The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“No need at all.” His face set, Markham looked at them both, then nodded curtly. “Good night.”

He left; they heard his footsteps striding along, faster and faster, then they paused; the door opened, shut, and he was gone.

Helena let out a shuddering sigh of relief; crossing her arms, she shivered.

Sebastian had halted two feet away; he turned his head and his gaze to her. “I think, mignonne, that you had better tell me just what you are about.”

The evenness of his tone did not deceive her; behind his mask he was angry. She lifted her chin. “I do not like such crowds. I thought to walk in less stifling surrounds.”

“Perfectly understandable. What is somewhat less understandable is why you chose Markham as your escort.”

She threw a frowning glance in the direction the viscount had gone. “I thought he was trustworthy.”

“As you have discovered, he is not.”

When she didn’t respond but continued to frown distantly, Sebas-tian ventured, “Do I take it you’ve struck him off your list?”

That got her attention; she turned her frown on him. “Of course! I do not like to be mauled.”

He inclined his head. “Which brings me back to my original question—what are you about?”

She considered him, then drew herself up. “My actions are no concern of yours, Your Grace.”

“Except that I choose to be concerned. I repeat, what game are you playing with your prospective suitors?”

Her chin rose another notch; her eyes flashed. “It is none of your business!”

He merely arched a bored brow and waited.

“You cannot”—she gestured at him with both hands as she searched for the word—“compel me to tell you just because you wish to know!”

He said nothing, simply looked at her—let his intent reach her without words.

She met his gaze, read his eyes, then flung her hands in the air. “No! I am not some weak-willed pawn in some game. I am not part of any game of yours. This is not some battle you must win.”

His lips curved, his smile wry. “Mignonne, you know what I am—precisely what I am. If you insist on standing against me, then . . .” He shrugged.

The sound she made was one of muted fury. “I will not tell you, and you cannot make me.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “I doubt you carry thumbscrews in your pockets, Your Grace, so perhaps we should adjourn this discussion until you have had time to find some.”

He laughed. “No thumbscrews, mignonne.” He caught her irate gaze. “Nothing but time.”

Her thoughts flitted through her eyes, which then widened. “That’s preposterous. You cannot mean to keep me here . . .”

She glanced at the nearest path.

“There is no possibility whatever that you will leave this clearing until you tell me what I wish to know.”

She glared at him, belligerently furious. “You are a bully.”

“You know very well what I am. Equally, you know that you have no choice, in this instance, but to concede.”

Her breasts rose; her eyes sparked. “You are worse than even he!”

“He who? Your guardian?”

“Vraiment! He is a bully, too, but he would never admit it.”

“I regret that my lack of duplicity offends you, mignonne. However, unless you wish to feature in a scandal, even at this last gasp of the year, you would do well to start explaining. You have been absent from the ballroom for twenty minutes.”