“Men!” She spat the word like an epithet into his face. “You are all alike! Not to be trusted!”
By sheer luck, she hit a nerve—touched tinder to his temper; she saw it spark in his eyes, saw his lips thin.
“We arenot all alike.”
Every word was gritted out.
She raised a haughty brow. “Do you mean I can trust you?” She widened her eyes, daring him to lie.
His eyes remained on hers; she caught a glimpse, unexpected, of sudden turmoil.
“Yes!”He flung the word at her; it struck her, left her reeling. She immediately sensed him soften, rein in his temper. “In your case . . . yes.”
Her heart had leaped to her throat. Shocked, she searched his eyes. He wasn’t lying, even though his temper still prowled, as did hers. But she knew truth when she heard it; he had no reason to lie. But what reason could he have? . . .
“Why?” She searched his hard features, hoping to catch some hint.
Sebastian knew the answer—could feel the power rise through his anger, shading it, controlling it.
She’d refused to go apart with him—to let him talk with her privately, feel his way with her—even though his intentions were, this time, of the most honorable. Instead, she’d tapped Markham on the shoulder and slipped away with him.
He’d been coldly furious. Why? Because she meant more to him than any other woman ever had.
He’d been watching when she and Markham had left the ballroom. He’d followed to ensure nothing came of the incident. Only to learn . . .
The idea that she might willingly put herself in the way of the type of insult Markham had offered was not to be borne.
Why? Because he cared.
The realization left him shaken—left him, for once, without any glib words, any drawling phrase to turn her mind away from what he’d only just realized and didn’t yet want her to see.
Her eyes were wide green pools, easy to read, easy to drown in. She was caught, tempted . . . fascinated.
So was he.
He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, trying to think.
Her skin had heated, courtesy of his nearness; her perfume, French, elementally exotic, rose and wreathed his senses.
Their faces were close, as were their bodies—close enough for her to sense the change in his intent. Her eyes widened fractionally, then her lids fell as her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips.
He closed the distance between them, slowly, unthreateningly.
She lifted her face, tipped back her head.
Their lips brushed. Touched.
Met.
Fused.
The power flared—like a spark set to dry grass, it flamed, then raced, taking them both, drawing them in, sucking them into its heat.
It was like nothing he knew. No kiss he’d ever experienced had caught him as this did, held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, so focused on her, on her lips, on her mouth, on the dark thrill of sliding deep, caressing her intimately, on the sensual mating of their tongues.
She followed his lead, matching him step for step, fearless in her innocence. He’d kissed her deeply before, but this time she wanted more, lured him on.
Unknowingly—or knowingly? He couldn’t tell.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. Couldn’t draw back from the conflagration.
His senses were reveling, in her, in the honeyed taste of her, the warm haven of her mouth, the supple softness of her breasts firm against his chest, the flagrant promise in the body arching lightly to meet his.
He could do nothing more than take all she offered and return all she demanded. Fall more deeply under her spell.
Helena had stopped thinking some instants before their lips had met. The knowledge that he was going to kiss her was enough, of itself, to focus her mind on one thing and that alone.
Him.
She wished it weren’t so, but it was. Her mind, her senses—her very heartbeat—seemed to be his to claim. And no matter how much she might lecture herself when apart from him, she couldn’t hold back from this part of his game.
Dangereux.
The word whispered through her mind but she no longer believed it, at least not in the physical sense. He would not harm her—he’d told her she could trust him. In truth, she already did.
He might prey on her mind and lay waste to the defenses she’d erected against powerful men, but while in his arms with his lips on hers, she knew, and understood, only one thing.
He was hers.
Hers to command at least in this arena—hers to claim if she wished. He was in control, but it was she he sought to please—a conundrum perhaps, but the thought of having a powerful man at her feet was too tantalizing, too tempting, too elementally enthralling to forgo.
His pleasure was hers. She sensed it through his kiss, through his immediate response to any demand she chose to make. Any hint of trepidation and he would ease back, soothe her, wait for her sign he could take her mouth again, that she was ready again to sink deep into the kiss, let his tongue probe, caress, slide about hers, seductively tangling.
He hadn’t released her hands; instead, his fingers had locked, not painfully, but his grip was unbreakable, his forearms outside hers against the wall, holding his weight from her. She wanted his weight on her. Her whole body had come alive, heated, nerves afire. She wanted him against her, chest to breast, thighs to hips. Wanted him.
She arched, touched him. For one glorious instant, she let her body caress him.
Sensed his immediate response—sensed the depth of the fire she hadn’t yet walked through. Felt his control quake.
They broke the kiss.
Both of them. They needed to breathe, needed to think. Had to pull back from the brink.
They were both breathing rapidly, each one’s gaze locked on the other’s lips.
Simultaneously, they lifted their eyes; their gazes met, held.
They searched each other’s eyes; her thoughts were reflected in his—she felt as if he could see into her soul.
This was not the right place, not the right time.
Whether there would ever be a right place, a right time, neither knew, but they could not go further tonight.
They both knew it. Recognized the fact.
When the pounding in her ears eased enough for her to hear, Helena drew in a deep breath and softly said, “Let me go.”
Not an order, but a simple direction.
He hesitated. Then his grip eased, bit by bit. As his touch left her skin, she eased her hands from under his, lowered her arms. She ducked under his arm, stepped away from the wall, out of the cage of his arms.
He turned his head but didn’t otherwise move.
She took another step away, already missing—regretting the loss of—his heat. Then she lifted her head; without turning around, she said, “For your help with Markham—thank you.”
She hesitated for an instant, then walked to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when she heard him murmur, soft and low, “Until later,mignonne. ”
ebastian let himself into his house in Grosvenor Square in the small hours. After leaving Lady Castlereagh’s, he’d repaired to his club, then gone with friends to a hell. No game of chance had been able to distract him from his thoughts; the hours had served only to crystallize his resolution.
Leaving his cloak and cane in the front hall, he went into the library. After lighting a lamp, he settled behind his desk—settled to the letter he’d decided to write.
He addressed it to Thierry. Helena was staying under Thierry’s roof, nominally in his care; his wife had introduced her to society. De Sèvres’s relationship to Helena he was less sure of, and when all was said and done, he didn’t trust the man. Thierry, despite being a Frenchman, was a straightforward soul.