Just as well.
He waited until she sat and settled her skirts, then drew breath.
She looked up at that moment. He glimpsed the shadows swirling in her eyes, dulling the peridot depths. He started to reach for her hand—stopped as she looked down.
“I wondered . . .” With her fork, she toyed with a portion of kedgeree. “Do you think we might go for another ride—like yesterday?” She glanced at the window, at the day outside. “It’s still clear, and who knows how long that will last.”
There was a wistfulness in her voice, evoking the memory of how relaxed and, if not carefree, then at least temporarily relieved of her dark burden she had seemed the previous morning, when they’d flown across his fields before the wind. She glanced up again, brows gently arched.
Again he glimpsed her eyes.
Shackling his impatience, he inclined his head. “If you wish. There’s a long ride north we could try.”
She smiled, a fleeting gesture that too quickly faded from her lips. “That would be . . . pleasant.”
Why she didn’t simply say “a relief,” Sebastian didn’t know. That their ride together was that—a relief, a distraction from her troubles—was transparently obvious to him. And while she was in that state, relieved of that inner burden, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the mood and press her for details.
Thus, when they returned to the house three hours later, he was no nearer to answering either of his questions. One he would have to wait for her to tell him of her own accord; trust could not be forced, only earned. At least between them. From others he might command it, but not from Helena.
That left the more obvious question he had to ask her. There was no longer any reason he could not put that before her, on the table between them.
It might even help with the other, by encouraging the trust he sought to gain.
When they rose with the others from the luncheon table, he took her hand and drew her aside. “If you would grant me a few minutes of your time, mignonne, there are a few d
etails I believe we should address.”
He couldn’t read her eyes as she studied his face. Then she glanced at the windows, to the prospect dimmed by the sheeting rain. No escape there. Marjorie and Clara passed them, going ahead as if they hadn’t noticed. Thierry and Louis had already left for the billiard room. She drew in a breath as if girding her loins, then glanced at him and inclined her head. “If you wish.”
He wished . . . a great many things, but he took her hand in his and led her to his study.
Helena struggled to mask her tension, her trepidation—not of him but of what he might tempt her to say, to do. To confess. He ushered her through the door a footman threw open, into what she perceived to be his study. The wide desk, obviously in use by the stacks of papers and ledgers on its top, the large leather chair behind it and the plethora of document boxes and ledgers packed into shelves around the room confirmed that. The room was, however, unexpectedly comfortable, even cozy. Wide windows looked over the lawns; although the light outside had dimmed, lamps had been lit, their golden glow falling softly on well-polished wood, on velvet and leather.
She crossed to where a fire burned brightly in the hearth, dispelling the chill creeping through the glass. On the way, she glanced about, surreptitiously searching for a case or a display cabinet—somewhere Fabien’s dagger might reside. She felt driven to look, yet despaired at having to do so. For having to repay Sebastian in such a deceitful way.
Halting before the hearth, she held her hands to the fire, then straightened as he joined her.
He stopped before her, took her hands in his. Looked into her face, into her eyes. She couldn’t read his, felt confident he couldn’t read hers. As if acknowledging their mutual defenses, the ends of his lips lifted in a wry, self-deprecatory smile.
“Mignonne, after the events of last night, you know, and I know, that we’ve already taken the first steps down our joint path. In terms of making decisions, we’ve already made ours—you yours, me mine. Nevertheless, between such people as we are, there is a need for a formal yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question.”
He hesitated; searched her eyes again. She didn’t glance away, try to avoid the scrutiny—she was too busy searching herself, trying to sense his direction. Wondering if the uncertainty she sensed came from him—or her.
Then his lips twisted. He looked down, simultaneously raising her hands to kiss one, then the other.
“Be that as it may”—his voice had deepened, taken on that tone she now associated with intimacy—“I do not wish to press you. I will ask you my simple question when you are ready to give me a simple answer.” He glanced up, met her eyes again. “Until then, know that I am here, waiting”—again his lips quirked—“albeit not patiently. But for you, mignonne . . . rest assured I will wait.”
That last sounded like a vow. Her surprise must have shown in her face, in her eyes—in his a markedly self-deprecatory light glowed, as if he were shaking his head at himself over how lenient he was being with her.
And he was. More than most she understood that—that his natural impulse would be to press her to accept his offer, to declare herself won. To admit she was his, his to rule, to command.
She’d expected a demand to surrender formally; she’d steeled herself to vacillate, to prevaricate if need be, to use every feminine wile she possessed to delay any such declaration. If she gave in and allowed him to assume he’d triumphed and to crow, presumably publicly, over it, then when she fled, the damage would only be worse.
The rage her defection provoked would be only more intense.
She’d come into the room prepared to do whatever violence to her feelings was necessary to accomplish all she wished—to save Ariele while minimizing harm to him. “I . . .” What could she say in the face of such empathy? He knew nothing of her problem, yet he’d sensed her difficulty and drawn back from exacerbating her situation, even though he didn’t understand.
“Thank you.” The words left her lips in a soft sigh. Lifting her head, she held his gaze, smiled, let her relief and gratitude show in her eyes, in her expression. She drew breath—and it came easier. Gently tugging her hands from his, she clasped them before her. “I will . . . I promise I will tell you when I can answer your simple question.”