To her mind, Lord Were was looking more and more like the perfect avenue for her escape to freedom.

“I appreciate your help in introducing me to the ton, Your Grace, but I am—how do you English say it?—more than eight, so I will be my own judge. And your veiled aspersions on Lord Were’s character I do not credit at all.”

She capped her dismissal of his arguments with a contemptuous wave; she would have preferred to sweep back to the ballroom on that note, but he was standing directly in her way. She held his blue gaze belligerently.

The aggravating man had the temerity to sigh.

“I fear you will have to readjust your thinking,mignonne . The gentleman to whom I referred was not Were.”

Helena frowned. It took her a moment to replay his statement: . . .there might be more to a gentleman than meets the eye . She looked at him, blinked.

His lips quirked. “Indeed. The gentleman I referred to was me.”

“You.” She couldn’t credit it—couldn’t believe what logic was telling her, nor what she could see in his eyes.

She felt his hand at her waist, sliding, felt a quiver run the length of her spine.

He drew her closer. “You remember that night in the moonlight in the gardens of the Convent des Jardinières de Marie.”

His voice had taken on a mesmerizing cadence; the blue of his eyes was even more hypnotic.

“I kissed you. Once, to thank you.”

Trapped in his web, she was incapable of pulling back. Her hands rose to rest on the silk of his sleeves as he urged her nearer. And she went, lids falling as he bent his head.

“Why?” she whispered as his lips neared hers. She moistened her own. “Why did you kiss me a second time?”

The question to which she’d always wanted an answer.

“The second time?” His breath brushed her lips. “I kissed you a second time . . . to savor you.”

He did so again. His lips closed over hers, cool, firm, knowing. She knew she should resist, hold back; instead, she teetered on some invisible brink, then something inside her unlocked, gave. He sensed it. His hands locked about her waist, and he drew her to her toes. His lips hardened, firmed, became more demanding.

And she was tumbling, falling . . .

Why she would want to appease his arrogant demands she could not fathom, yet she did. Clinging to his strength, giving herself up to the thrill of the kiss was akin to madness, yet she did that, too.

When his lips urged hers open, she complied; he swallowed her gasp as he surged in and took her mouth, took her breath, then gave her his. He was bold—blatantly, sensually evocative; her senses reeled as she struggled to absorb the sensations, to follow his lead. To satisfy one demand so they could progress to the next.

Madness indeed. Her skin heated, her bodice grew tight, her breathing fractured. Her whole body felt alive, different, awake as it never had been before.

She wanted more. Her fingers closed on his silk sleeves, holding him. His grip tightened; his head angled, and he deepened the kiss.

Never had the urge to seize, to take, raged so powerfully. Sebastian fought to rein it in, yet he was hungry, so greedy, and she was luscious, so generous, so very much to his taste.

Never before had he coveted the taste of innocence, but she was different, not entirely untutored but naively and naturally sensual—he was caught, enthralled, addicted. He’d sensed her worth seven years before and had never forgotten it—the promise in her kiss.

Only experience, long steeped, hard won, allowed him to dam the welling tide, turn it back, let it subside.

The time was not right; he’d already gone further than he’d intended, lured by her lips, by the surprise of his need. Her lips would be bruised as it was.

He broke the kiss and shook with the effort of stopping himself from going back, from taking her mouth again. Touching his forehead to hers, he waited, listening to her breathing slow in time with the pounding in his blood.

He forced his arms to function, to set her back on her feet.

Her lids fluttered, then lifted. He drew back so he could see, watch puzzlement flow across her features, confusion invest her green eyes.

“There are other criteria you should consider in your search for a husband.”

He murmured the words, watched her brow furrow, then realized she might not even now correctly divine his meaning.

Easing his grip about her waist, he held her lightly with one hand, then raised the other. He looked down, knowing she would follow his gaze, then watched as he lifted his hand, trailing his fingertips from her throat, over her collarbone to the silken skin just above her scooped neckline.

She caught her breath; one brief glance confirmed she was watching, fascinated more than horrified. He let his fingers trace over the silk, felt her flesh firm in response. Then he cupped her breast lightly.

The quiver that raced through her made him ache. Deliberately slow, he circled her nipple with his thumb and watched it peak and pebble.

“You want me,mignonne .”

“No.” A sound of desperation. She didn’t want to want him; Helena was sure about that. On all else—what was happening between them, what he intended, what he wanted of her—she was confounded, utterly and completely at sea.

His fingers touched her, traced, and she couldn’t think. She pulled back, pushed away. He let her go, but she sensed the brief clash between his desire and his will. Even if will won, she had to wonder if it would the next time.

Dangereux.

“No.” She sounded more definite the second time. “This will do us no good.”

“On the contrary,mignonne, it will be very good indeed.”

Pretending ignorance would be futile, disingenuousness worse. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a stubborn look and went to take another step back—only to feel his fingers tighten about her waist.

“No. You cannot run from me. We need to talk, you and I, but before we go further, there’s something I want of you.”

Searching his eyes, blue on blue, Helena was certain she didn’t need to hear what it was. “You have read my intentions wrongly, Your Grace.”

“Sebastian.”

“Very well—Sebastian. You misunderstand. If you think—”

“No,mignonne . It is you who fail to realize—”

The curtain over the archway rattled. They both looked. Sebastian’s hand fell from her waist as Were, smiling genially, looked in.

“There you are, m’dear. It’s time for our dance.”

They could hear music wafting from behind him. One glance at his open expression was enough to tell them both that he suspected nothing scandalous. Helena stepped around Sebastian and swept forward. “Indeed, my lord. My apologies for keeping you.” She paused as she reached Were’s side and looked back at Sebastian. “Your Grace.” She curtsied deeply, then rose, placed her fingers on Were’s hand, and let him lead her out.

Were grinned at Sebastian over her head. Despite all, Sebastian smiled and nodded back. He and Helena had not been apart, alone, for long enough to give the gossips sufficient cause to speculate, and Were had, intentionally or otherwise, covered the lapse.

The curtain fell closed; Sebastian stared at its folds.

And frowned.

he was resisting—more than he’d anticipated. He wasn’t sure he understood why. But he was certain he didn’t approve. And he definitely did not appreciate her quick-wittedness in avoiding him.

Society had grown used to seeing them together—they were now growing used to seeing them apart. That was not part ofhis plan.

From the shadows of his carriage drawn up by the verge in the park, Sebastian watched his future duchess animatedly holding court. She’d grown more confident, even more assured; she controlled the gentlemen around her, with a laugh, with a grimace, with one look from those wonderful eyes.

He couldn’t help but smile, watching her listen to some anecdote, watching her manipulate the strings that made her would-be cavaliers extend themselves to entertain her. It was a skill he recognized and appreciated.

But he’d seen enough.

Raising his cane, he rapped on the door. A footman appeared and opened it, then let down the steps. Sebastian descended to the ground. The carriage he’d used was not his town carriage; this one was plain black and bore no crest on its panels. His coachman and footman were also in black, not his livery.

Which explained why he’d been able to sit and watch Helena without her noting him and taking flight.

She saw him now, but too late to take evasive action, to discreetly avoid him. Social constraint was, for once, working to his advantage—she was too proud to create a public scene.

So she had to smile and offer him her hand. She curtsied deeply, and he bowed, raised her. Then raised her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

Temper flared briefly in her eyes. She fought to quell her reaction, but he felt it. Increasingly haughty, she inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Have you come to take the air?”

“No, my dear comtesse, I came for the pleasure of your company.”

“Indeed?” She was waiting for him to release her hand, too wise, after their recent meetings, to tug.

He looked around the circle of gentlemen, all younger, far less powerful than he. “Indeed.” He glanced at Helena, met her gaze. “I believe these gentlemen will excuse us, my dear. I have a wish to view the Serpentine in your fair company.”

He saw her breasts swell—with indignation and a hot-bloodedness he found unexpectedly alluring. Glancing around the circle again, he nodded generally, confident none would be game to cross swords with him.

Then he saw Mme Thierry. She’d been part of the group but until then blocked from his sight. To his surprise, she smiled at him, then turned to Helena. “Indeed,ma petite, we have stood here in the breeze long enough. I’m sure monsieur le duc will escort you back to our carriage. I’ll wait for you there.”

Sebastian could not have said who was the more surprised—he or Helena. He glanced at her, but she’d masked her reaction to the unexpected defection. However, her lovely lips set in a rather grim line as, after making her adieus to her cavaliers, she let him turn her down the walk to the water.

“Smile,mignonne, or those interested will believe we have had a falling-out.”

“We have. I am not pleased with you.”

“Alas, alack. What can I do to make you smile at me once more?”

“You can stop pursuing me.”

“I would be happy to do so,mignonne . I confess, I find pursuing you increasingly tedious.”

She looked at him, surprise in her eyes. “You will stop . . .” She gestured with one hand.

“Seducing you?” Sebastian met her gaze. “Of course.” He smiled. “Once you’re mine.”

The French word she muttered was not at all polite. “I willnever be yours, Your Grace.”

“Mignonne,we have been over this many times—you will, one day, most definitely be mine. If you were honest, you would admit you know it.”

Her eyes spat fire. She bit back a retort, flung him a furious glare, then looked haughtily ahead.

If they’d been in a room with a vase to hand, would she have thrown it? Sebastian found himself wondering—and then wondered at that fact. He had never before encouraged tantrums in his paramours, yet in Helena . . . her temper was so much an intrinsic part of her, so indicative of her fire, he found himself drawn to it—wanting to provoke all that energy so he could plunge into it, then deflect it into passion.

He was aware that his imperviousness, his calm reaction to her outbursts, was irritating her even more.

“There are not so many others around. Is it wise for us to be thus alone?”

The walks along both banks of the Serpentine were nearly deserted.

“It’s the end of the year,mignonne . Plans are being made, the last-minute whirl all-consuming. And the day is hardly encouraging.”

It was gray, cloudy, with a definite breeze carrying the first chill of encroaching winter. His gaze sliding approvingly over Helena’s warm cloak, he murmured, “However, as to propriety, the gossipmongers have grown tired of watching us, grown weary of expecting a scandal. They’ve turned their eyes elsewhere.”

She threw him an uncertain look, as if wondering just what he might risk in a nearly deserted public place.