The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“Almira!”

The single word cracked; shocked, Almira blinked, shut her mouth.

Helena glanced at Sebastian, sensed him rein in his temper, cast quickly about for the best direction to take.

Then he released her hand; stepping between Almira and her, he took Almira by the elbow. “Come. It’s time you went home.” He led her up the long room toward the door. “Mlle d’Lisle and I will be married at Somersham; you will bring Charles there, and you will both attend the wedding. Helena will then be my duchess. After that it will not be appropriate for you to call here while we are not in residence. Do you understand?”

Almira paused; even across the width of the room, Helena could sense her frustrated puzzlement. “She will be your duchess.”

“Yes.” Sebastian paused, then added, “And her son will be my heir.”

Almira looked back at him; her face slowly leached to its previous wooden state. “Well, then.” Hoisting Charles in her arms, she turned to the door that a footman held open. “Of course, if she’s to be your duchess, then there’s no need for me to come and take charge of things here.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, good-bye, then.” Without a backward glance, Almira went out.

Sebastian gestured, and the footmen—all, Helena noticed, looking hugely relieved—quickly left. They shut the door behind them; his expression distant, Sebastian walked back to her. Then he shook his head, looked up, and met her gaze. “I regret that that is what you’ll have to deal with. But there’s no one more difficult, that I can promise.”

She smiled, wondering . . .

He looked at her, into her eyes, then sighed and took her hands. “Mignonne, we will get along a great deal better if you will simply tell me your thoughts, rather than leaving me to guess them.”

She frowned at him, uncertain.

His next sigh was less patient. “You’re worrying again—about what?”

She blinked, suppressed a smile, considered, then, drawing her hands from his, walked to the nearby window, a wide bay looking over a lawn. The shrubs surrounding the lawn were wet and gleaming, bejeweled by the misty rain.

She owed him so much—her freedom, Ariele’s as well. She was more than willing to give him the rest of her life in recompense—to put up with his dictatorial ways, to bow to the possessiveness that was so much a part of him. That would be the least of a fair exchange.

Yet . . . perhaps she owed him still more.

Something that only she could grant him.

Perhaps she owed him his freedom, too.

“You said—before, at Somersham—that you had a question you were waiting to ask me, once I was ready to give you an answer.” She lifted her head, drew in a breath, surprised to discover how tight her chest felt. “I wish you to know that I will understand if you no longer, truly, in your heart, wish to ask me that question.”

She held up a hand to stop him from speaking. “I realize you must marry, but there are many others who could be your duchess. Others to whom you would not be . . . bound, as you are to me. As I am to you.”

Looking across the garden, she forced herself to say, her voice quiet, clear, “You never wished to marry, perhaps because you never wished to be bound, as you will be if we wed. If we marry, you will never be free—the chains will always be there, holding us, linking us.”

“And what of you?” His voice was deep, low. “Will you not be equally bound, equally snared?”

Her lips curved fractionally. “You know the answer.” She glanced at him, met his blue gaze. “Regardless of whether we marry or not, I will always be yours. I will never be free of you.” After an instant she added, “And I do not wish to be.”

The declaration—and her offer of freedom—hung between them. She slowly drew breath and looked back at the lawns, at the glistening shrubs.

He watched her, unmoving; a long moment passed, then she sensed him draw near. His arms came around her, closed, then locked tight. He bent his head, held her close, leaned his chin against her temple.

Then he spoke, his voice low.

“No power on earth could make me give you up. The power that rules the heavens would never let me live without you. And that doesn’t mean as duke and mistress, but as day-to-day lovers—husband and wife.” Easing his hold, he turned her, met her gaze. “You are the only woman I have ever thought of marrying, the only woman I can imagine as my duchess. And yes, I feel chained, and no, I do not appreciate the sensation, but for you—for the prize of having you as my wife—I will bear those chains gladly.”

She studied his eyes; his emotions were for once unmasked, etched clearly in the burning blue. She read them, acknowledged their truth, accepted it. Still . . . “Almira mentioned scandal. Tell me truly—is she correct?”

His lips curved, his smile a trifle wry. “No scandal. In France it may be different, but here—it’s not actually considered possible to create a scandal through traveling with one’s betrothed.”