Sensed his need.
Power—elemental, primitive, passionate—flowed between them freely. She felt it swirl around them; she could call on it as easily as he. It was that that kept the balance.
She kissed him hungrily, fed his need, fed the power.
Felt it rise.
Who held it, commanded it? Him? Her?
Neither.
It was intangible, forged between them, brought into this world, then set free.
She could feel it building, rising inside her as he rhythmically stroked, his tongue mimicking the play of his fingers. A cry built in her throat; she pulled away from the kiss—
He pulled her back, drank her cry as she broke, shattered. The power imploded, then surged through her, through her veins, along her nerves. It dazzled her senses, then engulfed her in brilliance, in heat, in exquisite pleasure.
Louis stood staring at the connecting door, his hand over his mouth, horror in his eyes. He couldn’t believe what his ears were telling him. Couldn’t believe . . .
If St. Ives gained all he wished tonight, would he bother inviting Helena to his country house?
Did he, Louis, dare take the chance?
How would he explain . . . ?
Swallowing a yelp of sheer panic, he whirled, raced for the gallery and yanked open the door.
And came face-to-face with two couples—one a merman and mermaid, the other a Dresden milkmaid and an improbable Tyrolean shepherd.
He’d surprised them; they blinked at him bemusedly, then the milkmaid giggled.
Louis dragged in a breath, closed the door behind him, tugged down his waistcoat, and gestured to the door along the gallery. “The library is through there.”
The milkmaid giggled; the mermaid gave him a sly look. Both men smiled their thanks—man to man—and steered their partners on.
Louis watched them go, watched the merman open the door, watched them all disappear inside.
Better they than he. He could barely think.
He breathed deeply, then again.
It suddenly occurred to him that this way things might fall out even better. If St. Ives were prevented—and surely he would be—then he would only be more determined, more insistent that Helena journey to his country home.
But why, after all these years of glacial frigidity, had Helena suddenly melted? He
hadn’t heard a single gasp of outrage, let alone a protest. She’d permitted St. Ives to take liberties.
Frowning, wondering how that unexpected and unwelcome development would affect his plans, Louis headed for the ballroom.
“Oh, look! It’s such a large room. And a desk! Darling, do let’s.”
Sebastian jerked to attention—jerked out of the state of deep desire and reined lust that had overwhelmed his senses, tried to shake his wits free from their drugging coils.
Felt the jolt of alarm that flashed through Helena as she lay slumped on his chest, until then boneless in repletion.
His hand was still between her thighs. Before he could retrieve it and grab her, she did exactly what she shouldn’t.
She bobbed up, looked over the chair back, then gasped and ducked down.