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.” Madness 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 yoursuccess 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 anytesting you do will be done in the middle of a damn ballroom in sight of the entire ton.”

She pretended to consider, then shook her head. The glass-paned doors lay before her. “I do not think I can promise that. I am running out of time.” She shrugged. “Who knows what I may need to—”

She had no chance to gasp, to scream. Sebastian’s hand closed about hers; he swung her to face him, backed her toward the wall beside the door. A narrow ledge ringed the room, running around the base of the wall; she stumbled as, eyes wide, fixed on his, she backed into it.

He caught her other hand, lifted both, steadying her as, instinctively, she stepped up, back—her shoulders and hips hit the wall.

She caught her breath, opened her lips—

He raised her hands on either side until they were level with her head, then pressed them to the wall—and deliberately stepped nearer.

Leaned nearer.

Caged her.

Trapped her.

She could barely breathe, didn’t know if she dared. His strength surrounded her, held her—imprinted itself on her senses. No more than an inch separated their bodies; she could feel his heat the length of hers.

Because of the step, all he needed to do was lower his head to look her in the eye. He did; his gaze locked with hers. His features could have been hewn from granite. “You will promise me you will do no more testing—not unless it’s in public.”

Her temper returned with a vengeance. She let it burn in her eyes as she tested his grip, more out of instinct than expectation. His fingers tightened, just enough for her to feel their steely strength, to know she couldn’t break free, but he wasn’t gripping tightly—she couldn’t claim he was hurting her. She didn’t dare shift her body away from the wall. If she did, she’d move into him.

“Men!” She spat the word like an epithet into his face. “You are all alike! Not to be trusted!”

By sheer luck, she hit a nerve—touched tinder to his temper; she saw it spark in his eyes, saw his lips thin.

“We arenot all alike.”

Every word was gritted out.

She raised a haughty brow. “Do you mean I can trust you?” She widened her eyes, daring him to lie.

His eyes remained on hers; she caught a glimpse, unexpected, of sudden turmoil.

“Yes!”He flung the word at her; it struck her, left her reeling. She immediately sensed him soften, rein in his temper. “In your case . . . yes.”

Her heart had leaped to her throat. Shocked, she searched his eyes. He wasn’t lying, even though his temper still prowled, as did hers. But she knew truth when she heard it; he had no reason to lie. But what reason could he have? . . .

“Why?” She searched his hard features, hoping to catch some hint.

Sebastian knew the answer—could feel the power rise through his anger, shading it, controlling it.

She’d refused to go apart with him—to let him talk with her privately, feel his way with her—even though his intentions were, this time, of the most honorable. Instead, she’d tapped Markham on the shoulder and slipped away with him.

He’d been coldly furious. Why? Because she meant more to him than any other woman ever had.

He’d been watching when she and Markham had left the ballroom. He’d followed to ensure nothing came of the incident. Only to learn . . .

The idea that she might willingly put herself in the way of the type of insult Markham had offered was not to be borne.

Why? Because he cared.

The realization left him shaken—left him, for once, without any glib words, any drawling phrase to turn her mind away from what he’d only just realized and didn’t yet want her to see.

Her eyes were wide green pools, easy to read, easy to drown in. She was caught, tempted . . . fascinated.

So was he.

He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, trying to think.

Her skin had heated, courtesy of his nearness; her perfume, French, elementally exotic, rose and wreathed his senses.

Their faces were close, as were their bodies—close enough for her to sense the change in his intent. Her eyes widened fractionally, then her lids fell as her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips.

He closed the distance between them, slowly, unthreateningly.

She lifted her face, tipped back her head.

Their lips brushed. Touched.

Met.

Fused.

The power flared—like a spark set to dry grass, it flamed, then raced, taking them both, drawing them in, sucking them into its heat.

It was like nothing he knew. No kiss he’d ever experienced had caught him as this did, held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, so focused on her, on her lips, on her mouth, on the dark thrill of sliding deep, caressing her intimately, on the sensual mating of their tongues.

She followed his lead, matching him step for step, fearless in her innocence. He’d kissed her deeply before, but this time she wanted more, lured him on.

Unknowingly—or knowingly? He couldn’t tell.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. Couldn’t draw back from the conflagration.

His senses were reveling, in her, in the honeyed taste of her, the warm haven of her mouth, the supple softness of her breasts firm against his chest, the flagrant promise in the body arching lightly to meet his.

He could do nothing more than take all she offered and return all she demanded. Fall more deeply under her spell.

Helena had stopped thinking some instants before their lips had met. The knowledge that he was going to kiss her was enough, of itself, to focus her mind on one thing and that alone.

Him.

She wished it weren’t so, but it was. Her mind, her senses—her very heartbeat—seemed to be his to claim. And no matter how much she might lecture herself when apart from him, she couldn’t hold back from this part of his game.

Dangereux.

The word whispered through her mind but she no longer believed it, at least not in the physical sense. He would not harm her—he’d told her she could trust him. In truth, she already did.

He might prey on her mind and lay waste to the defenses she’d erected against powerful men, but while in his arms with his lips on hers, she knew, and understood, only one thing.

He was hers.

Hers to command at least in this arena—hers to claim if she wished. He was in control, but it was she he sought to please—a conundrum perhaps, but the thought of having a powerful man at her feet was too tantalizing, too tempting, too elementally enthralling to forgo.

His pleasure was hers. She sensed it through his kiss, through his immediate response to any demand she chose to make. Any hint of trepidation and he would ease back, soothe her, wait for her sign he could take her mouth again, that she was ready again to sink deep into the kiss, let his tongue probe, caress, slide about hers, seductively tangling.

He hadn’t released her hands; instead, his fingers had locked, not painfully, but his grip was unbreakable, his forearms outside hers against the wall, holding his weight from her. She wanted his weight on her. Her whole body had come alive, heated, nerves afire. She wanted him against her, chest to breast, thighs to hips. Wanted him.

She arched, touched him. For one glorious instant, she let her body caress him.

Sensed his immediate response—sensed the depth of the fire she hadn’t yet walked through. Felt his control quake.

They broke the kiss.

Both of them. They needed to breathe, needed to think. Had to pull back from the brink.

They were both breathing rapidly, each one’s gaze locked on the other’s lips.

Simultaneously, they lifted their eyes; their gazes met, held.

They searched each other’s eyes; her thoughts were reflected in his—she felt as if he could see into her soul.

This was not the right place, not the right time.