The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“Tempt me not, mignonne. Lord Were is not here to save you tonight.”

The softly murmured words were threat and promise; they feathered over her exposed shoulder—goose bumps spread over her bare skin.

She turned her head slightly and murmured back, “I have told you, I am not for you, Your Grace.”

He was silent for one instant, then whispered, “You will be mine, mignonne—never doubt it.”

He released her and they separated, flowing with the dance—as she moved away, his fingers touched her nape, then trailed down and away.

She felt the touch in the tips of her breasts, as a wash of heat flaring beneath her skin. She forced her expression to an easy smile, forced her eyes to meet his directly.

At the end of the dance, he raised her, then carried her hand to his lips. “Soon, mignonne—soon.”

Never! she vowed, but it wouldn’t be easy to gainsay him.

She couldn’t break her promise to grant him another dance, but if he couldn’t find her . . .

She chatted, laughed, smiled, and silently plotted. Louis, as always, hovered; on impulse she claimed his arm. “Stroll with me, cousin.”

With a light shrug, he complied. Helena steered him toward the far end of the room where the dragonlike dowagers sat, sharp eyes scanning the throng, tongues wagging incessantly, brows poised to rise at the slightest sign of scandal.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “that Lord Were might suit me as a husband. Have you an opinion on his lordship and whether Fabien would welcome an offer from him?”

“Were?” Louis frowned. “Is he the large, dark-haired, somewhat corpulent gentleman who favors brown coats?”

She wouldn’t have called him corpulent. “He’s about to step into a marquess’s shoes, which will satisfy Fabien as to title. As for the rest, to me he seems eminently suitable.”

“Hmm . . . from what I have heard, he is not highly regarded, this Were. He is quiet, retiring—self-effacing.” That last, Louis said with a sneer. “I do not believe Uncle Fabien would think it wise for you to ally yourself with a weak man.”

“Weak”—to her the word was the highest seal of approval. But, “Bien sûr,” she said. “I must think more on that.”

In the corner of the room beyond the dowagers, a door stood ajar.

“Where are we going?” Louis asked as she led him to it.

“I want to see what lies beyond here. The air in this room is so stale.” She stepped past him and through the door as the first strains of a minuet—her second dance with Sebastian—drifted over the crowd’s head.

Louis followed her into a gallery. Three couples, summoned by the music, passed them, returning to the ballroom, leaving the gallery with its long windows overlooking the gardens deserted save for them.

“Bon!” Helena smiled. “It is much more peaceful in here.”

Louis frowned but was distracted by a sideboard. He went to investigate the decanter and glasses sitting atop it. Helena drifted down the narrow room, drawn to the windows.

She was standing, gazing out at the stars, when a faint sound reached her.

A second later a deep voice drawled, “De Sèvres.”

She turned to see Louis bowing deeply. Sebastian strolled out of the shadows shrouding the door.

He spoke to Louis. “Mademoiselle la comtesse is engaged to me for this dance, but as she feels the need for a few moments in quieter surrounds, I will remain with her here. No doubt you have engagements of your own in the ballroom.”

Even through the gloom, Helena saw the sharp look Louis directed her way.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Louis hesitated for an instant, glancing once more at Helena. She couldn’t believe he would leave her.

“You may rest assured,” Sebastian drawled, “that mademoiselle la comtesse will be safe with me. I will return her to Mme Thierry at the conclusion of the dance. Until then, I believe, her time is mine.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” Louis bowed again, then turned on his heel and left. He closed the door behind him.