Helena looked down at Marjorie; she could almost see Sebastian’s smug smile. “You are right,” she eventually said. She sat again. After a moment of staring at the pearls lying like temptation on their velvet bed, she drew the case closer. “I will have to think what is best to be done.”
ousent me these, did you not?”
The fingers of one hand caressing the pearls encircling her throat, Helena turned to face Sebastian. The silk of her pale green skirts swished sensuously; she let her fingers trail lovingly over the pearls, following the strands over her breasts.
Lips lightly curved, Sebastian watched every move. She could tell nothing from his face or his eyes.
“They look very well on you,mignonne .”
She refused to think how well, how they made her feel.
As if she weredangereuse, too.
Only he could have delivered the ultimate temptation to play his game. Never before had she felt so powerful—powerful enough to engage with a man such as he.
A thrill of excitement, of insidious attraction flared; she turned, paced, unable to keep still.
When he’d appeared by her side in Lady Carlyle’s ballroom, his eyes had gone straight to the necklace, then he’d quickly noted the other pieces she’d also donned. She’d acquiesced readily to his invitation to stroll the room. Sure enough, he had, as only he could, found an anteroom giving off the ballroom. An empty room, poorly lit by wall lamps, with a tiled floor and a small fountain splashing at its center.
Her heels clicked on the tiles as she paced before the fountain; she threw him an openly considering glance. “If not you . . . perhaps it was Were? Perhaps he is missing me.”
Sebastian said nothing, but even in the weak light she saw his face harden.
“No,” she said. “It was not Were—it was you. What do you expect to gain by it?”
He watched her—whether considering his answer or merely stretching her nerves tight, she could not tell—then said, “IfI had sent such a gift, I would expect to receive . . . whatever response you would naturally give to one who had so indulged you.”
She let her eyes flash, let her temper show. She’d grown accustomed, over the weeks, to letting him see it. Even now there seemed no reason to hide her feelings from him. With a swish of her skirts, she swung to face him and lifted her chin. “The thanks I would give to whoever had so indulged me . . . that I could give only if I knew who that gentleman was.”
He smiled. With his usual prowling gait, he closed the distance between them. “Mignonne,I care not, in truth, whether you judge me the one deserving of your gratitude.”
Halting before her, he raised one hand and tangled his long fingers in the strands below her throat. He lifted the pearls; fingers sliding, he gathered the lengthy strands in his hand until the slack was locked in his fist, poised above her neckline.
“I would much rather be assured,” he murmured, voice deepening to its most dangerous purr, “that every time you wore this piece, you thought of me.”
He opened his fist, let the pearls fall.
Weighted by the largest emerald, the strands dropped down her cleavage, slithered between her breasts.
She gasped at the heat—the heat of his hand held trapped in the pearls.
“I would much rather know that every time you wore this, you thought of us. Of what will be.”
He hadn’t completely released the necklace; one long finger remained hooked in the strands. Watching the strands, he raised them, then let them slide and slither down, around, caressing her bare breasts in defiance of her gown and chemise—her completely clothed state. Deliberately, he made the pearls rise and fall to a slow, sensuous rhythm, one she could all too readily imagine his fingers themselves following.
Her lungs had locked; she dragged in a shuddering breath, briefly closed her eyes. Felt her breasts rise, swell, heat.
He shifted closer—she sensed rather than saw or heard it, felt him like a flame on her skin. She opened her eyes—and fell into the blue of his.
“Every time you wear these,mignonne, think of . . . this.”
She hadn’t meant to let him get so close. Hadn’t meant to tip up her face and let him kiss her. But with the intoxicating warmth of him so near, the murmurous sound of his deep voice in her ear, the sense-stealing sensation of the pearls, still warm, still shifting provocatively between her breasts, she was lost.
His lips closed over hers. At the first hint of pressure, the first demand, she opened to him, not submissively but defiantly, refusing, even now, to surrender.
She could kiss him and survive, let him kiss her and still not be his. If he thought otherwise, he would learn. Reaching up, she slid her fingers into his hair and boldly kissed him back. Surprised him for a second, but only that.
His response was unexpected—no suffocating rush of passion, of overwhelming desire. Instead, he matched her, gave her all she wanted, hinted at more. Lured her on.
She knew it, but resistance was impossible. The only way she could hold on to her self, retain some semblance of awareness and self-will, was to immerse herself in the kiss, give herself over to it and follow his lead, noting each step along the way, knowingly taking each one.
Within seconds he had taken her from this world. Only he could lead her back.
Sebastian released the pearls, left them to lie, a faint memory between her bare breasts. Closing his arms about her, he drew her to him, until her soft flesh was once again pressed against his much harder frame. Desire swelled, gnashed like some ravenous beast, wanting more—much more.
Wanting her beneath him, sheathing him.
He knew it couldn’t be—not yet. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. He didn’t even dare caress her more definitely, his rake’s instincts warning not yet, not yet.
She was driving him slowly, steadily, mad. If he didn’t have her soon . . .
Never had he waited so long; no other woman—none he had desired—had ever denied him. Had ever refused to take the journey with him.
Yet despite the fact that her body was his, despite the fact that her pulse leaped when he neared, her pupils dilated and her skin warmed the instant he touched her, her mind refused to yield—her will stubbornly stood in his way.
Every night he went without her only increased his desire, that primitive urge to seize, slake his lust . . . possess.
Her hands touched his cheeks, framed his face, held it steady as she pressed a flagrantly passionate kiss on him in return for his most recent foray. He felt his control shake, quake, as she teased and taunted him to reply . . .
He did, for one instant let his shield slip, let her glimpse what waited for her—the heat, the unbridled passion behind his suave mask.
All resistance fled before his onslaught; her spine, until then infused with her stubborn will, softened. Melted.
He drew back, quickly, before desire and rampant passion ran away with him—with them. Chest laboring, he lifted his head. Felt her drag in a long breath, felt her breasts press against his chest.
Then her lids fluttered; from beneath the lace of her long lashes, he saw her eyes gleam. They were more jewel-toned than his emeralds about her throat, hanging at her ears, circling her wrists.
Despite his frustration, satisfaction welled and warmed him. He eased his hold on her; she opened her eyes, blinked, stepped back.
Glanced at him warily.
He managed not to smile. “Come,mignonne —we must return to the ballroom.”
She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the door. He paused as they reached it. Raising one hand, he hooked a finger in the pearl strands and lifted them from beneath her bodice, then draped them over the silk once more.