“Good! And you will call me Clara, won’t you?” Patting her hand, Clara turned to greet Marjorie with the same rather vague benevolence, then waved them to seats.
“Do ring, Sebastian, and ask for tea.” Subsiding onto the chaise, Clara waved him to the bellpull, then stopped, considering Thierry and Louis. “But perhaps the gentlemen would like something stronger?”
Thierry smiled and shook his head, assuring her that tea would suit him admirably.
Louis had blanched at the mention of sustenance. He waved his hands. “No—I thank you. Nothing for me.” He retreated to a chair a little way from the group, summoning a weak smile as he sat.
Sebastian obeyed and, when Webster arrived, ordered the tea to be brought in; he seemed unperturbed at being the recipient of Clara’s orders. His aunt was clearly another who did not go in awe of him.
They sat down to conversation and tea served in exquisite bone china; Helena was tempted to check—she suspected the set was de Sèvres’s. Marjorie and Clara had settled into an easy patter. The china tweaked Helena’s curiosity; she glanced around the room with newly opened eyes.
It was as she’d guessed; every single item her eye alighted on attested to its owner’s wealth. But not only that; most pieces were not new. They spoke of the family’s long-standing prominence, of the luxury and affluence Sebastian and Clara doubtless took for granted. Indeed, it was the same state of worldly grace into which Helena herself had been born, in which she felt most at home. It occurred to her that in the space of an hour she already felt comfortable here.
Her gaze slid to Sebastian. He sat elegantly relaxed in an armchair, apparently listening to Thierry satisfying Clara’s request to be told of the masquerade, yet his eyes, under their hooded lids, rested on her.
She looked away, sipped her tea, then set down the cup. Looked again at its delicacy. Felt the padded softness of the velvet cushions at her back, the thickness of the Aubusson carpet beneath her shoes.
Seduction took many forms. Sebastian, she was sure, knew them all.
Shortly after, he took pity on Thierry and Louis and offered to show them around the house. The instant the door closed behind them, Clara turned to her. “Now, I daresay you’d like to hear about the Place.”
Helena blinked, then nodded. “Please.”
Within minutes she realized she had a firm supporter in Clara, that the older woman had, apparently on sight, decided she was the perfect wife for Sebastian, on whom, it quickly became apparent, she doted. She was his paternal aunt; she’d married young and been widowed early. Having spent most of her life at Somersham Place, she was acquainted with every aspect of running the great house.
It all poured from her; Helena listened and found herself pulled in, asking questions, drawing on Clara’s knowledge. Managing a house this size—and the estate was formidable, too—was precisely the challenge she’d been raised and trained to meet, the challenge that, until now, Fabien had denied her. She might own vast estates and a château as well, but, unmarried, she’d lived under her guardian’s auspices, for the most part under his roof. Cameralle was open but barely staffed—just enough to keep the house functioning for Ariele, who often retired there.
She’d never been a hostess, never had the chance to test herself in that arena, never tasted the joy of social triumph. As she listened to Clara paint a glowing picture of the purview of the Duchess of St. Ives, Helena hungered for the opportunity, thirsted for the position. Even knowing that Sebastian’s machinations had probably extended to foreseeing such an outcome didn’t dim her desire.
She was who she was—she’d long ago stopped imagining she could change that. She’d reluctantly accepted the fact that meant she would always be, as Sebastian had labeled her, a prize for powerful men. Sitting on the chaise listening to Clara’s words, full realization struck. If she accepted all that, there was no reason she couldn’t embrace the rest—the chance to claim her birthright as the wife of a powerful man.
Years of dealing with Fabien stopped her thoughts at that point, gave her the strength to pull back, out of the grip of the dream.
But the dream lingered in her mind as they finished the tea cakes, then Clara offered to show them their rooms.
“Helena.”
They were crossing the gallery when Sebastian called. Helena turned to see him standing by one of the long windows.
“Hates to be kept waiting—forever impatient!” Clara spoke softly, then squeezed her arm, easing her in Sebastian’s direction. “I’ll take Marjorie on, then return for you. I won’t be long.”
Nodding, Helena turned and walked down the gallery. Sebastian watched her approach. Fabien had the same ability to project a predatory stillness, yet with Fabien she’d never felt it personally, never felt any physical threat.
Never felt the slightest wish to embrace that threat. To encourage it.
Halting before Sebastian, she smiled and arched a brow. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Sebastian met her gaze. “Mignonne, do you think you could possibly use my name when we are private?”
Her lips twitched. “If you wish.” She looked down, hiding the smile he’d wanted to see. Without thinking, he raised a hand and tipped up her face.
He studied her wide eyes, took a certain satisfaction in their arrested expression. “I suspect it would be wise for me to write to your guardian informing him of my interest.” He paused, then added, “I do not wish to dally over the formalities of our wedding.”
An understatement; he wanted her to be his—now, today, this minute. The strength of that desire was strong enough to shake even him.
She lifted her chin from his fingers but continued to meet his gaze. “That will not be necessary.”
Her expression was one of considerable satisfaction. It was his turn to arch a brow.