Stephanie Laurens - The promise in a kiss

Whether there would ever be a right place, a right time, neither knew, but they could not go further tonight.

They both knew it. Recognized the fact.

When the pounding in her ears eased enough for her to hear, Helena drew in a deep breath and softly said, “Let me go.”

Not an order, but a simple direction.

He hesitated. Then his grip eased, bit by bit. As his touch left her skin, she eased her hands from under his, lowered her arms. She ducked under his arm, stepped away from the wall, out of the cage of his arms.

He turned his head but didn’t otherwise move.

She took another step away, already missing—regretting the loss of—his heat. Then she lifted her head; without turning around, she said, “For your help with Markham—thank you.”

She hesitated for an instant, then walked to the door.

Her hand was on the knob when she heard him murmur, soft and low, “Until later,mignonne. ”

ebastian let himself into his house in Grosvenor Square in the small hours. After leaving Lady Castlereagh’s, he’d repaired to his club, then gone with friends to a hell. No game of chance had been able to distract him from his thoughts; the hours had served only to crystallize his resolution.

Leaving his cloak and cane in the front hall, he went into the library. After lighting a lamp, he settled behind his desk—settled to the letter he’d decided to write.

He addressed it to Thierry. Helena was staying under Thierry’s roof, nominally in his care; his wife had introduced her to society. De Sèvres’s relationship to Helena he was less sure of, and when all was said and done, he didn’t trust the man. Thierry, despite being a Frenchman, was a straightforward soul.

The scritch-scratch of his pen across the page was the only sound discernible; the silence of the huge house, his home from birth, lay like a comfortable blanket about him.

He paused, looking down, considering what he’d written, what he had yet to say. Then he bent and wrote again, until he reached the end and closed with his flourishing signature: St. Ives.

Sanding the letter, he sat back. Looked across the room to where the embers of the fire glowed in the grate.

He didn’t know if he could do it—if he could make the concessions she’d demand, the concessions she might indeed need in order to become his duchess. But he would try. He had accepted that he must, that he had to do everything within his considerable power to ensure she became his.

His wife.

The equation was a simple one. He had to marry. And at the last moment, he’d met her, the only woman he’d ever wished to possess for all time.

It was she or no one.

He’d wanted, waited for, some sign that she wanted him, that she recognized the fact that she did. Tonight . . . tonight they’d come very close to stepping over that invisible line, taking what had thus far been an acceptable interaction into another arena, an illicit one.

They’d drawn back, but only just, and she’d known it, realized the truth as well as he.

It was enough—sign enough. Confirmation enough, if he’d needed any reassurance.

She wanted him in precisely the same way he wanted her.

He glanced at the letter, let his eyes run over his careful phrases inviting the Thierrys, mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle and M. de Sèvres to spend the next week at Somersham Place. He had made it clear that this was to be a private visit, that the only others at his principal estate would be Cynster family members.

That last should make his direction patently clear; such a summons, couched in such terms, could mean only one thing. But with that “thing” unstated, it could not be taken for granted.

He smiled as he considered how Helena might react—he couldn’t, even now, predict it. But he would see her tomorrow night, at Lady Lowy’s masquerade. Whatever her reaction, he was sure he’d learn of it then.

Tipping the sand aside, he folded the parchment, lit the candle, and melted a stub of wax, then set his seal to the letter. Rising, he turned down the lamp, then crossed to the door.

In the front hall, he dropped the letter on the salver on the side table.

Done.

He paused, then headed for the stairs and his bed.

HEfollowing morning at nine o’clock, Villard pulled back the curtains about his master’s bed. Louis started awake, then scowled.

Villard hurried into speech. “M’sieur, I knew you would wish to have these immediately.” He deposited a package on the bed beside Louis.

Louis frowned at the package, then his face cleared.“Bon, Villard. Très bon.” Louis struggled free of the covers. “Bring me my chocolate, and I will read my uncle’s dispatches.”

Settling against the pillows, Louis ripped open the package addressed in Fabien’s distinctive hand. Three letters wrapped in a single sheet of parchment spilled onto the sheets. There was writing on the parchment, an order:Read my letter to you before you do anything else. F.

Louis studied the three letters. One was for him; another, also from Fabien, was addressed to Helena. The third was also for Helena, but addressed in a girlish hand. After a moment of pondering, Louis decided it must be from Ariele. He set aside Helena’s letters and opened his.

There were two sheets closely covered in Fabien’s forceful black script. Smiling in anticipation, Louis smoothed them out—he looked up as Villard reappeared with his chocolate on a tray. He nodded, picked up the cup, took a sip, then held up the letter and started to read.

Villard saw the smile fade from his master’s face, saw it pale. Louis’s hand shook. Chocolate spattered the sheets, and he swore. Villard jumped to mop the spill. Scowling, Louis set the cup back on the tray. He returned to his letter.

Under pretext of readying Louis’s clothes, Villard watched. When Louis set down the letter and stared blankly across the room, he deferentially murmured, “Monsieur le comte was not pleased?”

“Eh?” Louis blinked, then waved the letter. “No, no—he was pleased with the progress. Thus far.But .” Louis looked at the letter again, then carefully folded it. Villard said nothing; he would read it later.

Some minutes passed, then Louis ruminated, “There is, it seems, more to my uncle’s plans than meets the eye, Villard.”

“It has ever been so, m’sieur.”

“He says we have done well but we must move faster. I was not aware—it seems the English nobility invariably adjourn to their estates in but a few days. I was anticipating another week.”

“The Thierrys have not mentioned this.”

“No, indeed. I will take it up with Thierry when he returns. But for now there is a great challenge facing us, Villard. We must somehow ensure that St. Ives is sufficiently taken with Helena to invite her to visit at his country house. The dagger Uncle Fabien seeks to reclaim is apparently kept there.”

Shaking out a coat, Villard frowned. “Do you think monsieur le duc is liable to issue such an invitation?”

Louis snorted. “He’s been hot after Helena since we arrived, just as Uncle predicted. Don’t forget, these English ape our ways, so yes, as Helena has successfully held him at bay, then the natural course would be for him, a powerful nobleman, to invite her and the Thierrys and myself to stay, with a few others to generate the necessary camouflage, then seduce Helena into his bed. It is the way things are done at home—it will be the same here.”

“Is there not a certain danger there?”

Reaching for his chocolate, Louis smirked. “That is what is most entertaining. It is Helena against St. Ives, and my money is on Helena. She is a prude, that one.” Louis shrugged. “Twenty-three and a virgin yet—what would you do? She isn’t likely to succumb to St. Ives’s blandishments, and you and I, Villard, will be there to ensure he has no chance to force her.”

“I see.” Villard turned to the wardrobe. “So the plan now is . . . ?”

Louis drained his chocolate, then frowned. “The first thing will be to secure this invitation, and thatmust be done tonight.” He glanced at the folded letter. “Uncle Fabien makes it very clear we are to do everything needful—everything—to ensure that Helena is invited to St. Ives’s estate.”

“And once the invitation is in our hands?”

“We ensure Helena accepts, and goes.”

“But will she?”

Louis’s gaze went to the two letters addressed to Helena. “Uncle instructs that I use my best endeavors, but if she proves stubborn . . . I am to give her these letters.”

“Do we know what they contain?”

“No—only that once she reads them, Helena will do as he has ordered.” Louis drew in a breath and dragged his gaze from the fascinating letters. “However, Uncle strongly advises that I wait until we are at St. Ives’s estate before giving the letters to Helena. He says I should not show his hand too soon, not unless she balks entirely at the first fence.”

Louis stared unseeing across the room. “So! We must secure this invitation tonight. I will need to make sure that Helena plays the game hard with St. Ives—that she inflames him and leaves him no choice but to act as we wish. That is the first thing.” Louis glanced at the letters. “For the rest, we will see.”

Villard laid a waistcoat on the dressing tree. “And what of m’sieur’s own plans?”

Louis grinned as he threw back the covers. “Those have not changed. Helena should have been wed long ago. The matter of her marriage is now a difficulty for Uncle Fabien—a liability. The solution I propose is one I’m sure he will support, once he sees its brilliance. It would be nonsensical to lose the de Stansion wealth to another family when we can keep it for ourselves.”

Standing, Louis allowed Villard to help him into his dressing robe. His gaze was distant as he recited what was clearly an oft-rehearsed plan. “When we have Uncle’s dagger safe in our possession and have crossed once more to France, I will marry Helena—by force, if necessary. In Calais there is a notary who will do as I ask for a price. Once our marriage is a reality, we will travel to Le Roc. Uncle Fabien is too much the strategist not to appreciate the beauty of my plan. As soon as he grasps that there is no longer any desirable marriage for the factions to squabble over and that thus I have freed him from their threats, he will fall on my neck and thank me.”

Behind Louis, Villard’s expression betrayed his contempt, yet he quietly murmured, “As you say, m’sieur.”

f Helena had had her way, she would not have attended that morning’s gathering at the Duchess of Richmond’s house. Unfortunately, so Marjorie informed her, it was a tradition as venerated as the masquerade to be held that evening and, therefore, impossible to miss. Helena had had half a mind to appeal to Thierry, more easygoing than his lady, but her host had been absent for the past day.

“He has gone to Bristol,” Marjorie confessed as the carriage rattled toward Richmond.

“Bristol?” Helena looked her surprise.

Marjorie’s lips thinned; she looked out the window. “He has gone to look into some business opportunity.”

“Business? He—” Helena broke off, sensitive to the connotations.

Marjorie shrugged. “What would you do? We are currently monsieur le comte’s pensioners—what is to become of us when you marry and leave?”

Helena hadn’t thought, didn’t know, but thereafter she held her tongue and carped at Marjorie no more.

“Eh, bien,”Marjorie murmured when the carriage eventually drew to a halt and they descended. “Thierry will return later. He will escort us to Lady Lowy’s tonight. Then we will see.”

Helena held to Marjorie’s side as they entered and greeted their hostess. An unexpected tension, an apprehension, stretched her nerves taut. Moving into the considerable crowd, awash with laughter and good cheer, she searched with her eyes, with her senses, and breathed a tight, small sigh of relief when she could detect no glimmer of Sebastian’s presence.

After some minutes of chatting, then moving on, she parted from Marjorie and ventured on alone. She was assured enough, now well known enough, to make her way with confidence. Although unmarried, she was so much older, so much more experienced than girls in their first or even second season, that she was accorded a different status, one permitting her greater social freedom. Speaking to this one, then that, she worked her way through the crowd.