The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

On the words, her brilliant smile lit her face. “Ah, my lord—what perfect timing. His Grace was about to retreat.”

Swallowing that word—retreat be damned—ruthlessly suppressing his reaction to the flash of fire in her green eyes, Sebastian exchanged bows with Chomley, returning with a glass of orgeat, then turned back to Helena and reached for her hand. She was forced to extend it.

“Mademoiselle la comtesse.” With exquisite grace, he bowed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He caught her gaze as he straightened. “Until later, mignonne.”

With a calm nod, he strolled away, leaving Lord Chomley staring after him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

His lordship turned to Helena. “Later?”

She smiled serenely, quashing the impulse to scream. “His Grace has an odd sense of humor.”

A dry, rather caustic wit that, despite all her intentions, all her self-admonitions, Helena missed. Increasingly missed. She used the fact that she’d come, unwittingly, to rely on his company to leaven her evening entertainments as a prod to stiffen her resolve. To ensure she did not weaken. None knew better than she how foolish it was to become dependent in even the smallest way on a powerful man.

He’d exploit her weakness if he knew.

She concentrated on ignoring him, despite the fact that she was, as always, aware of his presence, his gaze—forced herself to give her attention to the increasingly urgent task of choosing a suitable nobleman to marry.

About her, Lady Castlereagh’s ball was in full swing. The ton, it appeared, flung itself into this last week’s entertainments with an energy to rival Parisian society at its most frenetic. Tonight, a troupe of Morris dancers had opened the ball, decked out in festive colors, twirling ribbons of green and red. In addition, a concoction derived from mead, claimed to be a modern equivalent of the ancient wassail, was being freely served; its effect on the guests was already evident. Helena smiled and declined to imbibe—she needed to keep her wits about her.

Two nights had passed since Lord Chomley had failed to discern the humor in St. Ives’s “later”; his lordship had clearly not been for her. Since then she’d been doggedly paring her list—thanks to the weather, she could accomplish little else through the days. Other than Were, currently out of town, there were three others who might do. She didn’t doubt her ability to dazzle them, to successfully encourage them to offer for her hand, but which one should she choose?

As far as she’d been able to learn through all manner of discreet inquiries, in title, estates, and income there was little difference between them. Each possessed, it appeared, an easygoing nature; any of the four should be easy to manage. With all her criteria met, she’d had to add another—a deciding factor.

She’d spent seven years being paraded before the most exacting connoisseurs of the French nobility; she had long ago realized that, for her, physical touch was a most useful means of categorizing men. There were those whose touch made her flesh creep—she’d met too many of that group for her liking. Not one had been kind or trustworthy. Then there were those whose touch might have been that of a friend or a maid. Such men were generally decent, upright souls, but not necessarily of strong will or strong mind.

There had ever been only one whose touch had made her glow.

To her, he was the most dangerous of all.

So . . . it was time to assess the three candidates now in London for how their touch affected her. She’d already danced with Were, strolled with him. His touch did not warm her, excite her, but neither did it make her flesh creep. Were had passed the test. If the others did not make her flesh creep, or glow, they would remain on her list, too.

Lord Athlebright, heir to the Duke of Higtham, was at this moment dancing attendance on his mother, but Viscount Markham, an amiable gentleman of some thirty-odd years, heir to the Earl of Cork, was approaching.

“My dear comtesse.” Markham bowed gracefully. “You must have only recently arrived. I could not have remained in ignorance of your fair presence for long.”

Helena smiled. “We have just arrived.” She extended her hand. “I would like to stroll, if you’re agreeable?”

His lordship took her hand, smiling easily. “It would indeed be my pleasure.”

The touch of hands, more precisely of fingertips, was not enough to judge. Helena glanced around but couldn’t see any musicians. “Will the dancing start soon?”

“I doubt it.” Markham looked at her. Was she imagining the calculating gleam in his eye? “Lady Castlereagh calls her evenings balls, but in reality, dancing is the last thing on her mind. Consequently, there’ll be but a few dances, and those most likely late.”

“Ah, I see.” Helena bided her time as they stopped and chatted, then moved on through the crowd. “I have to confess”—she leaned closer to Markham and lowered her voice—“that I find the English penchant for such crowded rooms somewhat . . . enervating.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “Dancing, that gives one a little space for a time, but . . . tiens, how is one to breathe?”

She made the question a laughing one, but Markham had already raised his head, looking over the crowd to scan the room. Then he looked down at her, his gaze unreadable. “If you would like to stroll in less crowded surrounds, there’s a conservatory just off the music room. We could repair there if you wish.”

There was an eagerness in his tone that alerted her, but she needed her list narrowed to one name by the end of tomorrow night—the night of Lady Lowy’s masquerade, the last night the ton would grace the capital. “You know the house well?” she asked, temporizing.

“Yes.” Markham smiled ingenuously. “My grandmother and Lady Castlereagh were bosom-bows. I was often dragged here to be shown off when I was young.”

“Ah.” Helena smiled back, feeling rather more comfortable. “Where is this music room?”

He led her into a side corridor, then down an intersecting corridor. The music room lay at its end; beyond, through glass-paneled doors, stood a room with walls and roof primarily composed of glass. Built out into the gardens, it was lit by weak moonlight.

Markham opened the door and ushered her in. Helena was entranced by the plethora of shadows, the odd shapes cast upon the green tiles. The air was cool but not chilly, the gentle splash of raindrops on the glass a curiously soothing sound.

She sighed. “It is very pleasant here.” She did find the crowds trying, the sense of being hemmed in with nothing but hot, heavily perfumed air all about her suffocating. But here . . . gratefully, she drew in a deep, deep breath. As she turned to Markham, she was surprised to find his gaze somewhat lower than her face.