The promise in a kiss

here owe him gratitude if not more. He’s been rescuing damsels in distress ever since he came on the town. I should know—I was one of the first.”

Helena couldn’t resist. “He rescued you?”

“In a manner of speaking. I fear I was silly and naive in those days—I’d recently married and thought myself well up to snuff. I played deep and thought it fashionable, as indeed it was. But I’ve no head for cards—I ended losing the Menteith diamonds. God only knows what Menteith would have said, and done, had he heard. Luckily, he didn’t—not until I told him years later. At the time, I was deep in despair. St. Ives noticed. He dragged the story out of me, then, the next day, the diamonds were delivered to me with his compliments.”

“He bought them back for you?”

“No, he won them back for me, which, considering the blackguard who’d taken them from me, was far, far better.” Lady Menteith squeezed Helena’s arm. “He rarely gives money, unless that’s the only way. To many of us, he’s our white knight. He’ll drive to Twickenham tomorrow and have a chat with the magistrate, and that’s the last we’ll hear of the orphanage closing.”

The countess paused, then added, “I wouldn’t want you to think ladies run to him with every concern. Far from it. But when there’s no other way, it’s immeasurably comforting to know there’s one last person who, if the thing’s possible at all, will help. And with the utmost discretion. Even if you ask him outright about the Menteith diamonds, even after so many years, he won’t say a word. And by tomorrow evening he’ll have forgotten all about Twickenham.”

Helena was fascinated. “Does he do the same for gentlemen in distress?”

The countess caught her eye. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”

Helena laughed. Sebastian crossed to her side, one brow arching. She shook her head.

“We had best get on. Mme Thierry will be anxious.”

An understatement; Helena nodded. They made their adieus, then walked quickly back to the carriage drive. Their appearance together, Helena noted, drew little attention, even from the most rabid scandalmongers perched in their carriages swapping the lateston-dits .

They reached the carriage, and Sebastian handed her in. Although relieved to see her return, even Marjorie seemed less concerned than previously. Sebastian bowed, then left them, strolling languidly to where his own carriage waited farther along the avenue.

Helena watched him go. She couldn’t imagine Fabien helping anyone for no reason.

N

ow that her eyes had been opened, Helena saw a great deal more. At Lady Crockford’s soirée that evening, she watched Sebastian make his way toward her, watched as he was stopped again and again, by this lady, then that. Before, she had assumed that it was he who stopped to speak—now she saw it was they who spoke first, who caught his eye with a smile.

Gentle words, grateful smiles.

The ladies were not, in the main, the sort one might imagine would catch his roving eye. Many were older than he, others too awkward or plain ever to have been likely candidates for his less-acceptable attentions.

He’d cut a swath through the London salons with a double-edged sword. Sheer arrogant masculinity on the one hand, unexpected kindness on the other.

He neared, and his gaze met hers. She fought to quell a shiver.

Joining them, he exchanged bows, spoke a few words with Marjorie and Louis, then turned to her. One brow arched.

She smiled and gave him her hand. “Shall we promenade?”

His expression was indulgent. “If you wish.”

Sebastian guided Helena through the throng and tried to ignore her nearness—the subtle warmth of her slender figure, the light touch of her fingers on his. Tried to block out the French perfume she wore, that wreathed about her and none too subtly beckoned the beast, urged him to seize and devour.

Spending so much time with her was fraying his reins, raising expectations yet leaving them unfulfilled. Only his supreme dislike of conducting his affairs in the full glare of the ton’s attention held him back from pursuing her overtly. The news he was to wed would cause a sensation, but if he waited just a few weeks more until Christmas drew close and the ton quit the capital, then the necessary formalities of his offer and her acceptance could be played out in private.

Infinitely preferable, given he was not entirely sure of her.

A surprise and a challenge—she continued to be both.

Taking advantage of his height, he scanned the guests, noting any gentlemen potentially useful for passing the time—for distracting her. Carefully avoiding Were. That had been a misjudgment; Were was a friend. He had never been one to fashion rods for his own back. Helena would not get another chance to consider Were, not if he could help it.

They were leaving a group of ladies who’d waylaid them when George emerged from the throng. One glance at his brother’s face was enough to tell him Martin had opened his lips to one person at least.

George’s delight was unfeigned; he beamed at Helena and didn’t wait for an introduction. “Lord George Cynster, comtesse.” He bowed extravagantly over the hand she extended. “I’m enchanted to meet you, quite enchanted.” The light in his eye declared that no lie.

“And I am equally glad to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Amused, Helena shot Sebastian a glance. “How many brothers do you have, Your Grace?”

“For my sins, three. Arthur, Almira’s husband, you’ve yet to meet. Arthur and George are twins. Martin’s the youngest.”

“No sisters?” Helena shifted her gaze to George. He was not quite as tall as Sebastian but of similar build. He had darker hair but the same blue eyes. The same somewhat dangerous aura hung about him. In Martin that had been less pronounced; in Sebastian it was more powerful, more blatant. Helena concluded that the characteristic developed with age and experience—she judged George to be in his early thirties.

“One.”

The answer came from Sebastian. Helena glanced up to find his gaze fixed on the crowd behind her.

“And unless I miss my guess—”

He stepped sideways, reaching through the crowd to close his fingers about the elbow of a lady flitting past.

Tall, elegantly dressed, with her brown hair piled high, the lady turned, brows rising haughtily, ready to annihilate whoever possessed the temerity to lay hands on her. Then she saw who it was. Her expression changed in a blink to one of joy.

“Sebastian!” The lady clasped his hand in both of hers and stepped free of the crowd. “I hadn’t expected to find you still in town.”

“That, my dear Augusta, is patently obvious.”

Augusta wrinkled her nose at him, at his censorious tone, and let him draw her to join them. She grinned at George. “George, too—how goes it, brother dear?”

“So-so.” George grinned back. “Where’s Huntly?”

Augusta waved behind her. “Somewhere here.” Her gaze had come to rest on Helena. She glanced briefly at Sebastian.

“Augusta, Marchioness de Huntly—Helena, comtesse d’Lisle.” Sebastian waited while they exchanged curtsies, then added to Helena, “As you’ve no doubt gathered, Augusta is our sister. However”—his gaze shifted to Augusta and sharpened—“what I fail to understand, Augusta, is why you’re gadding about London given your present state.”

“Don’t fuss. I’m completely all right.”

“You said that last time.”

“And despite the panic, it turned out perfectly well in the end. Edward’s thriving. If you must know—and I suppose you’ll demand to—I was quite moped in Northamptonshire. Huntly agreed just a little socializing would do no harm.”

“So you travel to London to attend balls and routs.”

“Well, what would you? It’s not as if there’s any socializing in Northamptonshire.”

“It’s hardly the far end of the world.”

“In terms of entertainment it might as well be. And anyway, if Huntly doesn’t mind, why should you?”