The promise in a kiss

He’d waited seven years to see those eyes. Not the slightest trace of recognition showed in them, or in her expression. He let his lips curve appreciatively; he’d seen her watching him, knew she’d recognized him. Just as surely as he’d recognized her.

It was her hair that had caught his attention. Black as night, a froth of thick locks framing her face, brushing her shoulders. His gaze had roved, taking in her figure, provocatively displayed in a sea green silk gown with brocade overskirt and petticoat. His mind had been assessing, considering . . . Then he’d seen her face.

The silence had grown strained. He glanced at Thierry and raised a brow fractionally, well aware of the reason for the man’s reticence. The chevalier shifted his weight like a cat on hot coals.

Then the lady threw Thierry a glance and raised a commanding, rather more pointed brow of her own.

“Ahem.” Thierry waved. “Monsieur le duc de St. Ives. Mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle.”

He held out his hand; she laid her fingers on his and sank into a deep curtsy.

“Monsieur le duc.”

“Comtesse.” He bowed, then raised her. Quelled an urge to close his hand about her slender fingers. “You have lately come from Paris?”

“A sennight since.” She glanced around, as assured as he remembered her. “It is my first visit to these shores.” Her glance touched his face. “To London.”

Helena assumed he’d recognized her, but there was nothing to confirm it in his face. His angular, chiseled features resembled a stony mask, eradicating all telltale expression; his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, impossibly innocent, yet framed by lashes so long and lush they dispelled any thought of innocence. His lips held a similar contradiction, long and thin, embodying more than a hint of ruthless will, yet, relaxed as they presently were, they suggested a subtle sense of humor, a dryly appreciative wit.

He was not young. Of those currently about her, he was unquestionably the most senior, definitely the most mature. Yet he exuded a vibrant, masculine vitality that threw the rest into the shade, made them fade into the wallpaper.

Dominant. She was accustomed to being in the presence of such a man, used to holding her own against a powerful will. She lifted her chin and regarded him calmly. “Have you visited Paris recently, my lord?”

Eyes and lips gave him away, but only because she was watching so closely. A gleam, a faint quirk, that was all.

“Not in recent years. There was a time when I spent part of every year there, some years ago.”

He placed subtle emphasis on the last three words; he had definitely recognized her. A frisson of awareness raced over Helena’s skin. As if he sensed it, his gaze left her eyes, lowered to brush her shoulders.

“I confess I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

She waited until his gaze returned to her eyes. “I visit Paris infrequently. My estates lie in the South of France.”

The ends of his lips lifted; his gaze rose to her hair, then returned to her eyes, then lowered again. “So I had surmised.”

The comment was innocent enough—her coloring was indeed more indicative of the south rather than the north of France. His tone, however . . . it was deep enough, murmurous enough, to slide through her, striking some chord within, leaving it resonating.

She flicked a glance at Gaston, still nervously standing by. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but I believe it is time we left. Is it not so, monsieur?”

“Indeed, indeed.” Gaston bobbed like a jack-in-the-box. “If monsieur le duc will excuse us?”

“Of course.” Amusement lurked in the blue eyes as they returned to Helena’s face. She ignored it and curtsied. He bowed, raised her; before she could retrieve her hand, he murmured, “I take it you will be remaining in London, comtesse—at least for the present.”

She hesitated, then inclined her head. “For the present.”

“Then we will no doubt have the opportunity to further our acquaintance.” He raised her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. Releasing her smoothly, he inclined his head. “Once again, mademoiselle, au revoir.”

T

o Helena’s relief, Gaston did not pick up that “once again.” He and Marjorie were so exercised over her meeting St. Ives at all—at his requesting an introduction—that they also failed to notice her abstraction. Failed to notice her fingers trailing over her knuckles where his lips had pressed. By the time they reached Green Street and entered the tiled hall, she had her reactions under control.

“Another evening gone.” She sighed as her maid hurried forward to take her cloak. “Perhaps tomorrow we will meet with more success.”

Marjorie glanced at her face. “It’s Lady Montgomery’s drum—it will be packed to the rafters. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”

“Bon.”Helena turned to the stairs. “It will be a good venue to go hunting, I think.”

She bade Gaston good night. Marjorie joined her as she climbed the stairs.

“My dear . . . monsieur le duc—he is not a suitableparti . It would not do to encourage him to dally by your side. I am sure you understand.”

“Monsieur le duc de St. Ives?” When Marjorie nodded, Helena waved dismissively. “He was merely amusing himself—and I think he enjoyed discomfiting Thierry.”

“Eh, bien—that is possible, I grant you. Such as he . . . well, you are forewarned and thus forearmed.”

“Indeed.” Helena paused by her door. “Do not trouble yourself, madame. I am not such a fool as to waste my time on a man such as His Grace of St. Ives.”

“F

inally—they have met!” Louis dragged his cravat from about his throat, threw it to his waiting valet, then loosened his collar. “I was starting to worry that I would have to make the introduction myself, but she finally crossed his path. It went as Uncle Fabien predicted—he came to her.”

“Indeed, m’sieur. Your uncle is uncannily prescient in such matters.” Villard came to help Louis out of his coat.

“I will write to him tomorrow—he will want to hear the good news.”

“Rest assured, m’sieur, that I will make certain your missive is dispatched with all speed.”

“Remind me of it tomorrow.” Unbuttoning his waistcoat, Louis murmured, “Now for the next stage.”

H

elena met monsieur le duc de St. Ives at Lady Montgomery’s drum, at Lady Furness’s rout-party, and at the Rawleighs’ ball. When she went walking in the park, by sheer chance he was there, strolling with two friends.

Indeed, wherever she went in the next four days, it seemed he was present.

She was, consequently, not the least bit surprised when he joined the group with whom she was conversing in the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom. He loomed on her right, and the other gentlemen spinelessly gave way, as if he had some claim to the position. Hiding her irritation—at them as well as him—Helena smiled serenely and gave him her hand. And steeled herself against the reaction that streaked from her fingers to her toes when, his eyes on hers, he pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“Bon soir,my dear.”

How such simple, innocent words could be made to sound so wicked was a mystery. Was it the light in his blue eyes, the seductive tenor of his voice, or the reined strength in his touch? Helena didn’t know, but she did not approve of having her sensual strings so skillfully plucked.

But she continued to smile, and let him stand by her side and join them. When the group dispersed to mingle, she dallied. She knew he was watching, always alert. When, after a fractional hesitation, he offered his hand, she laid her fingers across his with a genuine smile.

They strolled; they had gone only a few yards when she murmured, “I wish to talk with you.”

She didn’t look at his face but was quite sure his lips would have quirked.

“So I had supposed.”

“Is there some place here—in this room—in view of all but where no one will hear?”

“There are open alcoves along one side.”

He led her to one containing an S-shaped love seat, currently empty. He handed her to the seat facing the room, then lounged in the other.