The promise in a kiss

heart,mignonne —the answer I want will be written there.”

His last words echoed in her mind. All about was silent and still. Their gazes held, then fell away. He bent his head.

“Thatis what I want, what I will give a great deal to have.” His words feathered her lips. “I want you to answer truly, to be true to yourself—and to me.”

Sebastian kissed her, even though he knew it was unwise, that he would pay dearly for the indulgence. For giving in to the urge to reassure her, to wipe from her mind any notion he did not want her. He would pay, and she was too innocent to know the price—the effort it would take to stop at just a kiss and let her go.

Her lips parted beneath his; without hesitation, he took her mouth, captured her senses. Held them with a knowing hand.

Held her within his arms, soft, warm and vibrantly alive, the promise in her kiss echoed in the lushness of her firm flesh, the sensual tension in her spine. Held himself back from taking further advantage, from capitalizing on the fact that they’d come in half an hour early so no one would yet expect them, that the parlor was private and secluded. On the fact that she would be his if he wished, here and now.

Torment indeed—unslaked desire was not a demon he had any great experience in conquering. In this case, with her, conquering desire was out of the question—he’d settled for suppression, for caging the beast. For the moment. Promising himself that eventually, this way, she’d be his forever. All his.

His as he wished her to be.

To the depths of her sensual soul.

He was a connoisseur; he recognized the pinnacle of womanly perfection when he had her beneath him. Understood, too, enough of the possibilities to want them all. To want all of her.

Her passion. Her devotion. Her love.

All.

He wanted to seize, to simply take. Yet what he wanted could not be seized, taken.

It had to be given.

The clash of will and desire left his temper, never an amenable one, straining, tight, taut, ready to break.

On a gasp, he pulled back, drew back. Waiting for the drumming in his veins to subside, he watched her face as her senses, her wits, now that he’d freed them, returned.

Her lashes fluttered, then rose. She regarded him evenly through crystal-clear eyes. Puzzlement, and the fact that she was not yet sure of him, were easy to read.

Then she blinked; her gaze lowered.

His hand still lay beneath her chin; he tipped her face back up so he could see it.

Her eyes had dimmed. Even though she met his gaze calmly, the clouds had returned. With a gentle smile, she lifted her chin from his hand, then brushed a kiss across his fingers.

“Come.” She drew back from his embrace. “We had better join the others.”

He let her go. She turned to the door—he swallowed an urge to call her back—to ask outright what was troubling her. After an instant’s hesitation he followed her.

He wanted her trust, wanted her to confide in him; he couldn’t force either. And when all was said and done, while she might not yet be sure of him, he was even less sure of her.

I

n many ways Helena’s visit was proceeding better than he’d hoped. Thierry and Louis were both keen shooters; at this season his coverts were teeming—there was plenty to keep them amused and out of his way. Marjorie and Clara had struck up a friendship; happily distracted by their own entertainments, they were very ready to leave Helena’s entertainment up to him.

All of which should have been perfect. Unfortunately, the one person not falling in with his plans was Helena herself.

He wasn’t sure she was going to accept him—and he was at a loss to understand why.

But it had something to do with those damn letters.

“Do you spend most of your days here, then?”

He lifted his gaze from the page he’d supposedly been deciphering, looked at her as she idly wandered the room. The “here” was his study; she’d eschewed joining Marjorie and Clara in a comfortable coze by the drawing room fire in favor of distracting him while he tried to work. “Usually. It’s big enough, comfortable enough—and anything I’d want is generally to hand.”

“Indeed?” She glanced at the ledger he was holding.

Surrendering, he shut it, pushed it aside. It was nothing crucial. Not compared with her.

She smiled and glided around the desk, leaned back against it as he eased his chair back.

“You asked me why I was in the garden at the convent all those years ago, yet you never told me what you were doing there.”

“Falling from the wall.”

“After leaving Collette Marchand’s chamber.”

“Ah, yes—the inestimable Collette.” He smiled in reminiscence.

One black brow haughtily rose. “Well?”

“It was a wager,mignonne .”

“A wager?”

“You will remember that in the days I haunted Paris, I was much younger, and rather wilder.”

“The younger I will allow, but what was the subject of this wager that you needed to brave the convent’s walls?”

“I had to procure a particular earring, one of some uniqueness, from Mlle Marchand by the end of that week.”

“But she was due to leave two days later—in fact, she left the next day itself, after your visit.”

“Indeed—that was part of the challenge.”

“So you won?”

“Of course.”

“And what did you gain by winning?”

He smiled. “What else but a triumph? And, even better, one over a French noble.”

She humphed dismissively, yet her gaze was strangely distant. “Did you spend many years haunting Paris?”

“Eight, nine—all while you still wore pigtails.”

Hmm.She didn’t say it, but she thought it—he could see it in her face, could see the clouds gathering, darkening her eyes.

Did the letters have something to do with his past exploits in France? He couldn’t remember crossing swords with any of the Daurents.

He watched her for a moment longer, watched her struggle with her demon. She’d grown so used to being in his presence that when she wasn’t focused on him, aware of him, her mask slipped and he saw more. Saw enough to make him reach for her hand.“Mignonne—”

She started; she’d forgotten he was there. For a fleeting instant he glimpsed . . . horror, terror, but hanging over all a profound and pervasive sadness. Before he could react, she reassembled her mask and smiled—too brightly, too brittlely.

He tightened his grip on her hand, expecting her to rise and try to flee.

With barely a pause for thought, she trumped his ace. Pushing away from the desk, she slid onto his lap. “Eh, bien—if you have finished your work . . .”

His body reacted instantly; the soft, warm, distinctly feminine weight settling so trustingly, so confidently, had his demons slavering. While he struggled to rein them in, she freed her hand, turned his face to hers.

Set her lips to his.

She kissed him longingly, lingeringly—with a deep yearning that he knew was unfeigned because he felt it, too.

He’d given his word he would not manipulate her; as she drew him deeper into the kiss, into the pleasure of her mouth, he realized he would have been wise to demand a corresponding reassurance.

His arms closed around her; moments later his hand sought her breast.