The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“It is no longer an option to approve an alliance for you inside France, yet the pressure to bestow your hand will only increase.” Fabien had eyed her thoughtfully, then continued in his silken purr, “I am therefore of a mind to leave this now-unsatisfactory arena and move to potentially more productive fields.”

She’d blinked at him. He’d smiled, more to himself than her.

“In these troubling times it would, I feel, be in the best interests of the family to develop stronger connections with our distant relatives across the Channel.”

“You wish me to marry an émigré?” She’d been shocked. Émigrés were generally of low social standing, those with no estates.

A frown had flitted through Fabien’s eyes. “No. I meant that if you were to attract the attentions of an English nobleman, one of station and estates equal to your own, it would provide not only a solution to our present dilemma but also a valuable connection against the uncertain future.”

She’d continued to stare, stunned, surprised, her mind racing.

Misinterpreting her silence, Fabien had drawled, “Pray recall that the English nobility is largely if not exclusively composed of families descended from William. You might be forced to learn their ghastly language, but all of any consequence speak French and ape our ways. It would not be so uncivilized as to be insupportable.”

“I already know the language.” It had been all she could think of to say, as a vista she’d never thought to see had opened before her. Escape. Freedom.

Seven years of dealing with Fabien had taught her well. She had held her excitement in, kept it from her expression, her eyes. She’d refocused on him. “You are saying you wish me to go to London and seek an alliance with an Englishman?”

“Not any Englishman—one of station and estates at least equal to your own. In their terms, an earl, marquess, or duke, with considerable wealth. I need hardly remind you of your worth.”

All her life she’d never been allowed to forget that. She’d frowned at Fabien, letting him believe it was because she didn’t wish to go to England and consort with the English, while she’d assembled her plan. There’d been one very large hurdle in her path. She’d let disillusionment and disgruntlement color her face, her voice. “So I go to London and glide about their salons, being oh-so-nice to the English milords, and then what? You decide you do not after all wish me to marry this one. And then later, maybe not that one, either.”

She’d given a dismissive humph, folded her arms and looked away. “There is no point. I would rather go home to Cameralle.”

She hadn’t dared peek to see how Fabien responded to her performance, yet she’d felt his dark gaze on her, intent as always.

After a long moment, to her considerable surprise, he had laughed. “Very well. I will give you a letter. A declaration.” He had sat at his desk, drawn forth a piece of parchment, then picked up his pen. He spoke as he wrote. “I hereby confirm that as your legal guardian I agree to your marrying a member of the English nobility of station equal to your own, of estates more extensive than your own, and with income greater than your own.”

She’d watched him sign and hadn’t been able to believe her luck. He’d sanded the paper, then rolled it and held it out to her; she’d managed not to snatch it. She’d accepted the document with a resigned air and agreed to come to London and search for an English husband.

The document was secreted in her trunk, sewn into the lining. It was her passport to freedom and the rest of her life.

“The Earl of Withersay is an amiable man.” Louis’s dark eyes had fixed on the portly earl in the group she had recently left. “Did you speak with him?”

“He’s old enough to be my father.” And not the right sort of man. Helena searched the crowd. “I will find Marjorie and learn about this duke. There is no one else here suitable.”

Louis snorted. “For a week you’ve been surrounded by the flower of the English nobility—I think you’re becoming too nice in your requirements.

Given Uncle’s wishes, I believe I can find any number of candidates for your hand.”

Helena shifted her gaze to Louis’s face. “Fabien and I have discussed his wishes. I do not need you to—how do they say it?—scupper my plans.” Her voice had grown cold. Holding Louis’s stubborn gaze, she haughtily inclined her head. “I will return to Green Street with Marjorie. There is no reason you need feel obliged to accompany us.”

She stepped around him. Allowing her lips to relax into an easy smile, she glided through the throng. Marjorie, Mme Thierry, wife of the Chevalier Thierry, a distant kinsman, was her nominal chaperone. Helena had glimpsed her across the room. She headed in that direction, conscious of the male eyes that tracked her progress. Relieved that, in this season with society caught up in a frantic whirl, her entrance upon it had been much less noticeable than it would otherwise have been. Clusters of tittering ladies and garrulous gentlemen filled the room, spirits soaring, flown on the combination of her ladyship’s mulled wine and the goodwill of the season; it was easy to slip past with a nod and a smile.

Fabien had arranged for Helena and Louis to stay with the Thierrys in lodgings in the best part of town. There was never any lack of funds where Fabien, or indeed, Helena, was concerned. The Thierrys, however, were not affluent and were exceedingly grateful to monsieur le comte de Vichesse for providing lodgings and board, servants, and an allowance permitting them to entertain the numerous friends and acquaintances they had made in their single, regrettably expensive year in London.

The Thierrys were well aware of the influence Fabien de Mordaunt wielded, even in England. Helena’s guardian had a notoriously long arm. They were eager to provide whatever services monsieur le comte required, perfectly happy to introduce his ward to the ton and assist her in securing an acceptable offer.

Helena had carefully nurtured the Thierrys’ gratitude. Despite the fact that Marjorie had a tendency to defer to Louis, she was nevertheless a fount of information on the eligibles within the English ton.

There had to be one who would suit.

She found Marjorie, a thin but elegant blonde of thirty, chatting animatedly with a lady and gentleman. She joined them. Later, they parted, and she drew Marjorie aside.

“Withersay?”

Helena shook her head. “Too old.” Too rigid, too demanding. “Louis said there was a duke present—St. Ives. What of him?”

“St. Ives? Oh, no, no, no.” Eyes wide, Marjorie waggled her head and shook her hands for good measure. She glanced around, then leaned closer to whisper, “Not St. Ives, ma petite. He is not for you—indeed, he is not for any gently reared mademoiselle.”