The promise in a kiss

taken the first steps down our joint path. In terms of making decisions, we’ve already made ours—you yours, me mine. Nevertheless, between such people as we are, there is a need for a formal yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question.”

He hesitated; searched her eyes again. She didn’t glance away, try to avoid the scrutiny—she was too busy searching herself, trying to sense his direction. Wondering if the uncertainty she sensed came from him—or her.

Then his lips twisted. He looked down, simultaneously raising her hands to kiss one, then the other.

“Be that as it may”—his voice had deepened, taken on that tone she now associated with intimacy—“I do not wish to press you. I will ask you my simple question when you are ready to give me a simple answer.” He glanced up, met her eyes again. “Until then, know that I am here, waiting”—again his lips quirked—“albeit not patiently. But for you,mignonne . . . rest assured I will wait.”

That last sounded like a vow. Her surprise must have shown in her face, in her eyes—in his a markedly self- deprecatory light glowed, as if he were shaking his head at himself over how lenient he was being with her.

And he was. More than most she understood that—that his natural impulse would be to press her to accept his offer, to declare herself won. To admit she was his, his to rule, to command.

She’d expected a demand to surrender formally; she’d steeled herself to vacillate, to prevaricate if need be, to use every feminine wile she possessed to delay any such declaration. If she gave in and allowed him to assume he’d triumphed and to crow, presumably publicly, over it, then when she fled, the damage would only be worse.

The rage her defection provoked would be only more intense.

She’d come into the room prepared to do whatever violence to her feelings was necessary to accomplish all she wished—to save Ariele while minimizing harm to him. “I . . .” What could she say in the face of such empathy? He knew nothing of her problem, yet he’d sensed her difficulty and drawn back from exacerbating her situation, even though he didn’t understand.

“Thank you.” The words left her lips in a soft sigh. Lifting her head, she held his gaze, smiled, let her relief and gratitude show in her eyes, in her expression. She drew breath—and it came easier. Gently tugging her hands from his, she clasped them before her. “I will . . . I promise I will tell you when I can answer your simple question.”

She would never be able to do so, but there was nothing she could do to change that.

His gaze, piercing blue, searched her eyes again, but there was nothing more she was willing to show him. She kept her sadness at that last thought well hidden; for Ariele’s sake, she had to remember that they were, in effect, adversaries now.

Already hard, his features hardened further. His expression a stony mask, he inclined his head. “Until then.”

The strength of his reined temper reached her; she instinctively lifted her chin. He considered her for a moment, then said, his tone even, controlled, almost distant, “Clara will be in the back parlor. It would be wise if you were to join her there.”

The warning could not have been more blunt. She held his gaze for one moment, then inclined her head. “I will leave you, then.”

Gracefully, she swept around, her gaze taking in the room in one comprehensive glance. There were four large chests, set against the walls at various points, all shut, all with keyholes.

She crossed to the door, opened it, and went out, drawing it closed behind her. Only then losing the telltale warmth of Sebastian’s gaze.

She would have to search his study.

Sometime.

Chapter Ten

N

Osuitable time presented itself. In truth, as the days passed, Helena made little effort to further Fabien’s goal, too focused on Sebastian, on his finer qualities, on all she would have gained by his side—all she would forgo when the time came and she had to act, steal the dagger, and run.

She knew how many days she had left, exactly how many hours; she was determined to make the most of every one.

If the morning was fine, they would ride—indeed, he seemed to take it for granted they would, unless rain intervened. She was too grateful for the moments of unalloyed peace to complain at his somewhat cavalier expectation that she would accompany him as a matter of course.

However, despite the fact that she did not, as he had so perspicaciously noted, like being taken for granted, she felt disappointed when he didn’t appear at her door the next night. Or the next.

The following morning, as they returned from the stables and took their habitual shortcut through the small parlor, she slowed, then halted and faced him.

He stopped, studied her face, arched a brow.

“I . . . You . . .” She lifted her chin. “You have not again come to me.”

Had once been enough? A disturbing thought—as disturbing as the notion that he’d found the experience less than satisfactory.

She could read nothing in his face or his eyes. After a moment he replied, “Not because I don’t wish to.”

“Why, then?”

He seemed to consider—to take note of the tone of her voice, the puzzlement she allowed to show—then he sighed. “Mignonne,I am rather more experienced in such matters than you. That experience suggests—no,guarantees —that the more we . . . indulge, the more I shall . . . require. Come to expect to have.”

She folded her arms, fixed her gaze on his eyes. “And that is bad?”

He held her gaze. “It is if in the . . . having, I remove—take from you—all choice over the question of being my duchess.” His tone hardened. “Once you’re carrying my child, there will be no question, no choice for you to make. You know that as well as I.”

She did, and she accepted it. But . . . She tilted her head, considered all she could see in his face. “Are you sure this . . . attitude of yours is not perhaps equally motivated by a hope that I will”—she gestured—“grow impatient and agree to answer your question quickly, and as you wish?”

He laughed, the sound cynical, not humorous. “Mignonne,if I wanted a lever to pressure you into marriage, you may be assured that particular tack is not one I would choose.” He met her eyes. “The degree of impatience you feel is nothing to the . . . torment that racks me.”

She glimpsed it in his eyes—a prowling need—sensed its force before his shields slid back and he shut her out once more. She frowned. “I do not like the idea that you are tormented over me. There must be some way . . .”

With one hand he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Captured her gaze. “Before you follow that thought too far, consider the fact that if there were, I would know of it and would certainly have employed it. But to ease my particular torment . . . no, there is only one remedy for that. And before you ask, I did not tell you how much I desire you, because that, too, is just another form of coercion.” He searched her eyes. “Mignonne,I wish you to marry me because you desire to be my wife—not for any other reason. As far as I am able, I will not pressure you in making that decision, will not manipulate your feelings in any way. I will even engage to shield you from any pressure others might seek to bring to bear.”

“Why? Why, when you want me as your duchess, why be so forbearing?” Given his nature, that was a highly pertinent point.

His lips curved, wryly cynical. “Yes, there is something I wish in return. But for my forbearance, I ask only one thing.” His eyes were very blue as he gazed into hers. “The simple answer you eventually give me,mignonne, I wish it to beyours . Not one logically derived after due consideration of the facts, but the real truth of what you desire.” He paused, then added, “Look into your