There were only a few days remaining before la nuit de Noël; the inn was already filled with a sense of calm, of peace—the expectation of joy. As she sat beside Sebastian, safe and warm, Helena found her heart free of worries, free of cares—for the first time in all the years since her parents had died, free to relax, to enjoy, free to let the calm, the peace, and the anticipation of joy assured flow in and fill her soul.
Closing her eyes, she felt the promise of the season pour in, overflow.
The next day she insisted she was well enough to travel. Sebastian viewed her critically but agreed. After a large breakfast they set out through the melting snow and found the way clearer the farther south they went. They reached Saint-Nazaire as evening approached. Sebastian’s yacht lay bobbing by the quay—they spotted it from the cliffs above the town, Helena with some relief.
Then they were aboard. The sails were set; they filled with the freshening breeze, and the sleek vessel turned and headed home.
It was an uneventful passage, much of which she spent in the main cabin with Sebastian. Whether it was some ploy of his to keep her resting or, as she increasingly suspected, a delayed reaction to her injury, the danger he’d seen her in, those hours were filled with a heated passion more possessive and undisguised than all that had gone before.
Her murmurs that Ariele was in the next cabin had little effect; when she met her sister on the deck, strolling in the calm of the evening, Ariele only smiled shyly, a little too knowingly, and hugged her.
That her sister went in no fear of Sebastian was apparent; he treated her with fraternal indulgence while she laughed and teased. Helena watched them and felt her heart fill until she thought it might burst.
After a day and another night, the yacht laid into Newhaven with the morning tide. The coach was waiting; after breakfast, with her and Ariele tucked up in furs and silk wraps, they set out on the last leg of their journey home.
Home.
As the miles vanished beneath the heavy hooves of Sebastian’s powerful horses, Helena considered that. Cameralle—in truth, she’d left her childhood home long ago. Le Roc? The fortress had never been home, not in the sense of a place of comfort, somewhere to return at journey’s end. A place of contentment.
Somersham?
Her heart said yes even though her mind still questioned, still hesitated. Not over him, but, as the houses of London rose and engulfed them, she could not ignore the fact that both he and she held positions that embodied, and affected, more than their individual selves.
Family. Society. Politics.
Power.
His world, and hers. She’d been wrong to imagine she could ever walk away; it was in her blood as well as in his.
The horses checked, turned. She glanced out as the coach clattered into a fashionable square. The horses slowed even more, then halted before the steps leading up to an imposing mansion.
She glanced at Sebastian.
He met her gaze. “St. Ives House. This is Grosvenor Square.”
She looked at the house. “Your town residence?”
“Ours. We’ll stop here for half an hour. There are matters I need to check into, then we’ll go on.”
Ariele had been sleeping; now she stretched and shook out her gown—grimaced at its state.
“No matter.” Sebastian laid his hand on her wrist briefly as he moved past her and descended to the pavement. He held out a commanding hand—helped Helena down, then Ariele. “My aunt Clara’s at Somersham, and my sister, Augusta, too—they’ll be thrilled to help organize gowns for you. But there’s no one here at present, so you needn’t worry.”
Helena was relieved on the same score; she felt just a little bedraggled. Sebastian led her up the steps. The day was dark and gloomy; lights burned in the hall and lit the fanlight.
A very correct butler opened the door; seeing them, he struggled to suppress a delighted smile. He bowed low. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Sebastian, leading Helena into the warmth and welcoming ambience of elegant luxury, raised a brow, directing a sharp glance his butler’s way. “Why, Doyle?”
“We’ve been entertaining guests, Your Grace.” With unimpaired calm, Doyle switched his gaze to Helena.
Sebastian sighed. “This is the comtesse d’Lisle—soon to be your mistress. Her sister, Mlle de Stansion, and M. de Sèvres.” He glanced around as the butler took his cloak, then moved to take Helena’s. “Where the devil are the footmen?”
“I regret that they’re currently required in the library, my lord.”
Sebastian turned to fix his gaze on the man. “Doyle—”
The door to their left opened. “Really, Doyle, what do you mean by it? Why haven’t you shown whoever it is in? . . .”