They were what had him here, taking refuge in brandy and silence, hoping some solution would spontaneously emerge. As things stood . . .
He could hardly pretend he was not what he was, and if she’d set her stubborn mind against all liaisons with men such as he, if she could not bear to be the wife of a man such as he . . . what, indeed, could he do?
ther than brood. The occupation was unfamiliar. He didn’t appreciate the hold she had on his mind, on his senses, on his thoughts, let alone his dreams.
Somewhere along the line, simple pursuit had transmuted to obsession, a state with which he’d had until now no serious acquaintance. His previous conquests, predatory though they might have been, had never really mattered.
Despite her eminently clearly stated position, he couldn’t turn away and let Helena go. Simply let her disappear from his life.
Accept defeat.
Allow her to go through life never knowing what it would be like to scale the heights with him.
He watched her through the crowd at Lady Devonshire’s drum and inwardly shook his head. At himself. If Helena heard his last thought, she’d have his entrails for garters, yet . . . it was, underneath all else, how he felt.
Her life would be so much less if she didn’t live it to the full—and she would never do that other than at the side of, in her terms, a powerful man. If he didn’t make some push to rescript her thinking—to introduce the notion of compromise into her disdainfully dismissive mind, the idea that compromise with him might have bonuses beyond what she’d yet experienced—then she looked set to throw her scintillating self away on some mild and unsuspecting nobleman.
Her interest in Were and his ilk was now explained, the reason for her uninterest in him patently clear. She was as adept at manipulation as he was; she’d have Were, or any like him, in the palm of her small hand. She was determined no longer to be a puppet; to ensure that, she intended being the one who pulled the strings.
With him, that would never work.
With Lord Chomley, who she was currently charming, it might.
Keeping his expression impassive while gritting his teeth was not easy. Engaging in the usual social discourse while his attention remained riveted six yards away was, however, well within his abilities. Lady Carstairs had not yet realized he’d heard not one word of her story.
Helena touched Lord Chomley’s sleeve and spoke to him; his lordship flushed, bowed extravagantly, then turned toward the refreshment room.
Sebastian refocused on Lady Carstairs. “I’ve just seen my brother. I must catch him. Do excuse me.”
He bowed; her ladyship, thrilled that he’d remained listening for so long, released him with a smile.
Merging with the crowd, he circled to come up behind Helena, who was standing, waiting, by the side of the room.“Mignonne,” he murmured, taking her hand as he stepped around her, “I would like a word with you.”
She’d jumped, stiffened. Now she looked haughtily at him as he bowed, then she bobbed a curtsy and tugged. He hesitated but let her fingers go without kissing them. She straightened and looked past him, head high.
“I have no wish whatever to speak with you, Your Grace.”
Sebastian sighed. “You cannot avoid me forever,mignonne .”
“Luckily, you will repair to your estates shortly and be gone from my life.”
He couldn’t stop his voice from hardening. “While you may believe you’ve had the last word, there’s more that must be said between us, and of some of that you are as yet unaware.”
She considered, then shifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “I do not trust you, my lord.”
He inclined his head. “That I understand.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Of what nature are these things of which I am ‘as yet unaware’?”
“They’re not the sort of things it would be wise to discuss in a crowded ballroom,mignonne .”
“I see.” She nodded, her gaze going beyond him. “In that case, I do not believe wehave anything to discuss, Your Grace. I will not, not for any reason, go apart with you.”
On the words, her brilliant smile lit her face. “Ah, my lord—what perfect timing. His Grace was about to retreat.”
Swallowing that word—retreat be damned—ruthlessly suppressing his reaction to the flash of fire in her green eyes, Sebastian exchanged bows with Chomley, returning with a glass of orgeat, then turned back to Helena and reached for her hand. She was forced to extend it.
“Mademoiselle la comtesse.” With exquisite grace, he bowed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He caught her gaze as he straightened. “Until later,mignonne .”
With a calm nod, he strolled away, leaving Lord Chomley staring after him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
His lordship turned to Helena. “Later?”
She smiled serenely, quashing the impulse to scream. “His Grace has an odd sense of humor.”
dry, rather caustic wit that, despite all her intentions, all her self-admonitions, Helena missed. Increasingly missed. She used the fact that she’d come, unwittingly, to rely on his company to leaven her evening entertainments as a prod to stiffen her resolve. To ensure she did not weaken. None knew better than she how foolish it was to become dependent in even the smallest way on a powerful man.
He’d exploit her weakness if he knew.
She concentrated on ignoring him, despite the fact that she was, as always, aware of his presence, his gaze—forced herself to give her attention to the increasingly urgent task of choosing a suitable nobleman to marry.
About her, Lady Castlereagh’s ball was in full swing. The ton, it appeared, flung itself into this last week’s entertainments with an energy to rival Parisian society at its most frenetic. Tonight, a troupe of Morris dancers had opened the ball, decked out in festive colors, twirling ribbons of green and red. In addition, a concoction derived from mead, claimed to be a modern equivalent of the ancient wassail, was being freely served; its effect on the guests was already evident. Helena smiled and declined to imbibe—she needed to keep her wits about her.
Two nights had passed since Lord Chomley had failed to discern the humor in St. Ives’s “later”; his lordship had clearly not been for her. Since then she’d been doggedly paring her list—thanks to the weather, she could accomplish little else through the days. Other than Were, currently out of town, there were three others who might do. She didn’t doubt her ability to dazzle them, to successfully encourage them to offer for her hand, but which one should she choose?
As far as she’d been able to learn through all manner of discreet inquiries, in title, estates, and income there was little difference between them. Each possessed, it appeared, an easygoing nature; any of the four should be easy to manage. With all her criteria met, she’d had to add another—a deciding factor.
She’d spent seven years being paraded before the most exacting connoisseurs of the French nobility; she had long ago realized that, for her, physical touch was a most useful means of categorizing men. There were those whose touch made her flesh creep—she’d met too many of that group for her liking. Not one had been kind or trustworthy. Then there were those whose touch might have been that of a friend or a maid. Such men were generally decent, upright souls, but not necessarily of strong will or strong mind.
There had ever been only one whose touch had made her glow.
To her, he was the most dangerous of all.
So . . . it was time to assess the three candidates now in London for how their touch affected her. She’d already danced with Were, strolled with him. His touch did not warm her, excite her, but neither did it make her flesh creep. Were had passed the test. If the others did not make her flesh creep, or glow, they would remain on her list, too.