He let his tone lower. “I thought to leave that to your imagination.” He caught her eye. “How much do you dare, mignonne?”
She hesitated, then, exceedingly haughtily, inclined her head. “Very well, you may have your two dances, Your Grace.”
“Sebastian.”
“I now wish to return to Mme Thierry.”
He said no more but led her to the Thierrys
’ carriage, then made his adieus. He stood back, and the coachman flicked the reins; he watched the carriage roll away down the avenue.
For four days they’d been sparring—he tempting her to him, she trenchantly resisting. A gentleman would have spoken, told her he meant marriage. As things stood . . .
He was a nobleman, no gentleman—the blood of conquerors flowed in his veins. And often, as now, dictated his actions.
It was impossible even to contemplate simply offering for her hand, not knowing she was so coolly appraising candidates and that he, more than any other currently in the ton, fitted her bill.
Face hardening, he turned and walked to his carriage.
Her resistance—unexpectedly strong—had only raised the stakes, focused his predatory senses more acutely, made it even more imperative that he win. Her.
He wanted her to accept him on his own terms, because of who he was and who she was underneath the glamour, stripped of their rank, man and woman, an equation as old as time. Wanted her to want him—the man, not the duke. Not because his rank exceeded hers and his estates and income were considerable.
Because she wanted him as he wanted her.
He wanted some hint of surrender, some sign of submission. Some sign that she knew she was his.
Only that would do. Only that would appease his need.
Once she’d acknowledged what lay between them, then he would speak of marriage.
The footman stood waiting, holding the carriage door. Sebastian called an order to return to Grosvenor Square, then climbed in. The door shut behind him.
Steeling herself, Helena curtsied to Sebastian, then rose and linked hands, twirling into the first figure of her first dance with him. Think! she ordered herself. Of something other than him. Don’t meet his eyes. Don’t let his nearness swamp your senses.
When, in the carriage on the way to the ball, she’d complained of his arrogance in demanding two dances, Marjorie had smiled and nodded, partonizingly encouraging, for all the world as if St. Ives were not one of the ton’s leading rakes. As if he weren’t the one Marjorie herself had labeled dangereux.
More surprising still had been Louis’s complacency. He was supposed to be her protector. Helena stifled a snort. She suspected that Louis was not entirely aware of monsieur le duc’s reputation, nor of his determination to avoid matrimony. When St. Ives had come to claim this dance, Louis had looked stupidly smug.
Aggravation, she’d discovered, was her best defense against Sebastian. Emboldened, she met his eyes. “I assume you’ll be leaving London shortly?”
His long lips curved. “Indeed, mignonne. After next week, along with the rest of the ton, I’ll quit London for the country.”
“And where will you spend the festive season?”
“At Somersham Place, my principal estate. It’s in Cambridgeshire.” They circled, then he asked, “To where do you plan to retire, mignonne?”
“The Thierrys have not yet decided.” As she crossed him in the dance, Helena noted the quality of Sebastian’s smile. Everyone, it seemed, was smug tonight.
The devil prompted her to ask, “Has Lord Were returned to London?”
She glanced up.
His features hard, Sebastian trapped her gaze. “No. Nor is he expected in the near future.”
They circled once more; she couldn’t drag her gaze from his—didn’t dare. The movements of the dance seemed to mirror their interaction, hands touching, parting, she twirling away only to have to return to him.
She did, her skirts swishing as she turned before him, then paused, held up her hands. He stepped close behind her; his fingers locked about hers, and they stepped out in concert with the other dancers.