The promise in a kiss

could do much worse than Lord Montacute.”

Helena threw Sebastian a glance as they strolled beneath the trees. She and Marjorie had come to walk among the ton on what seemed likely to be the last fine afternoon of the year. Sebastian had joined them and offered her his arm. They’d left Marjorie chatting with friends to enjoy the Serpentine Walk. Along the way, Sebastian had introduced her to a number of potential husbands.

“I do not believe,” she said, “that I could stomach a gentleman who wears virulent pink coats and compounds the sin by adding pink lace.”

Her gaze swept Sebastian’s dark blue coat with its restrained use of gold at cuffs and pockets. His lace, as always, was pristine white and finely made.

“Besides”—she looked ahead—“there is the matter of his title.”

She felt Sebastian’s gaze touch her face. “He’s a baron.”

“Indeed. But my guardian has stipulated that any man I choose must be of a station at least the equal of mine.”

She glanced at Sebastian—he caught her gaze. “Earl or above.” He sighed, raised his head, looked around. “Mignonne, it would have been helpful if you had told me this before. There are not so many earls or marquesses, let alone dukes, languishing unwed among the ton.”

“There must be some—thereare some.”

“But we have other criteria to satisfy, do we not?”

Her criteria weren’t the same as his, but unfortunately, satisfying her criteria would also satisfy his. An acquiescent husband who would allow her to rule their marriage would not raise a fuss should she decide to take a lover. Indeed, who knew? She might. But any lover she took would be of the same ilk—a man who pandered to her wishes rather than expecting her to pander to his.

In other words, not the man walking by her side.

“Let us start with the title first. It will narrow the field.”

“It will indeed.” He considered the knots of people scattered over the lawns as they strolled slowly along. “Will your guardian’s stipulations stretch to viscounts? In most cases they will, after all, eventually be earls.”

“Hmm—it is possible, I suppose. If all other criteria were met.”

“In that case let me introduce you to Viscount Digby. He’s the heir to the Earl of Quantock, who has considerable estates in the west of the country. An estimable man, so I hear.”

He led her to a group of gentlemen and ladies, introducing her generally, then, as only he could, “arranged” for her to stand beside the young viscount. After ten minutes coping with the viscount’s tongue-tied adoration, Helena caught Sebastian’s eye.

“Well?” he asked as they strolled away.

“He’s too young.”

That got her a stony glance. “I was not aware there was an age minimum.”

“There isn’t. He’s just too young.”

“Viscount Digby is twenty-six—older than you.”

Helena waved dismissively. She looked around. “Who else is here?”

After a moment Sebastian sighed. “Mignonne,you are not making a difficult task any easier.”

Nor was he. It occurred to Helena that spending so much time with him, with his often too-perceptive understanding and his accumulated experience in all manner of social intercourse, was not conducive to showing other men—younger, less experienced men—in any favorable light.

If one was accustomed to gold, one was unlikely to be dazzled by tin.

He introduced her to another viscount, a hedonistic youth almost too taken with his own beauty to notice hers. After listening to her opinion on that encounter with a resigned, somewhat paternal air, he led her to another group.

“Allow me to present Lord Were.” Sebastian waited until they’d exchanged bows, then asked Were, “Any news from Lincolnshire?”

Were was, Helena judged, close to Sebastian’s age. He was dressed well but soberly and had a pleasant countenance and a lively smile.

He grimaced. “Nothing yet, but the leeches tell me it’ll be any day.”

Sebastian turned to Helena. “Lord Were is heir to his uncle, the Marquess of Catterly.”

“Old devil’s about to pop off,” Were informed her.

“I see.” Helena spent the next ten minutes chatting on general subjects with his lordship. Beside her, she was conscious of Sebastian’s growing impatience. Eventually he drew her away.

She went reluctantly. “He seems a kind man.”

“He is.”

She glanced at Sebastian, unsure how to interpret the hard note in his voice. As usual, his face told her nothing.

He was looking ahead. “I’d better return you to Mme Thierry before she starts imagining I’ve kidnapped you.”

Helena nodded, willing enough to return; they’d been strolling for about an hour.

Despite knowing his ulterior motive in finding her a complaisant husband, she had, on reflection, concluded that there was no point refusing his aid. Once she’d found the right candidate to fulfill Fabien’s stipulations and hers and married him, any subsequent relationship between herself and Sebastian would, after all, still be at her discretion.

She would still be able to say no.

She was far too wise to say yes.

Over the past week she’d spent enough time with him, seen how others reacted to him, to be confident that, regardless of all else, he would ultimately accept her refusal. Despite his reputation, he was not the type of man to force or even pressure a woman to his bed.

She glanced briefly his way, then looked down to hide her smile. The idea was laughable; he had too much pride and too much arrogant self-assurance to need always to win.

The thought reminded her of Fabien. Sebastian and he were much alike, yet there were indeed differences.

A bevy of ladies resplendent in elegant walking gowns hailed them. They stopped to chat. Helena was amused that as the last week had progressed, her acceptance by the female half of the ton had steadily increased. She was still viewed as a too-beautiful outsider by some—primarily the mamas with marriageable daughters to establish—yet many others had proved eager to welcome her into their circles. Contrary to Marjorie’s oft-stated opinion, St. Ives’s squiring of her had helped rather than hindered.

She chatted with the Ladies Elliot and Frome, then turned to Lady Hitchcock. The group formed and re- formed several times. Eventually Helena turned to find the Countess of Menteith turning her way.

The countess smiled; Helena had already accepted an invitation for a morning visit. The countess glanced across the group to where Sebastian stood talking with Mrs. Abigail Frith. “I’ll lay odds St. Ives will be driving out to Twickenham tomorrow. You don’t have any engagements planned with him, I hope?”

Helena blinked.“Pardon?”

Still smiling at Sebastian, Lady Menteith lowered her voice. “Abigail’s on the board of an orphanage, and the local squire’s threatening to force the magistrate to shut it. The squire claims the boys run wild and thieve. Of course, it isn’t so—he wants to buy the property. And, of course, the vile man has chosen this week to make his push, no doubt hoping to turn the orphans out into the snow while no one’s about to see. St. Ives is Abigail’s—and the orphans’—last hope.”

Helena followed her gaze to where Sebastian was clearly questioning Mrs. Frith. “Does he often help with things outside his own interests?”

Lady Menteith laughed softly. “I wouldn’t say it’s outside his interests.” Her hand on Helena’s arm, she lowered her voice still further. “In case you haven’t yet guessed, while he might be the devil in disguise in some respects, St. Ives is a soft touch for any female needing help.”

Helena looked her puzzlement.

“Well, he’s helping you by introducing you around, lending you his consequence. In a similar vein, half of us