The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“You can stop pursuing me.”

“I would be happy to do so, mignonne. I confess, I find pursuing you increasingly tedious.”

She looked at him, surprise in her eyes. “You will stop . . .” She gestured with one hand.

“Seducing you?” Sebastian met her gaze. “Of course.” He smiled. “Once you’re mine.”

The French word she muttered was not at all polite. “I will never be yours, Your Grace.”

“Mignonne, we have been over this many times—you will, one day, most definitely be mine. If you were honest, you would admit you know it.”

Her eyes spat fire. She bit back a retort, flung him a furious glare, then looked haughtily ahead.

If they’d been in a room with a vase to hand, would she have thrown it? Sebastian found himself wondering—and then wondered at that fact. He had never before encouraged tantrums in his paramours, yet in Helena . . . her temper was so much an intrinsic part of her, so indicative of her fire, he found himself drawn to it—wanting to provoke all that energy so he could plunge into it, then deflect it into passion.

He was aware that his imperviousness, his calm reaction to her outbursts, was irritating her even more.

“There are not so many others around. Is it wise for us to be thus alone?”

The walks along both banks of the Serpentine were nearly deserted.

“It’s the end of the year, mignonne. Plans are being made, the last-minute whirl all-consuming. And the day is hardly encouraging.”

It was gray, cloudy, with a definite breeze carrying the first chill of encroaching winter. His gaze sliding approvingly over Helena’s warm cloak, he murmured, “However, as to propriety, the gossipmongers have grown tired of watching us, grown weary of expecting a scandal. They’ve turned their eyes elsewhere.”

She threw him an uncertain look, as if wondering just what he might risk in a nearly deserted public place.

He had to smile. “No—I will not press you here.”

He thought she humphed, but her eyes said she accepted the assurance. After a moment she said, “I am not a horse to be walked so I don’t chill.”

Obligingly, he turned her up the next path, taking them back toward the carriage drive. “Mme Thierry’s words invoked an unfortunate allusion.”

“Her words were ill judged.” Helena threw him a frowning look. “She has changed her opinion of you. Did you speak with her?”

“If you mean did I buy her cooperation, no. I haven’t spoken with her except in your presence.”

“Hmm.”

They walked on in silence; the carriage drive lay not far ahead when he murmured, “I have enjoyed our walk, mignonne, but I want something more from you.”

The glance she shot him was sharp—and furiously stubborn. “No.”

He smiled. “Not that. All I wish for today is the promise of two dances at Lady Hennessy’s ball tonight.”

“Two dances? Is that not frowned on?”

“At this time of year no one will think anything of it.” He looked ahead. “Besides, you deliberately denied me any dances last night. Two tonight is fair recompense.”

Her head rose haughtily. “You were late.”

“I am always late. If I arrived early, my hostess would faint.”

“It is not my fault there are so many gentlemen eager to partner me that there were no dances left for you.”

“Mignonne, I am neither gullible nor young. You deliberately gave all your dances away. Which is why you will promise me two for tonight.”

“You forgot the ‘or else.’”