The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

He merely smiled—patronizingly—as if he knew so much more than she.

Helena clenched her fingers about her fan and fought the urge to hit him with it. She’d anticipated such a response—a nonresponse—and had come prepared. She was, however, surprised by the depth of her irritation, by how easily he could make her temper soar. She was not normally so quick to prickle, to react.

“As you will no doubt have guessed, omniscient as you are, I am searching for a husband. I am not, however, searching for a lover. I wish to have this clearly understood between us, Your Grace. Regardless of your intent, regardless of your expertise, there is no likelihood whatever that I shall succumb to your legendary charms.”

She’d heard enough about these from a worried Marjorie and surmised even more from the whispers and wondering looks. Even talking in public as they were—if it weren’t for the fact she was twenty-three and highly born, she would have courted the danger of being labeled “fast.”

Her gaze locked on his, she waited for some flippant response—some taunt, some crossing of swords. Instead, he regarded her thoughtfully, consideringly, letting the moment stretch before fractionally raising his brows. “You think

not?”

“I know not.” It was a relief to grab the conversational reins again. “There is nothing for you here—no hope at all—so there is no reason for you to cling to my side.”

His lips relaxed into a definite smile. “I . . . er, cling to your side, mignonne, because you amuse me.” He looked down, resetting the lace spilling over one white hand. “There are few in the ton who can accomplish that.”

Helena suppressed a snort. “There are many only too ready to try.”

“Alas, they lack the ability.”

“Perhaps your standards are set too high?”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “My standards might be exacting. They are demonstrably not unachievable.”

Helena narrowed her eyes to slits. “You are a pest!”

He smiled, genuinely amused. “That is not my intention, mignonne.”

She gritted her teeth against the urge to scream—she was definitely not his mignonne! But she’d planned for even this—his intransigence. Getting a habituated tyrant to accept defeat and go away—she hadn’t expected to succeed at first tilt. She drew in a breath, reined in her temper. “Very well.” She nodded, head high. “If you insist on clinging to my skirts, you may as well be useful. You know all the gentlemen of the ton—know more, I daresay, than most regarding their estates and circumstances. You may help me select a suitable husband.”

For one instant Sebastian didn’t know what to say. The fact proved his thesis that she and she alone possessed the ability to honestly astound him—and, yes, make him laugh. The impulse, even if he didn’t give way to it, felt unexpectedly good. Refreshing.

He hadn’t, however, gained his reputation by being slow to see—and seize—opportunity. “It will be entirely my pleasure, mignonne.”

The look she shot him was suspicious; he kept his intent from his eyes. Hand over heart, he bowed. “I will be honored to assist you in looking over the field.”

“Vraiment?”

“Vraiment.” He smiled, prefectly ready to indulge her. What better way to ensure she met no one of any note? And she would now permit him to remain close beside her while he considered . . .

He reached out and closed his hand over hers. “Come. Dance with me.”

He rose, rounded the love seat and drew her to her feet; Helena found herself acquiescing despite the command, no request. Despite the fact that she had until now avoided dancing purely so she could avoid having to cope with the sensation of his long fingers locked about hers.

A set was forming close by; they joined it. The first chord sounded, and she curtsied. He bowed. Then they linked hands, and the measure began.

It was worse than she’d imagined. She couldn’t drag her gaze from his, from him, even though she knew it would be prudent to do so, to pretend her attention was general and not fixed on him. Prudence stood no chance against his magnetism. Like some sensual lodestone, he drew and captured her awareness, until the dancers around them, the crowd, the room itself, faded from her mind.

He moved with the grace of a god, impossibly assured, impossibly controlled. She would have taken an oath he barely registered the music—he was expert enough, experienced enough, not to need to. She had danced the minuet from the age of twelve, but it had never been like this, as if she now danced in a dream where every movement, every gesture, every clash of eyes held power. A power she’d never before felt, never before seen wielded with such consummate skill.

It was a net he cast over her. She knew what it was, what he was doing, knew in some corner of her bemused brain that at the end of the dance she could, and would, step free. But while they revolved and paced through the stately figures, she was caught, enthralled.

Fascinated.

She was aware of breathing more rapidly, of the sensitization of her skin. Aware of her body, her breasts, arms, hips, legs, as she never had been before. Aware that the fascination was mutual.

A heady experience, one that left her slightly dizzy when the music finally died. He raised her from her curtsy; she half turned from him. “I wish to return to Mme Thierry.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his lips lift; she looked, met his gaze, and realized that his expression was not one of triumph but of indulgent understanding.