It was novel, exciting. She wanted to know more, learn more. Feel more.
Ten minutes later—ten totally enthralling, fascinating minutes of complete and utter abandon—she surfaced on a gasp. Lips parted, her heart thudding in her ears, she stared into his eyes, gleaming from beneath his heavy lids. Then she stared at his lips. Long, lean, lightly curved—so mobile.
So satisfying.
She swallowed. “The music’s stopped.”
“As you say.”
Sometime while her wits had been distracted, his arms had closed around her, supporting her against him. She was caged by muscles that felt like steel, yet she’d never felt so comfortable, so secure. So uninterested in safety.
She dragged in a breath and kissed him again—just one last time to imprint the sensation on her memories. To let the feel of him, hard as rock beneath his finery, sink to her bones, to revel in the way her softer flesh sank against him.
He drew her deep but didn’t try to hold her. When she pulled away, he let her.
She looked into his eyes. “You may set me down now.”
“If you’re quite sure you’ve finished?”
He didn’t smile as he said it.
“Quite sure,” she replied.
He let her slide down, set her on her feet; his arms fell from her, but reluctantly.
“My compliments, mignonne.” Capturing her hand, he raised it, kissed it. “You play fair.”
“Certainement.” She lifted her head, fighting down her dizziness. “I believe we should return to the ballroom.”
She turned for the door; he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “No—not that way. We’ve been here, alone, too long. It would be best to go by another route so the dowagers don’t see us return.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head. He had given his word; if the last ten minutes had proved anything, it was that she could place her trust in that.
Sebastian led her through a maze of corridors; they reentered the ballroom at the opposite end. He returned her to Madame Thierry’s side, wondered fleetingly at that lady’s clear encouragement, then, well satisfied, retired.
If Helena Rebecce de Stansion could resist the temptation to enjoy all he offered without risk, he’d eat his chapeau. And once she’d enjoyed, if he couldn’t convince her to declare herself his . . .
He couldn’t think of a suitable punishment, but no matter. He wasn’t about to fail.
“It is all going well—fabulously well. Uncle Fabien’s plan, under my guidance, is unfolding just as it ought.” Louis stripped off his waistcoat and flung it in Villard’s direction.
Stooping to pick up the garment, Villard murmured, “So she has caught his eye?”
“He has her in his sights, no doubt of that. He is hunting in earnest now. Until tonight”—Louis waggled his hand—“it could have been mere idle interest. But he is not idle now. And she, the prey, she is running. The chase is on!”
“Perhaps—if I might suggest—a note to your uncle to apprise him of your good news?”
Louis nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, you are right. Uncle Fabien likes positive results. No sense in missing a chance to claim his notice.” He waved at Villard. “Remind me to write first thing in the morning.”
“If I might be so bold, m’sieur, the fast packet leaves early in the day. If you were to write this evening and a rider left tonight, monsieur le comte would have your good news days earlier.”
Louis plopped down on the bed and stared at Villard.
Villard calmly added, “And monsieur le comte does like to have the most up-to-date news.”
Louis continued to stare, then he grimaced and waved at Villard. “Bring me my writing case. I will write my communiqué now, and you may see it off immediately.”
Villard bowed. “At once, m’sieur.”