The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

He recovered swiftly and smiled. “There’s a pond—this way, from memory.”

His memory was good. The conservatory was bigger than she’d guessed; within a minute of leaving the area before the door and plunging down a series of narrow paths, she wasn’t sure which way led back.

“Ah—here it is.”

The pond, quite a large one, was set into the floor, its raised lip and the inside surface covered in bright blue tiles. It was filled to the level of the floor; against the tiles, Helena could see shapes drifting in the water.

“Fish!” Looking down, she leaned over the pool.

Markham leaned beside her. “There’s a fat one—look!”

Helena edged farther; Markham shifted. His shoulder bumped hers.

“Oh!”

She grabbed for Markham—he grabbed her.

“Helena! My dear, dear comtesse.”

He tried to kiss her.

Abruptly bracing her arms, Helena struggled to hold him off.

“Don’t fight me, sweet, or you’ll fall in the water.” Markham’s tone

was warm and far too knowing, too amused.

Helena inwardly cursed. She’d been too trusting.

His hands shifted on her back and her nerves leaped—not pleasurably. He’d yet to touch her bare skin, but every sense she possessed was rebelling at the mere thought.

“Stop this!” She put all the command she could muster into her tone.

Markham chuckled. “Oh, I will—eventually.”

He tried again to draw her to him. She resisted. Struggled. “No!”

“Markham.”

He started so much he nearly dropped her. The single word—and its tone—sent relief pouring down Helena’s veins. She didn’t even care what the fact portended—she just wanted to get out of Markham’s arms.

They’d gone slack. She got her balance, then, with a wrench, pulled back. Stepped back, glanced around.

Markham shot her a frowning glance but immediately returned his gaze to her savior.

Sebastian stood half obscured by the shadows, yet no shadow could dim the menace he projected. It was there in his stance; it hung in the tense silence. Helena had experience aplenty of being in the presence of displeased powerful men. Sebastian’s displeasure rolled past her like a wave and broke over Markham.

Involuntarily, Markham stepped back, putting more space between himself and her.

“I believe you were about to apologize?”

Sebastian’s voice held the chill of hell, the promise of damnation.

Markham swallowed. Without taking his gaze from Sebastian, he bowed to Helena. “Pray accept my apologies, comtesse.”

She did nothing, said nothing, regarding him as coldly as Sebastian.

“As mademoiselle has grown weary of your company, I suggest you leave.” Sebastian, ever graceful, walked forward; Markham backed, glanced around wildly, then edged toward one path. “One thing—I take it I don’t need to explain how . . . unhappy I would be if any mention of this incident or, indeed, of mademoiselle la comtesse at all were to be traced to you?”