He wished he could increase the pace, curtail this phase and hurry on to the stage where he could touch her, caress her, kiss her again, but given his intent, that wouldn’t be wise. He was a past master at playing society’s games, and the outcome of this particular game was of far greater moment than that of any previous dalliance.
Once they’d circled the room, he steered her to one side. “Tell me, mignonne, why were you still at the convent all those years ago?”
“My sister was ill, so I stayed behind to help nurse her.” She hesitated, then added, “We’re close, and I didn’t want to leave her.”
“How much younger is she?”
“Eight years. She was only eight then.”
“So she is now fifteen. Is she here in London with you?”
She shook her head. “Ariele was sickly as a child. Although her chest is much improved and grows better with the years, it seemed foolish to risk bringing her to England in winter. Our winters are much milder at home.”
“And where is home?”
“Cameralle is our major estate. It’s in the Camargue.”
“Ariele. A pretty name. Is she pretty, too?”
Two ladies rose from a nearby chaise, leaving it empty. Sebastian guided Helena to it, waited until she settled her amber skirts, then sat beside her. Given the difference in their heights, if she became pensive and looked down, he couldn’t catch her expression. Couldn’t follow her thoughts.
“Ariele is fairer than I.”
“Fairer in coloring. She could not be fairer of face or form.”
Her lips twitched. “You seem very certain of that, Your Grace.”
“My name is Sebastian, and, given my reputation, I’m amazed you dare question my judgment.”
She laughed, then looked around them. “Now you may tell me, why is it that, given your reputation, they—the mesdames, the hostesses—are not . . .” She gestured.
“Overreacting to my interest in you?”
“Exactement.”
Because they couldn’t imagine what he was about and had given up trying to guess. Sebastian leaned back, studying her profile. “They’re still watching, but thus far there’s been nothing worthy of an on-dit to be seen.”
The softly drawled words sank into Helena’s brain. Another premonition of danger skittered over her skin. Slowly, smoothly, she turned her head and looked into his blue eyes. “Because you’ve ensured that that’s so.”
He returned her regard with an enigmatic gaze, steady, direct, but unreadable.
“You’re lulling them, waiting them out, until they grow bored and stop watching.”
It could have been a question, yet even in her mind there was no doubt. Her chest felt suddenly tight. It was difficult to breathe, difficult to say, “You are playing a game with me.”
A hint of what that meant to her must have colored her tone; something flickered in his eyes. His face grew harder. “No, mignonne—this is no game.”
She hated and abhorred the games of powerful men, yet here she was, having escaped one such man, entangled in a game with another. How had it happened—so quickly, so totally against her will?
Although he remained relaxed, elegantly at ease, a frown had darkened his eyes. They searched hers, but she’d learned long ago to keep her secrets.
His gaze sharpened; he reached for her hand. “Mignonne—”
“There you are, Sebastian.”
He looked up; Helena did, too. She felt his fingers close about her hand—he didn’t let go as a lady, a large English lady with a round face framed by brown ringlets, swept forward. She was so weighted down by jewelry one barely noticed the odd shade of her gown. Helena thought she heard Sebastian sigh.
The lady halted before the chaise. Slowly, his very slowness an indication of his displeasure, Sebastian uncrossed his long legs and rose. Helena rose with him.