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 looki
ng 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.