He was silent for one instant, then whispered, “You will be mine,mignonne —never doubt it.”
He released her and they separated, flowing with the dance—as she moved away, his fingers touched her nape, then trailed down and away.
She felt the touch in the tips of her breasts, as a wash of heat flaring beneath her skin. She forced her expression to an easy smile, forced her eyes to meet his directly.
At the end of the dance, he raised her, then carried her hand to his lips. “Soon,mignonne —soon.”
Never!she vowed, but it wouldn’t be easy to gainsay him.
She couldn’t break her promise to grant him another dance, but if he couldn’t find her . . .
She chatted, laughed, smiled, and silently plotted. Louis, as always, hovered; on impulse she claimed his arm. “Stroll with me, cousin.”
With a light shrug, he complied. Helena steered him toward the far end of the room where the dragonlike dowagers sat, sharp eyes scanning the throng, tongues wagging incessantly, brows poised to rise at the slightest sign of scandal.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “that Lord Were might suit me as a husband. Have you an opinion on his lordship and whether Fabien would welcome an offer from him?”
“Were?” Louis frowned. “Is he the large, dark-haired, somewhat corpulent gentleman who favors brown coats?”
She wouldn’t have called him corpulent. “He’s about to step into a marquess’s shoes, which will satisfy Fabien as to title. As for the rest, to me he seems eminently suitable.”
“Hmm . . . from what I have heard, he is not highly regarded, this Were. He is quiet, retiring—self-effacing.” That last, Louis said with a sneer. “I do not believe Uncle Fabien would think it wise for you to ally yourself with a weak man.”
“Weak”—to her the word was the highest seal of approval. But,“Bien sûr,” she said. “I must think more on that.”
In the corner of the room beyond the dowagers, a door stood ajar.
“Where are we going?” Louis asked as she led him to it.
“I want to see what lies beyond here. The air in this room is so stale.” She stepped past him and through the door as the first strains of a minuet—her second dance with Sebastian—drifted over the crowd’s head.
Louis followed her into a gallery. Three couples, summoned by the music, passed them, returning to the ballroom, leaving the gallery with its long windows overlooking the gardens deserted save for them.
“Bon!”Helena smiled. “It is much more peaceful in here.”
Louis frowned but was distracted by a sideboard. He went to investigate the decanter and glasses sitting atop it. Helena drifted down the narrow room, drawn to the windows.
She was standing, gazing out at the stars, when a faint sound reached her.
A second later a deep voice drawled, “De Sèvres.”
She turned to see Louis bowing deeply. Sebastian strolled out of the shadows shrouding the door.
He spoke to Louis. “Mademoiselle la comtesse is engaged to me for this dance, but as she feels the need for a few moments in quieter surrounds, I will remain with her here. No doubt you have engagements of your own in the ballroom.”
Even through the gloom, Helena saw the sharp look Louis directed her way.
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Louis hesitated for an instant, glancing once more at Helena. She couldn’t believe he would leave her.
“You may rest assured,” Sebastian drawled, “that mademoiselle la comtesse will be safe with me. I will return her to Mme Thierry at the conclusion of the dance. Until then, I believe, her time is mine.”
“As you say, Your Grace.” Louis bowed again, then turned on his heel and left. He closed the door behind him.
Dumbfounded, Helena stared at the door. Louis couldn’t be so witless as to believe she’d be safe alone with a man of Sebastian’s reputation.
“I do not know the answer,mignonne, but he has indeed left us alone.”
The faint amusement in Sebastian’s voice fanned her anger. She clung to it and faced him as he crossed the room toward her. She lifted her chin, ignoring the skittering panic chasing over her skin. “This is not wise.”
“I must agree, but it was your choice,mignonne. ” He halted before her; she saw he was smiling—a distinctly predatory smile. “If the minuet is not to your liking, there’s another dance we might try.”
She studied his eyes, found them impossible to read in the poor light. “No.” She moved to cross her arms; he reached out and caught her hands, holding them lightly in his. She frowned at him. “I do not at all understand why you are doing this.”
His lips quirked. “Mignonne,I assure it is I who do not understand why you are behaving as you are.”
“Me?I would think the reason for my behavior was obvious. I have told you more than once that I will not be your mistress.”
One brown brow arched. “Have I asked you to be my mistress?”
She frowned. “No, but—”
“Bon,we have that much clear.”
“We havenothing clear, Your Grace—Sebastian,” she amended as he opened his lips. “You admit to pursuing me, to wishing to seduce me—”
“Stop.”
She did, puzzled by his tone, neither drawling nor cynical—straightforward.
He considered her, then sighed. “Would it help,mignonne, if I gave you my word I will not complete your seduction at any function we might attend, such as this ball?”
His word—she knew without asking that he would honor that to the death. Yet . . . “You said before that you are not playing a game with me. Is that true?”
His lips twisted, half wry smile, half grimace. “If you are a pawn,mignonne, so am I, and it is some higher power that moves us on this earthly board.”
Helena considered for one minute more, then drew breath and nodded. “Very well. But if you are not to seduce meen effet, then what . . . ?”
She raised her hands, palms up, ignoring the light grasp of his. He changed his grip, took her hands in his. She saw his smile dawn again, still predatory, still too fascinating for her peace of mind.
“The music will end soon. In lieu of my dance, I would claim a favor.”
She let her suspicion show. “And what is this favor?”
His smile deepened. “A kiss.”
She considered again. “You have already kissed me twice—no, three times.”
“Ah, but this time, I wish you to kiss me.”
She tilted her head, considered him. If it was she doing the kissing . . . “Very well.” She shook off his hands, and he let her.
Boldly, she stepped closer. Because of the difference in their heights, she had to slide her hands up over his chest, over his shoulders, and lock them about his neck—stretching herself against him.
He stood, passive, watching her from under hooded lids.
Praying that the sudden shock of the contact—breast to chest, hips to thighs—didn’t show, valiantly ignoring the fascinating contrast between the silken softness of his coat and the hard body it covered, she drew his head down, stretched up on her toes, and set her lips to his.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, but only in response, in equal measure. Reassured, pleasantly distracted, she repeated the caress, a little firmer, a little longer. His lips returned the pleasure, then parted slightly. She couldn’t resist the temptation.
He tasted . . . male. Different, enticing. His tongue met hers, retreated, returned. Another dance, another play, the ebb and flow of a physical touch, one rather more intimate than the meeting of hands.
It was novel, exciting. She wanted to know more, learn more. Feel more.
Ten minutes later—ten totally enthralling, fascinating minutes of complete and utter abandon—she surfaced on a gasp. Lips parted, her heart thudding in her ears, she stared into his eyes, gleaming from beneath his heavy lids. Then she stared at his lips. Long, lean, lightly curved—so mobile.