The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Helena shot him a furious look but knew she had no choice. “Very well. I wish to narrow my list to one by tomorrow night, before the ton leave for their estates. There were four gentlemen to consider—now there are only three.”

Sebastian nodded. “Were, Athlebright, and Mortingdale.”

She stared at him. “How did you know?”

“Acquit me of ignorance, mignonne—you told me your guardian’s criteria, and I guessed yours some nights ago.”

“Eh, bien!” She put her nose in the air. “Then you know all, so we may return to the ballroom.”

“Not quite.”

She glanced at Sebastian; he caught her eye.

“I know why those three and Markham were on your list. I know why Markham no longer is. I do not know what other quality you have chosen to assess, only that you’ve chosen something and that is what brought you here.”

She looked toward the path. “I merely wished for a moment’s peace.”

Sebastian’s long fingers slid around her chin and firmed; he turned her face to his. “It’s pointless to lie to me, mignonne. Despite all you say, you are much like those you run from—powerful men. You are enough like me that I can see at least part of what is in your mind. You are coolly and calmly assessing these men as your suitors. You care nothing for those three, only that they meet your needs. I am . . . concerned, if you wish, over what the final need you’ve focused on is.”

Her temper unfurled—she felt it spread its wings; she lunged and tried to drag it back, but it shrugged aside her will and flew free.

It wasn’t simply the fact that he did indeed understand her well—as well as Fabien had always seemed so effortlessly to do; while she might, in some cool part of her mind, admit that he was right in comparing her to them, she did not like the notion at all, did not like hearing it so calmly stated as truth. But it wasn’t that that loosed her fury.

It wasn’t even that, this close to him, she was acutely aware of the weight of his will, a tangible entity pressing her to submit.

It was her reaction to his touch, to the heat of his fingers cradling her chin—the instantaneous leaping of her heart, the tightening of her breathing, the sudden focus on him, the wash of heat within. The flare of recognition, the flash of a fire as old as time.

Her suitors were as nothing to her. Fabien’s touch did not set her heart racing. But this man—his touch—did.

Madness.

“Since you are so boorish as to insist, I will tell you.” Mad

ness to do so; impossible to resist. “I have decided to test that each gentleman’s touch does not repel me.” She lifted her chin from his fingers, her eyes locked challengingly on his. “That is, after all, a most pertinent consideration.”

His face hardened, but she could read nothing in his eyes, blue on blue, oddly shadowed. He lowered his hand.

“Were—does his touch repel you?”

His tone had deepened; a lick of caution skittered up her spine. “I have danced with him, walked with him—I feel nothing when he touches me.”

Satisfaction glimmered briefly in Sebastian’s eyes; she deliberately added, “So Lord Were, at present, is the only one who has attained my final list.”

He blinked; his focus remained on her as he thought, weighed, considered . . .

“You will not attempt to test Athlebright or Mortingdale.”

Those who knew him not might have assumed the comment to be a question; Helena recognized it as a decree, an order not to be disobeyed. Supremely assured—flown on temper—she lifted her head. “But of course I shall test them. How else am I to decide?”

With that eminently rational response, she turned to the path leading back the way she’d come. “And now, as I have told you all, you will hold by your word and allow me to return to the ballroom.”

Buoyed by even so mild a triumph, she stepped out.

“Helena!”

A growl—a clear warning. She didn’t stop. “Mme Thierry will be growing worried.”

“Damn it!” He broke from his stance by the pool and stalked after her. “You can’t be so witless—”