He could reassure her, pleasure her, let her distract him. But he knew what he had seen and he wouldn’t forget.
Bittersweet. For Helena the days that followed were the definition of that. Bitter whenever she thought of Ariele, of Fabien, of the dagger she had to steal. Of the betrayal she had to practice. Sweet in the hours she spent with Sebastian; in his arms, for those fleeting moments, she felt safe, secure, free of Fabien’s black spell.
But as soon as she left Sebastian’s embrace, reality closed darkly about her. It took an ever-increasing effort to mask her leaden heart.
Sebastian had invited them for a week, but the week passed and no one cared or spoke of a departure. Winter tightened its grip on the fields and lanes, but at Somersham there were roaring fires and cozy rooms, and distractions aplenty to keep them amused.
Outside, the year died; inside, the great house seemed to stretch and come alive. Even though she wasn’t directly involved, Helena could not miss the building excitement, that anticipation of joy that flowed from the myriad preparations for the Yuletide celebrations and the consequent family gathering.
Clara rarely stopped smiling, eager to point out this custom or that, to explain where the boughs and holly decorating the rooms were gr
own, what the secret ingredients of her Christmas punch were.
Again and again Helena found herself outwardly expressing an expectation of joy while inwardly experiencing the certainty of despair.
To her surprise, after that unnerving moment in his study when she’d become so engrossed in wondering how and when he’d met Fabien and won the dagger—considering them both, that was the most likely avenue by which Sebastian had come to possess it—that he’d startled her to the point she’d nearly told him all, since that time Sebastian had set himself to entertain her with stories of his ancestors, of his family, of his childhood—of his personal life.
Tales she knew he had told no one else.
Like the time he’d got stuck in the huge oak by the stables and had had to fall to get down. How frightened he’d been. Like how much he’d loved his first pony, how distraught he’d been when it died.
Not that he’d told her of that last, not in words. Instead, he’d stopped and abruptly changed the subject.
If he hadn’t been trying so transparently hard to be transparent, she might have wondered if, despite his vow and even his intention not to manipulate her feelings, he simply couldn’t help himself. Instead, all he said he said directly, even sometimes reluctantly, as if he were laying all that he was, all his past and by inference his future, at her feet. The less-than-complimentary as well as the laudable, exposing all without restriction, trusting her to understand and judge him kindly.
As indeed she did.
The days rolled quietly past, and she fell ever more deeply under his spell, came to yearn even more desperately that all he was offering her she could claim.
Knowing she couldn’t.
She wished, beyond desperately, that she could tell him of Fabien’s plan, but gentle tales did not in any way disguise the sort of man he was. Ruthless, hard, and at some time he and Fabien must have been rivals—nothing was more likely. If she told him her story, showed him the letters . . . he would not be human if he didn’t wonder if all along she had been Fabien’s pawn but now, with the splendor of the life of his duchess spread before her, she’d chosen to change her allegiance.
He’d made it clear what level of commitment he sought from her, made it clear he did not want her agreeing because of all the material gains she would enjoy. After the trust he’d shown her, she couldn’t now accept his proposal, show him the letters, claim his protection, and leave him forever suspecting her motives.
And what if he declined to help her? What if she told him and he refused all aid? What if the nature of his relationship with Fabien was such that he rejected her utterly?
She would never get the dagger, and Ariele . . .
Telling him was a risk she could not take.
Instead, she watched each day fade, watched the time for taking the dagger inexorably approach. Stubbornly, she clung to her last gasp of defiance, refusing to deny herself her last precious moments in the warmth of Sebastian’s company, in the security of his embrace.
Her last hours of happiness.
Once she fled Somersham, betrayed him and left, one part of her life would be over. No other could ever mean as much to her as he now did; no other could take his place.
In her heart—he’d been right about that. The answer to his question was already engraved there—she knew what it was.
Knew she would never get a chance to tell him.
Guilt and a looming sense of incipient loss weighed on her spirits even through the hours she spent riding, laughing, talking, strolling the huge house by his side. She held the darkness at bay, shut it into a small corner of her mind, but it was still there.
Her one regret was that they would not love again. His stance was all that was noble, and she was not so unkind as to press him—she didn’t have that right. To take from him that which she only rightly could if she was intending to be his wife. No, his way was better, certainly wiser.
But she still mourned the loss of the closeness they’d shared. Only now did she truly understand the word “intimacy”; the act had affected her more deeply than she’d expected, bonded them in some way, on some other plane. Having experienced the joy once, she would always long to experience it again.
She knew she never would.