The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Which left her with one very large problem—he surprised her by appearing in the doorway to an adjoining salon just as she approached it.

“Mignonne.” He took the hand she instinctively raised to ward him off, bowed, and raised it to his lips.

Her eyes met his over her knuckles as she belatedly bobbed a curtsy; what she saw in the blue depths made her lungs seize.

“Your Grace.” Cursing her breathlessness, she struggled to marshal her wits as, still holding her hand, he urged her back from the doorway toward the side of the room. Forced to comply, she reminded herself of how dangerous he was—only to have another part of her mind airily point out that with him, she knew she was safe.

Dangereux on the one hand, knight-protector on the other. Was it any wonder she was confused?

“Indeed, I am very glad I met you.” Attack suited her more than defense. She faced him, head high. “I wished to say good-bye and to thank you for your assistance through these past weeks.”

She could tell nothing from his expression—the polite mask he so often wore—but she saw his eyes widen a fraction. At least she’d surprised him. “I understand that the masquerade tonight will be very crowded, so it’s possible we will not meet again.”

She stopped there, bit her tongue against a nervous urge to babble on. If what she’d already said didn’t put him in his place—didn’t tell him how she’d decided to react after last night—nothing would.

He was silent for some minutes, his unnerving blue gaze locked on her eyes, then his lips curved, just enough to tell her that the smile was indeed genuine.

“Mignonne, you never fail to surprise me.”

Briefly, she glared. “I am honored that I amuse you, Your Grace.”

His smile only deepened. “You should be. There’s so little these days that amuses such a jaded soul as I.”

There was sufficient self-deprecation in his tone to make it difficult to take offense. Helena contented herself with another glare—then felt heat shoot up her arm as his fingers shifted and one stroked her palm. He’d lowered their hands but hadn’t released hers; his fingers curled protectively around hers, their linked hands hidden from all by her wide skirts.

“But there’s no reason to bid me farewell. I’ll be by your side tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You will have to find me in all that crowd, and then be sure it is me.”

“I will know you, mignonne—in exactly the same way you will know me.”

His confidence grated. “I will not tell you my costume.”

“No need.” He continued to smile. “I can guess.”

He’d guess wrong, along with all the others. She’d been to masquerades before. Supremely confident, she looked about at the crowd. “Eh, bien—we shall see.”

After a moment she glanced at him. He was studying her face. He hesitated, then asked, “Have you spoken with Thierry this morning?”

She blinked. “No. He is out of town but should return this evening.”

“Ah. I see.” That, Sebastian realized, explained why she didn’t know of his invitation. Relieved his concern that she might indeed know but had decided to resist, to play even more difficult to win. Hard to imagine, but . . .

“Why such an interest in Thierry?”

He refocused to find Helena regarding him suspiciously. He smiled. “Merely an interest I have that concerns him. I will no doubt see him tonight.”

The suspicious light didn’t leave her eyes, but her gaze suddenly moved past him.

“There’s Lord Athlebright!”

“No.”

She looked at him. “No? No what?”

“No, you cannot try to ascertain how his lordship’s touch affects you.” Lifting her hand, he turned her in the opposite direction. “Believe me, mignonne, you do not need to work on your list of prospective husbands any further.”

She heard the steely note in his voice. Puzzled, she searched his face. “You are not making any sense—no, you are making even less sense than usual.”