“Remember,mignonne. ” He caught her wide gaze. “Whenever you wear them, think of what will be.”
hen Helena awoke the next morning, the first thing she saw was his pearls cascading out of the green leather case. They sat on her dresser where she had left them—and mocked her.
“Je suis folle.”
With a groan, she turned her shoulder on them, but she could, like phantoms, feel them as if they were still about her throat, at her ears, on her wrists.
She’d been mad indeed to think that, in that arena, she could hope to stand against him and prevail.
Her eyes narrowed as she thought back over the entire episode. Turning, she looked at the pearls again. Her first impulse had been to bury them at the bottom of her trunk. Pride dictated that she wear them every night. He’d comprehensively won that round, but she couldn’t let him know it.
Which meant . . . that she would indeed remember every touch of the pearls, warm from his hand, against her bare breasts. Would indeed wonder . . .
She was getting very close to being out of her depth. She couldn’t let him win the next round.
And she couldn’t call a halt to the game.
he was doing it again—pulling back, tumbling obstacles into his path.
Across Lady Cottlesford’s ballroom, Sebastian watched Helena with something very like aggravation simmering behind his façade.
Time was running out. He hadn’t imagined, when he’d set out to make her admit she wanted him, that it would take this long. There were only five days left to Lady Lowy’s masquerade, the event that in recent years had heralded the ton’s exodus from London.
He had five more days—five nights, more accurately—to gain her capitulation. To gain some indication that she would welcome his advances quite aside from a formal proposal of marriage. That was the minimum he would accept.
Five nights. Plenty of time normally. Except, with her, he’d already been laying siege for seven nights. Although he’d dented her walls, he hadn’t yet set them crumbling, hadn’t yet convinced her to lower her drawbridge and welcome him in.
“How’s the wife hunting going?”
Martin. Sebastian turned as his youngest brother clapped him on the shoulder.
One glance at his face and Martin took a step back, held up his hands. “No one heard, I swear.”
“Pray that that’s true.” Yet another irritation.
“Well? Do you still have your eye on the comtesse? Fetching piece, I admit, but sharp, don’t you think?”
“Let her hear you speak of her like that and she’s liable to demand I string you up by your thumbs. Or worse.”
“Fire-eater, is she?”
“Her temper is marginally better than mine.”
“Oh, all right, all right, I’ll stop teasing. But you can’t deny the issue has a certain personal relevance. You can hardly expect me to be uninterested.”
“Uninterested, no.Less interested, certainly.”
Martin ignored that and looked around. “Have you seen Augusta?”
“I believe,” Sebastian said, studying the lace at his cuff, “that our dear sister has quit the capital. Huntly sent word this morning.”
Martin glanced sharply at him. “She’s all right?”
“Oh, entirely. But she and I agreed she’d had enough of the ton for the nonce, and as I’ve asked her to organize the festivities at Somersham, she had plenty to distract her.”
“Ah!” Martin nodded. “Excellent strategy.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured. “I do my poor best.” Would that he could do better with a certain comtesse.
“There’s Arnold. I must have a word.” Martin clapped him on the back. “Good luck, not that you need it, but for God’s sake don’t fail.”
With that injunction, he took himself off.
Sebastian resisted the urge to frown; instead, he looked across the room again—and realized he’d lost Helena.
“Damn!”
She must have been watching him, a good sign in itself. But . . .
He visually quartered the room but couldn’t see her. Lips setting, he stepped away from the shadows and into the crowd.
It took him a good ten minutes of smiles, greetings, and sliding out of conversations before he came in sight of Mme Thierry, seated on a chaise. She was engaged in an animated conversation with Lady Lucas; Helena was nowhere in sight.
Sebastian swept the gathering again. His gaze fell on Louis de Sèvres. The man was Helena’s nominal escort, but everyone assumed he was the protector sent by her family to keep a watchful eye on her. De Sèvres was ogling one of the Britten sisters. Sebastian strolled to his side.
His shadow alerted de Sèvres; he looked up—to Sebastian’s surprise, he smiled and bowed obsequiously. “Ah—Your Grace. You are looking for my fair cousin? She has adjourned to hold court in the refreshment salon, I believe.”
Sebastian considered de Sèvres and suppressed the urge to shake his head. The man was supposed to be protecting her . . . Mme Thierry, too, had changed her tune. If none within the ton had yet fathomed his true motive—and he would certainly know if they had—then it was inconceivable that the Thierrys and de Sèvres had seen through his mask.
De Sèvres shifted under his scrutiny; Sebastian decided to accept the unlooked-for assistance until he had Helena in hand.Then he would investigate what was behind de Sèvres’s encouragement.
He looked over de Sèvres’s head to the archway into the smaller salon. “Indeed? If you’ll excuse me?”
He didn’t wait for any answer, but strolled on.
One glance through the archway and he saw what she’d done—fortified her defenses. She’d surrounded herself with, not gentlemen of the ilk of Were and the others she’d been assessing, but with the latest crop of bucks and bloods looking to make their mark.
They were he twelve years ago, drawn like moths to her flame and brash and bold enough to consider any madness, even the madness of challenging him.
Especially over her. They were not in his league, but would never admit it, certainly not in her presence, something he understood.
He pondered that, considered the sight of them gathered around her, considered the pearls lying about her throat, at her ears, encircling her wrists. He turned away and beckoned a footman.
elena breathed an inward sigh of relief when Sebastian quit the archway. She was rarely unaware of his gaze; over the last week it had become almost familiar, like a warm breath feathering her skin.
She quelled a shiver at the thought and doggedly focused her attention on young Lord Marlborough; although he was at least five years her senior, she still thought of him as young. Not experienced. Not . . . fascinating. At all.
But bored though she might be, at least she was safe. So she smiled and encouraged them to expand on their exploits. Their latest curricle races, the latest hell with its Captain Sharps, the latest outing of the fancy. They were so like little boys.
She’d relaxed, relaxed her guard, when a footman materialized at her elbow, a silver salver in his hand. He presented the salver to her; upon it resided a simple note. She considered it, picked it up. With a smile for the footman, who bowed and withdrew, then a swift smile around her protective circle, she stepped a little to the side and opened the note.
Which one will it be,mignonne?Pick one, and I will arrange that it will be he who will meet me. For when I come to fetch you from their midst, nothing is surer than that one of their number will be unable to resist and will challenge me. Of course, if you would prefer none meet his fate on some green field with tomorrow’s dawn, then leave them and join me in the anteroom that gives off the front hall.
But if that is to be your choice, do not dally, mignonne, for I am not a patient man. If you do not appear shortly, I will come to fetch you.