The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

She nodded.

A tap sounded on the door. Sebastian crossed to it, opened it just a little way, blocking the doorway with his body. He instructed the sleepy footman to send Webster up, then shut the door.

He turned to Phillipe. “My butler, Webster, is entirely trustworthy. He’ll put you in a bedchamber and tend to you himself. The fewer who know of your presence here, the less likely Louis and his man are to learn of it.”

Phillipe nodded.

Sebastian paced before the dying fire until Webster arrived, then handed Phillipe into his care. Webster accepted the charge placed on him with his customary imperturbability; he led Phillipe away.

Helena watched the door close, watched Sebastian turn and pace back to the bed. Her mind was in turmoil; she couldn’t focus her thoughts. Her emotions held sway—immense relief, puzzlement, uncertainty. Guilt. Excitement. Disbelief.

He slowed, absentminded as he planned; his gaze was distant when he glanced at her, then he focused. “That declaration you extracted from your so-dear guardian, mignonne. May I see it?”

She blinked, surprised by the tack. She pointed to her trunk, sitting empty in the corner. “It’s behind the lining on the left side of the lid.”

He went to the trunk, opened it, felt in the lining. She heard the rip as he tore it free, the crackle as he extracted the parchment. Rising, he returned to the dressing table, unfolded the document, smoothed it out, then read it in the light of the lamp.

Watching his face in the mirror, she saw his lips quirk. Then he smiled and shook his head.

“What is it?”

He glanced at her, then waved the parchment. “Fabien—he never ceases to amaze me. You say he simply sat down when you asked and wrote this?”

She thought back, then nodded. “Oui. He considered for but a moment . . .” She frowned. “Why?”

“Because, mignonne, in writing this and giving it into your hands, he was risking very little.” He studied the document again, then glanced at her. “You did not tell me he’d used the words ‘more extensive than your own.’ “

“So?”

“So . . . your estates are in the Camargue, a wide, flat land. Of what size are your holdings?”

She named a figure; he smiled.

“Bon. We are free, then.”

“Why?”

“Because my estates are ‘more extensive than’ yours.”

She frowned, shook her head. “I still don’t see.”

He set down the document, reached for the lamp. “Consider this—England is a much smaller country than France.”

She watched the light dim, watched him turn to the bed. Thought furiously. “There are not many English lords whose estates are more extensive than mine?”

“Other than myself—and Fabien knew I’d declared I would not wed—the only possibilities I can think of would be the royal dukes, none of whom would meet with your approval, and two others, both of whom are already married and old enough to be your father.”

“Fabien would know this?”

“Assuredly. It’s the sort of information he keeps at his fingertips.”

“And you?”

He shook his head, intuitively answering the question she’d truly asked. “No, mignonne—I gave up playing the games Fabien indulges in years ago.” He stopped by the side of the bed, studied her face. “I still know the rules and can engage with the best of them but . . .” He shrugged. “Truth to tell, the activity palled. I found better things to do with my time.”

Seducing women—helping women. Helena watched as he unbelted his robe, let it slide to the floor. She sank back into the pillows as he lifted the covers and slid in beside her.

She remained still, wondering—hardly daring to do even that . . .