The promise in a kiss

watched her from beneath his hooded lids.

The thing she remembered most of that hour was the sapphire he wore on his right hand, how it winked in the candlelight as his fingers languidly caressed the glass. The jewel was the same color as his eyes. Equally mesmerizing.

Then dinner was over. She could remember nothing of what had been said. They all rose, and she realized that the gentlemen would remain to pass the port. Relief swamped her. The smile she gave Sebastian as he released her hand came more easily.

She retired with Clara and Marjorie to the drawing room. By the time Sebastian entered with Thierry and Louis twenty minutes later, she had herself under control. She made herself wait until the tea trolley was brought in, until they’d all sipped and chatted. She increasingly fell silent.

When Sebastian came to relieve her of her empty cup, she smiled weakly—at him, at them all.

“I fear I have a headache, too.” Louis had already retired, claiming the same ailment.

Thierry, Marjorie, and Clara all murmured in sympathy. Sebastian merely watched her. Clara offered to get her a powder.

“If I retire now and get a good night’s sleep,” she replied, still smiling faintly but reassuringly, “I am sure I will be recovered by morning.”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”

She nodded, then looked up at Sebastian. He took her hand, helped her to her feet. She curtsied to the others, murmuring her good nights, then turned to the door. Her hand still in his, Sebastian turned with her, walked with her.

He paused before they reached the door. She halted, glanced up at him. Met his blue eyes, felt them search hers. Then he raised his other hand, smoothed a fingertip across her brow.

“Sleep well,mignonne. You will not be disturbed.”

There was something in his tone, in his gaze, as if he would tell her, reassure her . . . She was too drained, too exhausted to fathom his meaning.

Then he lifted her hand, turned it, pressed his lips to the point where her pulse fluttered at her wrist. Let his lips linger until she felt the heat flow. Raising his head, he released her. “Sweet dreams,mignonne .”

She nodded, bobbed a curtsy, then walked to the door. A footman opened it; she sailed through. The door shut softly behind her; only then was she free of Sebastian’s gaze.

Wanting nothing more than a pillow on which to lay her aching head and the privacy to ease her heavy heart, to release her pent-up feelings, she climbed the stairs, crossed the gallery, and headed down the corridor to her room. Just before she reached her door, a shadow shifted; Louis stepped out to intercept her.

“What is it?” She made no effort to hide her anger.

“I . . . wanted to know. Will you do it?”

She stared at him blankly. “Of course.” Then she realized. Fabien, as usual, was playing his cards close to his chest. Louis did not know with what his uncle had threatened her. If he had known, not even he would have asked such a stupid question.

“Uncle insistsyou fetch the item—not me.”

Louis’s surly tone nearly made her laugh. Hysterically. He was sulking because Fabien was using her talents, not his.

But why? Her mind fixed on the point, turned it over—then she saw. Because she was a woman—a woman Sebastian wanted. He’d apparently been too strong for Fabien’s persuasions, so Fabien, with his usual vindictive touch, had chosen as his thief one who would not only succeed in retrieving the dagger but who, in doing so, would also dent Sebastian’s pride.

Fabien would do what he could to hurt Sebastian; that it would hurt her, too, would neither occur to him nor perturb him if it did. Indeed, he would probably view any hurt she suffered as due punishment for her temerity in forcing that letter from him.

Louis scowled at her. “If you require any assistance, I’m to help you. But I would strongly suggest that until we leave, you keep St. Ives at arm’s length—if you take my meaning.”

Helena stared at him. How did he know? She tipped up her chin and looked down her nose at him. “I will retrieve your uncle’s property as I see fit—you need not let my methods concern you.”

With a dismissive nod, she swept past him to her door, opened it, and went in.

Louis stood still, staring after her. When the door clicked shut, he turned and headed for his room.

Villard was waiting. “Well?”

Louis shut his room door, ran his hands through his hair. “She says she will do it.”

“Bon!Then all is progressing, and there is no reason you cannot write and tell monsieur le comte—”

“No!” Agitated, Louis paced before the hearth. Then he flung up his hands. “Marriage! Whoever would haveimagined ? Fabien said St. Ives had publicly decreed he would not wed, and that was years ago! Now suddenly the talk is of a wedding!”

By the bed folding shirts, Villard looked down. After a moment he murmured, “From what you said, it seems unlikely marriage was on monsieur le duc’s mind, not until you directed those others into the library . . .”

Louis missed the malicious glance Villard slanted his way. “Precisely!” He continued to pace. “But what could I do? He would have had her there and then—and then what? Retired merrily to his estate for Christmas, without her. No. I had to stop him—and better those others than me. He would have been alerted had I gone in.”

Villard’s lip curled; he looked down at the shirts.

“I tell you, I had palpitations when I heard what everyone was whispering. No one cared about the masquerade anymore—all the talk was of St. Ives marrying!”

“I believe it is something of a coup, which is why, perhaps, a word to monsieur le comte—”

“No, I tell you!No! Things are back on track now. Helena knows what she must do—and she is not a fool, that one. She will not risk monsieur le comte’s displeasure. She will not give herself to St. Ives.”

“From your description, I thought she had.”

“No. I am sure . . . He must have overwhelmed her. His reputation isformidable . Although I would have thought . . .” Louis frowned, then waved his tangled thoughts aside. “No matter. It is settled. She will not fail, nor will she give in to St. Ives—not now.”

Villard studied the neat pile of shirts and let the silence grow. Then he said, “What if—purely a supposition —what if she accepts him?”

“She hasn’t. I would have heard of it. But even if she needs to do so, to lead him to believe all is progressing as it should, then weddings for such as they are take months to arrange. And they’d have to get Fabien’s permission.Huh! ”

The thought cheered Louis. He actually smiled.

Villard drew breath, lifted his head. “Do you not think it might be wise to warn monsieur le comte?”

Louis shook his head. “No need to start hares. All is proceeding as Fabien wished. The matter of this marriage is incidental.” Louis gestured contemptuously. “There is no need to fuss, and Fabien won’t care. As long as he gets his dagger back—that is all he cares about.”

Villard silently exhaled, picked up the pile of shirts, and carried them to the wardrobe.

H

elena sat at Sebastian’s right at the breakfast table the next morning. As she buttered a piece of toast, she mentally recited what she had to do.

She had to hold Sebastian off, keep him at arm’s length; Louis had been right about that. She had to find and take Fabien’s dagger. And then she had to flee. Fast. Because nothing was surer than that Sebastian would come after her.

There would be no point taking the dagger, then trying to brazen it out. A dagger he’d taken from a French nobleman goes missing while a French noblewoman was visiting? Half a second, she estimated, would be all it would take for him to figure that out.

She would have to leave him and run.

He would be furious. He would see her act as a betrayal.

He’d assume she’d been part of Fabien’s plot all along . . .