The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“Damn!”

She must have been watching him, a good sign in itself. But . . .

He visually quartered the room but couldn’t see her. Lips setting, he stepped away from the shadows and into the crowd.

It took him a good ten minutes of smiles, greetings, and sliding out of conversations before he came in sight of Mme Thierry, seated on a chaise. She was engaged in an animated conversation with Lady Lucas; Helena was nowhere in sight.

Sebastian swept the gathering again. His gaze fell on Louis de Sèvres. The man was Helena’s nominal escort, but everyone assumed he was the protector sent by her family to keep a watchful eye on her. De Sèvres was ogling one of the Britten sisters. Sebastian strolled to his side.

His shadow alerted de Sèvres; he looked up—to Sebastian’s surprise, he smiled and bowed obsequiously. “Ah—Your Grace. You are looking for my fair cousin? She has adjourned to hold court in the refreshment salon, I believe.”

Sebastian considered de Sèvres and suppressed the urge to shake his head. The man was supposed to be protecting her . . . Mme Thierry, too, had changed her tune. If none within the ton had yet fathomed his true motive—and he would certainly know if they had—then it was inconceivable that the Thierrys and de Sèvres had seen through his mask.

De Sèvres shifted under his scrutiny; Sebastian decided to accept the unlooked-for assistance until he had Helena in hand. Then he would investigate what was behind de Sèvres’s encouragement.

He looked over de Sèvres’s head to the archway into the smaller salon. “Indeed? If you’ll excuse me?”

He didn’t wait for any answer, but strolled on.

One glance through the archway and he saw what she’d done—fortified her defenses. She’d surrounded herself with, not gentlemen of the ilk of Were and the others she’d been assessing, but with the latest crop of bucks and bloods looking to make their mark.

They were he twelve years ago, drawn like moths to her flame and brash and bold enough to consider any madness, even the madness of challenging him.

Especially over her. They were not in his league, but would never admit it, certainly not in her presence, something he understood.

He pondered that, considered the sight of them gathered around her, considered the pearls lying about her throat, at her ears, encircling her wrists. He turned away and beckoned a footman.

Helena breathed an inward sigh of relief when Sebastian quit the archway. She was rarely unaware of his gaze; over the last week it had become almost familiar, like a warm breath feathering her skin.

She quelled a shiver at the thought and doggedly focused her attention on young Lord Marlborough; although he was at least five years her senior, she still thought of him as young. Not experienced. Not . . . fascinating. At all.

But bored though she might be, at least she was safe. So she smiled and encouraged them to expand on their exploits. Their latest curricle races, the latest hell with its Captain Sharps, the latest outing of the fancy. They were so like little boys.

She’d relaxed, relaxed her guard, when a footman materialized at her elbow, a silver salver in his hand. He presented the salver to her; upon it resided a simple note. She considered it, picked it up. With a smile for the footman, who bowed and withdrew, then a swift smile around her protective circle, she stepped a little to the side and opened the note.

Which one will it be, mignonne? Pick one, and I will arrange that it will be he who will meet me. For when I come to fetch you from their midst, nothing is surer than that one of their number will be unable to resist and will challenge me. Of course, if you would prefer none meet his fate on some green field with tomorrow’s dawn, then leave them and join me in the anteroom that gives off the front hall.

But if that is to be your choice, do not dally, mignonne, for I am not a patient man. If you do not appear shortly, I will come to fetch you.

Helena read the last words through a scarlet haze. Her hands shook as she refolded the note, then crammed it into the tiny pocket in her gown. She had to pause for an instant, draw breath, fight down her fury. Hold it in until she could let it loose on he who had provoked it.

“You must excuse me.” To her ears, her voice sounded strained, but none of her self-engrossed cavaliers seemed to notice. “I must return to Madame Thierry.”

“We’ll escort you there,” Lord Marsh proclaimed.

“No—I beg you, do not put yourselves to the trouble. Madame is only just inside the ballroom.” Her tone commanding, Helena swept them with an assured glance.

They fell in with her wishes, murmuring their adieus, bowing over her hand—and forgetting her the minute she left them, she had not a doubt.

She reached the front hall without drawing undue attention. A footman directed her to the anteroom, down a short corridor away from the noise. She paused in the shadows of the corridor; eyes fixed on the door, she tweaked the note from her pocket, flicked it open, then she drew in a breath, gathered her fury about her, opened the door, and swept in.

The small room was dimly lit; a lamp burning low on a side table and the crackling fire were the only sources of light. Two armchairs flanked the fire; Sebastian rose from one, languidly,

moving with his customary commanding grace.

“Good evening, mignonne.” The smile on his lips as he straightened was mildly, paternalistically, triumphant.

Helena shut the door behind her, heard the lock fall with a click. “How dare you?”