. Sebastian crossed to her side, one brow arching. She shook her head.

  “We had best get on. Mme Thierry will be anxious.”

  An understatement; Helena nodded. They made their adieus, then walked quickly back to the carriage drive. Their appearance together, Helena noted, drew little attention, even from the most rabid scandalmongers perched in their carriages swapping the lateston-dits .

  They reached the carriage, and Sebastian handed her in. Although relieved to see her return, even Marjorie seemed less concerned than previously. Sebastian bowed, then left them, strolling languidly to where his own carriage waited farther along the avenue.

  Helena watched him go. She couldn’t imagine Fabien helping anyone for no reason.

  Now that her eyes had been opened, Helena saw a great deal more. At Lady Crockford’s soirée that evening, she watched Sebastian make his way toward her, watched as he was stopped again and again, by this lady, then that. Before, she had assumed that it was he who stopped to speak—now she saw it was they who spoke first, who caught his eye with a smile.

  Gentle words, grateful smiles.

  The ladies were not, in the main, the sort one might imagine would catch his roving eye. Many were older than he, others too awkward or plain ever to have been likely candidates for his less-acceptable attentions.

  He’d cut a swath through the London salons with a double-edged sword. Sheer arrogant masculinity on the one hand, unexpected kindness on the other.

  He neared, and his gaze met hers. She fought to quell a shiver.

  Joining them, he exchanged bows, spoke a few words with Marjorie and Louis, then turned to her. One brow arched.

  She smiled and gave him her hand. “Shall we promenade?”

  His expression was indulgent. “If you wish.”

  Sebastian guided Helena through the throng and tried to ignore her nearness—the subtle warmth of her slender figure, the light touch of her fingers on his. Tried to block out the French perfume she wore, that wreathed about her and none too subtly beckoned the beast, urged him to seize and devour.

  Spending so much time with her was fraying his reins, raising expectations yet leaving them unfulfilled. Only his supreme dislike of conducting his affairs in the full glare of the ton’s attention held him back from pursuing her overtly. The news he was to wed would cause a sensation, but if he waited just a few weeks more until Christmas drew close and the ton quit the capital, then the necessary formalities of his offer and her acceptance could be played out in private.

  Infinitely preferable, given he was not entirely sure of her.

  A surprise and a challenge—she continued to be both.

  Taking advantage of his height, he scanned the guests, noting any gentlemen potentially useful for passing the time—for distracting her. Carefully avoiding Were. That had been a misjudgment; Were was a friend. He had never been one to fashion rods for his own back. Helena would not get another chance to consider Were, not if he could help it.

  They were leaving a group of ladies who’d waylaid them when George emerged from the throng. One glance at his brother’s face was enough to tell him Martin had opened his lips to one person at least.

  George’s delight was unfeigned; he beamed at Helena and didn’t wait for an introduction. “Lord George Cynster, comtesse.” He bowed extravagantly over the hand she extended. “I’m enchanted to meet you, quite enchanted.” The light in his eye declared that no lie.

  “And I am equally glad to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Amused, Helena shot Sebastian a glance. “How many brothers do you have, Your Grace?”

  “For my sins, three. Arthur, Almira’s husband, you’ve yet to meet. Arthur and George are twins. Martin’s the youngest.”

  “No sisters?” Helena shifted her gaze to George. He was not quite as tall as Sebastian but of similar build. He had darker hair but the same blue eyes. The same somewhat dangerous aura hung about him. In Martin that had been less pronounced; in Sebastian it was more powerful, more blatant. Helena concluded that the characteristic developed with age and experience—she judged George to be in his early thirties.

  “One.”

  The answer came from Sebastian. Helena glanced up to find his gaze fixed on the crowd behind her.

  “And unless I miss my guess—”

  He stepped sideways, reaching through the crowd to close his fingers about the elbow of a lady flitting past.

  Tall, elegantly dressed, with her brown hair piled high, the lady turned, brows rising haughtily, ready to annihilate whoever possessed the temerity to lay hands on her. Then she saw who it was. Her expression changed in a blink to one of joy.

  “Sebastian!” The lady clasped his hand in both of hers and stepped free of the crowd. “I hadn’t expected to find you still in town.”

  “That, my dear Augusta, is patently obvious.”

  Augusta wrinkled her nose at him, at his censorious tone, and let him draw her to join them. She grinned at George. “George, too—how goes it, brother dear?”

  “So-so.” George grinned back. “Where’s Huntly?”

  Augusta waved behind her. “Somewhere here.” Her gaze had come to rest on Helena. She glanced briefly at Sebastian.

  “Augusta, Marchioness de Huntly—Helena, comtesse d’Lisle.” Sebastian waited while they exchanged curtsies, then added to Helena, “As you’ve no doubt gathered, Augusta is our sister. However”—his gaze shifted to Augusta and sharpened—“what I fail to understand, Augusta, is why you’re gadding about London given your present state.”

  “Don’t fuss. I’m completely all right.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “And despite the panic, it turned out perfectly well in the end. Edward’s thriving. If you must know—and I suppose you’ll demand to—I was quite moped in Northamptonshire. Huntly agreed just a little socializing would do no harm.”

  “So you travel to London to attend balls and routs.”

  “Well, what would you? It’s not as if there’s any socializing in Northamptonshire.”

  “It’s hardly the far end of the world.”

  “In terms of entertainment it might as well be. And anyway, if Huntly doesn’t mind, why should you?”

  “Because you wound Herbert around your finger before you were wed and have yet to set him loose.”

  Far from denying it, Augusta replied, “It’s the only way to keep a husband, dear Sebastian, as I think you well know.”

  He caught her gaze, held it. Augusta tilted her chin at him but shifted, then glanced away.

  Helena stepped into the breach; she caught Augusta’s gaze. “You have a child?”

  Augusta beamed at her. “A son—Edward. He’s at home at Huntly Hall, and I do miss him.”

  “A situation easily rectified,” Sebastian put in.

  Helena and Augusta ignored him.

  “Edward’s just two. He’s a scamp.”

  “He takes after his mother.” When Augusta pulled a face at him, Sebastian’s lips curved; he tugged a lock of her hair. “Better that than prose on like Herbert, I suppose.”

  Augusta pouted. “If you’ve a mind to be disagreeable over dearest Herbert—”

  “I was merely stating a fact, my dear. You must admit that Huntly is singularly lacking in, er . . . devilment, while our family is, if anything, overendowed.”

  Augusta laughed. “You can talk.”

  “Indeed. Who better?”

  Helena listened as, between them, Sebastian and George extracted a list of Augusta’s likely engagements and the date she planned to return to Northamptonshire.

  “Then we’ll see you at Christmas at Somersham.” Augusta glanced at Sebastian. “Do you want me to bring Edward?”

  Both her brothers looked at her as if she’d grown two heads.

  “Ofcourse you’ll bring h
im!” George said. “We’ll want to see our nephew, won’t we?”

  “Quite,” Sebastian said. “But I apprehend you’ve been talking to Almira. Pray discount anything she may have said regarding my wishes over Christmas or anything else. I’ll naturally be expecting Edward at Somersham—aside from all else, Colby’s been searching out a present for him and would be disappointed if he didn’t appear to claim it.”

  Helena watched Augusta’s expression change from guarded to relieved to happy, but at the mention of Colby’s name she frowned at her brother. “Nota horse—he’s too young. I’ve already forbidden Huntly even to think about it.”

  Sebastian flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Herbert did mention your restriction, so I’ve instructed Colby to look for a pony—one small enough for Edward to sit on and be led. He’s old enough for that.”

  Helena hid a smile as Sebastian pretended not to notice Augusta’s struggle between maternal delight and maternal disapprobation. Then he slanted her a sidelong glance. “You may thank me at Christmastime.”

  Augusta threw up her hands. “You’re impossible.” Leaning on his arm, she stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Utterly.”

  Sebastian patted her shoulder. “No, I’m merely your very much older brother. Take care,” he said as she pulled away and drew back, nodding to Helena and George, “and do bear in mind that, should I hear you’ve been overdoing things, I’m quite capable of packing you off willy-nilly to Huntly Hall.” Augusta met his gaze, and he added, “I’m not Herbert, my dear.”

  Augusta wrinkled her nose at him, but all she said was, “I guarantee I won’t put you to such inconvenience, Your Grace.”

  As she turned away, she murmured sotto voce to Helena, “He’s a tyrant—beware!” But she was smiling.

  “All very well,” George grumbled watching Augusta disappear into the crowd, “but I’ll keep an eye on her just in case.”

  “No need,” Sebastian said. “Herbert might feel unable to rein Augusta in, but he’s well aware I suffer from no such constraint. If he wishes her to retire from the capital early and she proves difficult, I’m sure he’ll let me know.”

  George grinned. “He might be a prosy sort, but old Herbert does have his head screwed on straight.”

  “Indeed. Which is why I approved of Augusta’s choice.” Sebastian caught Helena’s gaze. “You’ve been very patient, my dear. Shall we dance?”

  She’d been perfectly happy listening, learning, drinking in their interaction and all it told her of him, but she smiled and gave him her hand, exchanged nods with George, then let Sebastian lead her into the nearest set.

  As usual, dancing with him was a distraction—a distraction so complete she lost touch with the world and there existed only the two of them, circling, bowing, gliding through the figures, hands linked, gazes locked. At the end of the dance when he raised her, her heart was beating just a little faster, her breathing just a little shallower.

  Her awareness as she met his gaze was more acute.

  Acute enough to sense the thoughts behind the innocent blue of his eyes, behind the heavy-lidded gaze that dropped from her eyes to her lips.

  Her lips throbbed; she looked at his, long, lean . . . and remembered, too clearly, what they’d felt like against hers.

  The tension between them drew tight, quivered, then his lips curved. He turned her from the floor, glancing about them once more.

  Helena barely had time to draw breath before another lady—this one black-haired and black-eyed—swept up.

  “Good evening, St. Ives.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Therese.”

  The lady was in her early thirties, striking rather than beautiful, and dressed to take advantage of her unusual looks. As Augusta had, she stretched up and kissed Sebastian’s cheek. “Do introduce me.”

  Helena sensed rather than heard Sebastian’s sigh.

  “Mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle—Lady Osbaldestone.”

  Her ladyship curtsied prettily; Helena curtsied back, conscious of her ladyship’s sharp black gaze.

  “Therese is a cousin of sorts,” Sebastian added.

  “A distant connection I take shameless advantage of,” Lady Osbaldestone corrected, speaking directly to Helena. “Which is why, having heard that St. Ives’s latest start was to introduce a comtesse into society, I had, of course, to meet you.” She slanted a glance at Sebastian; Helena couldn’t interpret the look in her black eyes. “So interesting.”

  Looking back at Helena, Lady Osbaldestone smiled. “One never knows what Sebastian will be at next, but—”

  “Therese.”

  The softly spoken word held enough menace to halt the flow of Lady Osbaldestone’s not-quite-artless discourse. She grimaced and turned to him. “Spoilsport. But you can hardly expect me to be blind.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  “Anyway”—much of her ladyship’s sharpness evaporated—“I wanted to thank you for your help in that small matter of mine.”

  “It’s been settled satisfactorily, I take it?”

  “Eminently satisfactorily, thank you.”

  “And would I be correct in assuming Osbaldestone remains in blissful ignorance?”

  “Don’t be daft, of course he doesn’t know. He’s a man. He’d never understand.”

  Sebastian’s brows rose. “Indeed? And I am . . . ?”

  “St. Ives,” her ladyship promptly retorted. “You’re unshockable.”

  A faint smile curled Sebastian’s lips. Lady Osbaldestone turned to Helena. “The mind boggles at the number of ladies’ secrets he keeps.”

  Helena’s mind boggled at the fact they trusted him with such secrets at all. The notion of any lady willingly trusting Fabien was beyond ludicrous.

  She chatted with Lady Osbaldestone, who had recently visited Paris. It transpired they had acquaintances in common; despite her sharp tongue, her ladyship was both interesting and entertaining. Helena enjoyed the short interlude but was conscious that Sebastian was alert, his blue eyes beneath their heavy lids fixed on her ladyship.

  Lady Osbaldestone proved equally aware; she eventually turned to him. “All right, all right, I’m going. But I take leave to tell you you’re becoming transparent.”

  She bobbed a curtsy to him, bowed to Helena, then swept away.

  Helena glanced at Sebastian as he retook her hand. Did she dare ask what about him was becoming transparent? “She seems very well informed.”

  “Unfortunately. I don’t know why I bear with her—she’s the most enervatingly astute woman I know.”

  Helena debated whether to ask for an explanation, then realized she’d spent most of her evening thus far with him, learning more about him, becoming more fascinated—which was not necessary at all. She lifted her head, looked around. “Is Lord Were here, do you know?”

  An instant’s hiatus ensued; she could have sworn Sebastian tensed. But then he murmured, “I haven’t seen him.”

  Was she imagining it, or was there steel beneath his smooth tones? “Perhaps if we stroll . . .”

  He steered her along the side of the room, skirting the crowd congregating at its center about a monstrous decorative piece formed of gilded, star-shaped lanterns surrounding and supporting a gilt and porcelain setting of the Nativity. Viewing the closely gathered ladies, Helena noticed that, presumably in celebration of the season, many had taken to wearing bright red or forest green.

  Among the throng she spied Louis, keeping an eye on her. Dressed as usual in black, emulating his uncle Fabien, he stood out against the multihued crowd. He was usually hovering somewhere in sight. Despite Sebastian’s reputation, Louis hadn’t overtly interfered in his squiring of her.

  They were nearing the end of the room. She couldn’t see past the outer ranks of the crowd; she knew that Sebastian could. “Can you see—”

  “I can’t see anyone you would wish to meet in furthering your goals.”

  To her surprise, he drew her on and then to the side, to where an alco
ve partially screened by potted palms looked out over gardens. The alcove was deserted.

  The day had been fine; the night was, too, cold and frosty. Beyond the glass, the shrubs and walks were bathed in silver-white moonlight, the barest touch of snow crystallizing like diamond frosting on each leaf, on each blade of grass. Helena drank in the view; it shimmered, touched by a natural brilliance infinitely more powerful, more evocative of the season, than the effort of mere mortals at her back. The scene, so reminiscent, whisked her back to that moment seven years before—the moment they’d first met.

  Quelling a shiver, she turned to find Sebastian regarding her, his expression indolent, his gaze intent.

  “It occurs to me,mignonne, that you have not yet favored me with a complete list of your guardian’s stipulations concerning the nobleman he will accept as your husband. You’ve told me this paragon must bear a title the equal of yours. What else?”

  She raised her brows, not at the question—one she was ready enough to answer—but at his tone, for him unusually clipped and definite, quite different from his customary social drawl. Much more like the voice in which he spoke to his sister.

  His lips quirked, more grimace than smile. “It would help in determining your most suitable suitor.”

  He’d softened his tone. Inwardly shrugging, she turned back to the windows. “Title I’ve mentioned. The other two stipulations my guardian made concerned the size of my suitor’s estate and his income.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian nod. “Eminently sensible conditions.”

  Hardly surprising he thought so; he and Fabien could be brothers in some respects—witness his despotic attitude to his sister, even if he was moved by caring rather than some colder reason. “Then, of course, there are my own inclinations.” She stopped. There was no need to tell him exactly in which direction her inclinations lay.

  A wolfish smile touched his lips. “Naturally.” He bowed his head. “Your inclinations should not be forgotten.”

  “Which is why,” she said, turning from the windows, “I wish to seek out Lord Were.”

  She intended to return to the room and do so.

  Sebastian stood in her way.