The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

She turned to him, set back the delicate veil that had been his mother’s, noting the jeweled lights playing over them as the sun shone in benediction through the rose window. She went into his arms, felt them close around her. Knew she was safe.

Knew she was free—free to live her life under the protection of a loving tyrant.

She lifted her face, and they kissed.

And the bells rang out, joyously pealing in salute to the day, in salute to the season—in salute to the love that bound their hearts.

Frost etched the glass in myriad patterns in the window beside which Sebastian sat writing. It was the next morning, and the huge house lay still, slumbering lazily, the guests too worn out by the revelry of the day before to bestir themselves so soon.

In the large, luxuriously appointed ducal bedchamber with its massive four-poster bed, the only sounds to break the silence were the scritch-scratch of his pen, crossing and recrossing the parchment, and an occasional crackle from the fire. Despite the freeze that had laid siege beyond the glass, the temperature in the room was comfortable enough for him to sit and write in just his robe.

On the desk, beside his hand, lay a dagger, old and worn, sheathed in leather. The hilt was gold, ornate, supporting a large, pigeon’s-egg-size star ruby. Although worth a small fortune by weight alone, the dagger’s true value could not be measured in any scale.

Reaching the end of his missive, Sebastian laid down his pen, then glanced at the bed. Helena hadn’t stirred; he could see the tangle of her black curls lying on his pillow, just as he’d left them when he’d slipped from her side half an hour before.

She’d been welcomed into the Cynster clan with a joy that had transcended even the joy of the season. During their wedding breakfast, which had lasted all day, he’d seen her blossom—shackling Martin and George with her eyes, with her laughter and her smiles, making them forever her slaves, exchanging glances with Augusta, conspirator and companion, already firm friends. He’d seen her deal calmly and graciously with Almira, with an understanding he lacked. Watched her charm Arthur, the most reserved of them all.

As for the rest—the wider family, friends, and connections gathered to witness and pass judgment—as Therese Osbaldestone had baldly informed him, they all thought him a lucky dog.

Little did they know—much less did they see, except perhaps for Therese. Helena, after all, was too much like him.

He’d never be able to take her love for granted, to expect her love as his due. Powerful he might be, noble and wealthy, yet there remained one thing he could not command. So he would always be there, watching, always ready to protect her, to ensure that she remained forever his.

Such was the vulnerability of a conqueror.

Therese would doubtless say he’d got all he deserved.

Lips curving, he looked back at his letter. Read it through.

I am returning with this an item to which I believe you are entitled. You will recall the circumstances in which it came into my hands, seven years ago. What you never knew was that in sending me to the Convent des Jardinières de Marie, you set me in the path of your ward, then staying there.

That, my friend, was the one piece of information you lacked. We had met before you sent her to retrieve your item, met and exchanged a promise. In sending her to me to secure that item, you gave us the chance to revisit that earlier promise, to explore it as we had not had a chance to do before.

We have now explored the potential fully and have reached our own agreement. I am now in possession of something worth inexpressibly more than your item—and for that I must thank you. Our future, hers and mine, we owe to you.

Pray accept the enclosed item—yours once again—as a token of our thanks.

You will be interested to know that your ward was not seriously inconvenienced by the accident that unfortunately marred our recent visit. Her energy and inventiveness are undimmed—to that I can personally attest.

And yes, mon ami, she is now the Duchess of St. Ives.

Bonne chance—until next we cross swords.

Sebastian smiled, imagining Fabien reading it. He signed the letter, then sanded it; as he replaced the shaker, a rustling had him turning to the bed.

Brushing back her mane of hair, Helena smiled, languid and sultry, and sank back on the pillows. “What are you doing?”

Sebastian grinned. “Writing to your guardian.”

“Ah.” She nodded, then lifted one hand and beckoned. The gold band he’d placed on her finger the day before glinted. “I think now that it is I you should deal with first, Your Grace.”

His title on her lips, the Rs heavily rolled, was a blatant invitation.

Sebastian left the letter and rose, returned to the bed.

To her.

To the warmth of her arms.