He looked into her face, caught her gaze. “Put your legs around me.”

She did, and the dance started again. Different again. Skin to skin, his hardness against her softness with no muting fabric between. If anyone had told her sensation came more intense than what he’d already shown her, she’d have laughed the idea to scorn. But now, as the heat flared and swirled, then sucked them into its flame, she found there was more, still more.

More to be experienced as his body plunged into hers to a steady, relentless rhythm. More to feel, to sense, to glory in. The heat swept in waves through her, then pooled deep inside, deep where he filled her, pressed in, and touched her heart.

The hair on his chest rasped her breasts as he moved over her, until she could stand it no more. She grasped and tugged—tried to pull him down to her. He glanced at her, then obliged, let his weight sink fully upon her, his chest to her aching breasts.

She sighed, tipped her head back—he had to angle his head, but he found her lips. Sank into her mouth.

And the dance changed again.

To two bodies fused by one aim.

To a whirlpool of sensation and feeling, of emotions that had no name, of urgent needs and desires, primitive wants and passions, of a glory that was never the same.

They all built and built, until she was writhing, his name on her lips, her body all his. Then the kaleidoscope fractured, and she was spinning through rapture, shards of bright sensation flying down her veins to melt, in heat, in glory, as she sighed and let go.

Let the last hold on reality slip from her grasp, let the glory claim her soul. Aware, at the last, of him thrusting deep within her, of his muted groan, of the pleasure that washed through her as his seed spilled deep, of the joy that suffused her as his hard body collapsed, spent, upon her.

She reached a hand to his hair, twined her fingers through it, held him close. Listened to his heart thunder, then slow.

Sensed, in that last precious minute of heightened lucidity, an unexpected vulnerability.

She smiled, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight.

Before she recalled how dangerous that was, she slipped over the threshold into sleep.

he clocks throughout the house chimed three o’clock. Sebastian was already awake, but the sound drew him to full consciousness, out of the deep, soul-satisfying warmth that had held him.

He eased onto his back in the bed, glanced down. Helena lay sleeping, curled against him, pressing close, her small hands holding him as if she feared he would leave her. He considered her face, and wondered.

Mignonne, what are you hiding?

He didn’t voice the thought, but he wished he had the answer. Something had happened, yet he was damned if he knew what. She’d arrived, and all had been well, then . . .

He’d checked with his staff; they knew nothing, had seen nothing. He hadn’t asked specifically, but Webster would have mentioned if any letters had arrived and been waiting for her. Yet there were two letters on her dressing table; his sharp eyes had detected flecks of wax on the floor. She’d opened the letters here—he would swear that first night, before she’d come down for dinner.

That was when things had changed. When she had changed.

Yet precisely how she had changed—given the events of the last few hours—he was at a loss to understand.

Something had upset her, upset her deeply. A mere irritation and she would have let her temper show. But this was something so deeply troubling she’d sought to hide it, and not just from him.

She didn’t yet realize, but matters between them had already—even before the last hours—progressed to a point where she couldn’t hide her feelings, her emotions, not completely, from him. He could see them in her eyes, not clearly, but like some shadow clouding the peridot depths.

Her behavior had only reinforced his suspicion; when she’d come to his arms, she’d been controlled on the surface, and so fragile, so defenseless—so yearning—beneath. He’d sensed it in her kiss, a kind of desperation, as if what passed between them, what they’d shared in the last hours, was achingly precious, yet transitory. Doomed. That no matter how much she wanted it, yearned for it, regardless of his wishes, his strength, it would not last.

He hadn’t liked that—not any of it. He’d reacted to it, to her, to her need.

He grimaced as he recalled all that had passed. Knew she wouldn’t fully understand.

He’d seen her need for protection, her need to be possessed and cherished, and had responded and made her his in the only way that truly mattered to him. Or, in truth, to her.

His.

She wouldn’t see what that meant, not immediately. Ultimately, of course, she would. She could hardly go through life without realizing that from this moment she was, and always would be, his.

A difficulty, that, for them both.

Inwardly sighing, he glanced down at her dark head, then brushed a kiss across her forehead, closed his eyes—and left fate to do her worst.

elena was not proud of herself the next morning. She woke to find herself alone, yet the bed bore eloquent testimony to all that had transpired. The tangled sheets were still warm with Sebastian’s heat. Without him, she felt chilled to the marrow.

Clutching a pillow, she stared across the room. What was she doing, allying herself so intimately with such a powerful man? It had been madness to have let it happen. Yet it seemed pointless now to pretend regret.

A regret that, despite all, she didn’t feel.

Her one real regret was that she couldn’t tell him everything, couldn’t lean on his strength, draw on his undeniable power. After last night it would be such a relief to throw herself on his mercy, beg for his help. But she couldn’t. Her gaze fell on the letters, folded on the dressing table.

Fabien had made sure she and Sebastian were on opposing sides.

Before she could sink deeper into the mire of her fears and wallow in despair, she rose and tugged the bell for her maid.

ebastian was sitting at the head of the breakfast table, sipping his coffee and glancing over a news sheet when Helena walked into the room.

He looked up; their gazes met. Then she turned away, exchanged an easy smile with Clara, and headed for the sideboard. His gaze remained on her, delectable in a silk print gown, while his mind rolled back through the night past, through the passion and fulfillment, both so intense, to the question—questions—to which he yet lacked answers.

Helena turned; he continued watching, waiting . . .

Plate in hand, she approached the table. She traded mild comments with Marjorie and Clara, then continued on to the chair at his right.

Just as well.

He waited until she sat and settled her skirts, then drew breath.

She looked up at that moment. He glimpsed the shadows swirling in her eyes, dulling the peridot depths. He started to reach for her hand—stopped as she looked down.

“I wondered . . .” With her fork, she toyed with a portion of kedgeree. “Do you think we might go for another ride—like yesterday?” She glanced at the window, at the day outside. “It’s still clear, and who knows how long that will last.”

There was a wistfulness in her voice, evoking the memory of how relaxed and, if not carefree, then at least temporarily relieved of her dark burden she had seemed the previous morning, when they’d flown across his fields before the wind. She glanced up again, brows gently arched.

Again he glimpsed her eyes.

Shackling his impatience, he inclined his head. “If you wish. There’s a long ride north we could try.”

She smiled, a fleeting gesture that too quickly faded from her lips. “That would be . . . pleasant.”

hy she didn’t simply say “a relief,” Sebastian didn’t know. That their ride together was that—a relief, a distraction from her troubles—was transparently obvious to him. And while she was in that state, relieved of that inner burden, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the mood and press her for details.

Thus, when they returned to the house three hours later, he was no nearer to answering either of his questions. One he would have to wait for her to tell him of her own accord; trust could not be forced, only earned. At least between them. From others he might command it, but not from Helena.

That left the more obvious question he had to ask her. There was no longer any reason he could not put that before her, on the table between them.

It might even help with the other, by encouraging the trust he sought to gain.

When they rose with the others from the luncheon table, he took her hand and drew her aside. “If you would grant me a few minutes of your time,mignonne, there are a few details I believe we should address.”

He couldn’t read her eyes as she studied his face. Then she glanced at the windows, to the prospect dimmed by the sheeting rain. No escape there. Marjorie and Clara passed them, going ahead as if they hadn’t noticed. Thierry and Louis had already left for the billiard room. She drew in a breath as if girding her loins, then glanced at him and inclined her head. “If you wish.”

He wished . . . a great many things, but he took her hand in his and led her to his study.

Helena struggled to mask her tension, her trepidation—not of him but of what he might tempt her to say, to do. To confess. He ushered her through the door a footman threw open, into what she perceived to be his study. The wide desk, obviously in use by the stacks of papers and ledgers on its top, the large leather chair behind it and the plethora of document boxes and ledgers packed into shelves around the room confirmed that. The room was, however, unexpectedly comfortable, even cozy. Wide windows looked over the lawns; although the light outside had dimmed, lamps had been lit, their golden glow falling softly on well-polished wood, on velvet and leather.

She crossed to where a fire burned brightly in the hearth, dispelling the chill creeping through the glass. On the way, she glanced about, surreptitiously searching for a case or a display cabinet—somewhere Fabien’s dagger might reside. She felt driven to look, yet despaired at having to do so. For having to repay Sebastian in such a deceitful way.

Halting before the hearth, she held her hands to the fire, then straightened as he joined her.

He stopped before her, took her hands in his. Looked into her face, into her eyes. She couldn’t read his, felt confident he couldn’t read hers. As if acknowledging their mutual defenses, the ends of his lips lifted in a wry, self-deprecatory smile.

“Mignonne,after the events of last night, you know, and I know, that we’ve already taken the first steps down our joint path. In terms of making decisions, we’ve already made ours—you yours, me mine. Nevertheless, between such people as we are, there is a need for a formal yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question.”

He hesitated; searched her eyes again. She didn’t glance away, try to avoid the scrutiny—she was too busy searching herself, trying to sense his direction. Wondering if the uncertainty she sensed came from him—or her.

Then his lips twisted. He looked down, simultaneously raising her hands to kiss one, then the other.

“Be that as it may”—his voice had deepened, taken on that tone she now associated with intimacy—“I do not wish to press you. I will ask you my simple question when you are ready to give me a simple answer.” He glanced up, met her eyes again. “Until then, know that I am here, waiting”—again his lips quirked—“albeit not patiently. But for you,mignonne . . . rest assured I will wait.”

That last sounded like a vow. Her surprise must have shown in her face, in her eyes—in his a markedly self-deprecatory light glowed, as if he were shaking his head at himself over how lenient he was being with her.

And he was. More than most she understood that—that his natural impulse would be to press her to accept his offer, to declare herself won. To admit she was his, his to rule, to command.

She’d expected a demand to surrender formally; she’d steeled herself to vacillate, to prevaricate if need be, to use every feminine wile she possessed to delay any such declaration. If she gave in and allowed him to assume he’d triumphed and to crow, presumably publicly, over it, then when she fled, the damage would only be worse.