The promise in a kiss

Felt it rise.

Who held it, commanded it? Him? Her?

Neither.

It was intangible, forged between them, brought into this world, then set free.

She could feel it building, rising inside her as he rhythmically stroked, his tongue mimicking the play of his fingers. A cry built in her throat; she pulled away from the kiss—

He pulled her back, drank her cry as she broke, shattered. The power imploded, then surged through her, through her veins, along her nerves. It dazzled her senses, then engulfed her in brilliance, in heat, in exquisite pleasure.

L

ouis stood staring at the connecting door, his hand over his mouth, horror in his eyes. He couldn’t believe what his ears were telling him. Couldn’t believe . . .

If St. Ives gained all he wished tonight, would he bother inviting Helena to his country house?

Did he, Louis, dare take the chance?

How would he explain . . . ?

Swallowing a yelp of sheer panic, he whirled, raced for the gallery and yanked open the door.

And came face-to-face with two couples—one a merman and mermaid, the other a Dresden milkmaid and an improbable Tyrolean shepherd.

He’d surprised them; they blinked at him bemusedly, then the milkmaid giggled.

Louis dragged in a breath, closed the door behind him, tugged down his waistcoat, and gestured to the door along the gallery. “The library is through there.”

The milkmaid giggled; the mermaid gave him a sly look. Both men smiled their thanks—man to man—and steered their partners on.

Louis watched them go, watched the merman open the door, watched them all disappear inside.

Better they than he. He could barely think.

He breathed deeply, then again.

It suddenly occurred to him that this way things might fall out even better. If St. Ives were prevented—and surely he would be—then he would only be more determined, more insistent that Helena journey to his country home.

But why, after all these years of glacial frigidity, had Helena suddenly melted? He hadn’t heard a single gasp of outrage, let alone a protest. She’dpermitted St. Ives to take liberties.

Frowning, wondering how that unexpected and unwelcome development would affect his plans, Louis headed for the ballroom.

“O

h,look ! It’s such a large room. And adesk ! Darling, do let’s.”

Sebastian jerked to attention—jerked out of the state of deep desire and reined lust that had overwhelmed his senses, tried to shake his wits free from their drugging coils.

Felt the jolt of alarm that flashed through Helena as she lay slumped on his chest, until then boneless in repletion.

His hand was still between her thighs. Before he could retrieve it and grab her, she did exactly what she shouldn’t.

She bobbed up, looked over the chair back, then gasped and ducked down.

Too late.

“Ooh!”The woman who had entered gave a little scream, cut off—Sebastian could imagine her hand clapped over her lips, her eyes like saucers.

Grasping Helena, still naked to the waist, he did the only thing he could; he stood, letting her slide down until her feet touched the floor, then he turned his head, keeping his body, his broad shoulders, between her and the new arrivals.

All four of them. As he glanced at their faces, already unmasked, and saw their eyes widen, he inwardly cursed. He was unmasked—and Helena was, too.

“St. Ives.” The merman recovered first; shock held the others silent. “We . . . ah . . .” He suddenly seemed to realize the full magnitude of the situation. “We’ll leave . . .” He tried to urge his mermaid to the door, but the woman didn’t move, her saucerlike eyes trained disbelievingly on Sebastian.

“St. Ives,” she said. Then her gaze shifted past him. “And mademoiselle la comtesse . . .”

Mademoiselle la comtesse was muttering French curses he hadn’t imagined she would know. Luckily, only he could hear. Reaching blindly, he found her arm, slid his fingers down to lock about her wrist, holding her, anchoring her, where she couldn’t be seen.

With his other hand, he waved languidly. “Mademoiselle la comtesse has just done me the honor of consenting to be my duchess.” Beneath his fingers he felt Helena’s pulse leap, then race wildly. “We were . . . celebrating.”

“You’re tomarry ?” The Dresden milkmaid, until then struck dumb, recovered her voice. Her avid expression stated she had an excellent grasp of the social implications. She clapped her hands. “Oh,wonderful ! And we’ve learned it first!”

“Felicitations,” murmured the Tyrolean shepherd, one of the young lordlings who had at one time joined Helena’s court. He grasped the milkmaid’s arm. “Come on, Vicky.”

Eyes still huge, the milkmaid turned with alacrity. “Oh, yes. Do let’s hurry back . . .”

The four piled out of the room faster than they’d entered it. Their whispers hung in the air even after the door shut behind them.

As Sebastian released her and turned to her, Helena hit him on the arm. “Nowwhat are we going to do?” She lapsed into French as she hitched her gown up, dragging the shoulder back into place. Shaking out the skirts, she looked down.“Sacre dieu!”

Sebastian looked and saw her chemise tangled in her high-heeled shoes.

She swore some more, bent and swiped up the telltale garment, scrunching the silk in her hand—then realized she had nowhere to hide it.

“Give it to me.” He held out a hand.

She slapped the chemise into it. He shook out the garment, then folded it and tucked it into his breeches pocket, taking the opportunity to rearrange a few other things at the same time. Glancing at Helena, he noted that her nipples, no longer screened by the chemise, stood proudly erect under the silk sheath of her toga. Looking at her face, he decided not to mention it.

She already looked . . . distraught.

“My apologies,mignonne. That is not how I planned to ask you to be my wife.”

Her head rose. She blinked at him, her expression blanked. “Wh-what?”

“I had, strangely enough, imagined making some reasonable attempt at a proposal.” When she simply stared at him, clearly stunned, Sebastian frowned. “It’s customary, you know.”

“No! I mean . . .” Helena clapped a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to halt her whirling wits. “We were not discussingmarriage ! We were discussing me accepting your protection.”

It was his turn to blink, then his features hardened. “And precisely what sort of protection did you imagine I would extend to anunmarried noblewoman ?”

She knew the answer to that. “You—we—were talking of me marrying some complaisant gentleman andthen —”

“No. That was not what I was talking about.I was talking of marrying you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not until those foolish people came in—I have told you before I am more than eight.”

“Seven.”

She frowned.“Comment?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. But contrary to your misguided notions, I wasalways thinking of marrying you.”

“Pull my other arm, Your Grace.” Putting her nose in the air, she went to sweep past him.

He caught her arm and swung her back to face him. “No. We are settling this here and now.”

The look in his face, in his eyes—the tension that emanated from him—warned her not even to attempt to