The promise in a kiss

On the desk, beside his hand, lay a dagger, old and worn, sheathed in leather. The hilt was gold, ornate, supporting a large, pigeon’s-egg-size star ruby. Although worth a small fortune by weight alone, the dagger’s true value could not be measured in any scale.

Reaching the end of his missive, Sebastian laid down his pen, then glanced at the bed. Helena hadn’t stirred; he could see the tangle of her black curls lying on his pillow, just as he’d left them when he’d slipped from her side half an hour before.

She’d been welcomed into the Cynster clan with a joy that had transcended even the joy of the season. During their wedding breakfast, which had lasted all day, he’d seen her blossom—shackling Martin and George with her eyes, with her laughter and her smiles, making them forever her slaves, exchanging glances with Augusta, conspirator and companion, already firm friends. He’d seen her deal calmly and graciously with Almira, with an understanding he lacked. Watched her charm Arthur, the most reserved of them all.

As for the rest—the wider family, friends, and connections gathered to witness and pass judgment—as Therese Osbaldestone had baldly informed him, they all thought him a lucky dog.

Little did they know—much less did they see, except perhaps for Therese. Helena, after all, was too much like him.

He’d never be able to take her love for granted, to expect her love as his due. Powerful he might be, noble and wealthy, yet there remained one thing he could not command. So he would always be there, watching, always ready to protect her, to ensure that she remained forever his.

Such was the vulnerability of a conqueror.

Therese would doubtless say he’d got all he deserved.

Lips curving, he looked back at his letter. Read it through.

I am returning with this an item to which I believe you are entitled. You will recall the circumstances in which it came into my hands, seven years ago. What you never knew was that in sending me to the Convent des Jardinières de Marie, you set me in the path of your ward, then staying there.

That, my friend, was the one piece of information you lacked. We had met before you sent her to retrieve your item, met and exchanged a promise. In sending her to me to secure that item, you gave us the chance to revisit that earlier promise, to explore it as we had not had a chance to do before.

We have now explored the potential fully and have reached our own agreement. I am now in possession of something worth inexpressibly more than your item—and for that I must thank you. Our future, hers and mine, we owe to you.

Pray accept the enclosed item—yours once again—as a token of our thanks.

You will be interested to know that your ward was not seriously inconvenienced by the accident that unfortunately marred our recent visit. Her energy and inventiveness are undimmed—to that I can personally attest.

And yes,mon ami,she is now the Duchess of St. Ives.

Bonne chance—until next we cross swords.

Sebastian smiled, imagining Fabien reading it. He signed the letter, then sanded it; as he replaced the shaker, a rustling had him turning to the bed.

Brushing back her mane of hair, Helena smiled, languid and sultry, and sank back on the pillows. “What are you doing?”

Sebastian grinned. “Writing to your guardian.”

“Ah.” She nodded, then lifted one hand and beckoned. The gold band he’d placed on her finger the day before glinted. “I think now that it is I you should deal with first, Your Grace.”

His title on her lips, the Rs heavily rolled, was a blatant invitation.

Sebastian left the letter and rose, returned to the bed.

To her.

To the warmth of her arms.

To the promise in her kiss.

Afterword

R

EGRETTABLY, neither Sebastian, fifth Duke of St. Ives, nor Helena, his duchess, kept diaries. The following, however, was extracted from the diaries of the Reverend Julius Smedley, who filled the position of chaplain to the Duke of St. Ives from 1767 to 1794. Reverend Smedley officiated at the marriage of Sebastian and Helena and was a faithful recorder of all that took place in his circumscribed world. From him we learn that:

Ariele de Stansion and Phillipe de Sèvres remained at Somersham Place for some years, Phillipe assisting with the management of the estate and Ariele spending much time with her sister. She assisted at the difficult birth of Helena’s only child, Sylvester. Phillipe remained devoted to Ariele through the years, and for her part, Ariele never looked at another, although there were gentlemen aplenty who sought to attract her notice. Consequently, with Sebastian’s assistance, Phillipe bought a sizable holding north of Lincoln. He and Ariele married and moved north, and thus beyond the Reverend Smedley’s purview.

The only other note of interest over those early years of the duke’s marriage was an oblique reference to the death of one Marie de Mordaunt, Comtesse de Vichesse, the wife of the duchess’s and her sister’s erstwhile guardian, also Phillipe’s uncle.

Shortly after, the Terror came to France. Sebastian, working with Phillipe and his own extensive contacts in that country, had already acted to liquidate and remove to England much of Helena’s and Ariele’s inherited wealth, as well as a number of their loyal servants.

Phillipe’s brother, Louis, disappeared during this time, and no more was heard of him.

The St. Iveses, after considerable searching, learned that the comte de Vichesse, called back from Paris to his fortress in the Loire, found Le Roc besieged. The tale that reached London was that the comte, at considerable risk to himself, gained access to the fortress, where he dismissed all his loyal retainers, instructing them to save themselves. Thereafter the comte disappeared. No further mention of the comte appears, either in the Reverend’s diaries or indeed in any account of those times.

However, there is a fascinating mention of a French gentleman who arrived at Somersham a month after the fall of Le Roc. He is described as tall, lean, fair of face and hair, and indeed of address. He commonly wore all black and was observed to be a close comrade of the duke’s; the pair were often to be seen fencing on the terrace.

In a departure from his usual love for detail, Reverend Smedley coyly leaves this French gentleman unnamed.

The Frenchman remained at Somersham for some months, but then, to the duke and duchess’s clear sorrow, determined to leave England. He left Somersham for Southampton, there to take ship for the Americas.

Why Set Romances in the Regency?

T

O someone unfamiliar with the genre, the question fairly leaps to the eye —why, of all the time periods in history, is the British Regency (1811-1820) and its flanking time periods so frequently used as the setting for romances?

As a longtime reader of Regency romances, and as an author of fourteen romances all set in the Regency, I have some inklings as to why that might be so—why romance authors and readers both find the Regency so rewarding.

First—and for a romance author very definitely foremost—the concept of love as an appropriate, useful, and perhaps even desirable element within marriage within the upper echelons of society evolved and gained acceptance during the Regency.