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,
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.
“Remember,
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.
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.
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.
