The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

She smiled. “I do not trust my guardian, so when he suggested I come to England and look for a suitable husband, I asked for his permission to marry a suitably eligible parti in writing.”

“From your smug expression, I take it he complied?”

“Oui. And there is a friend of my family, an old friend of my father’s who remains attached to me—he is a judge and much experienced in such matters. I showed him the letter on our way through Paris—he confirmed that, as I had hoped, that document is all the permission I need.”

“Provided the gentleman is suitable in terms of title, estate, and income, as I recall. Were there any other stipulations?”

She shook her head. “Just those three.”

Sebastian read her self-congratulation in her eyes and smiled. “Very good. In that case I see no reason to disturb your guardian just yet.”

Once he’d declared his hand to Geoffre Daurent, it was more than likely the man would prove difficult over the settlements, try to wring concessions from him and generally drag his feet. Helena’s route had a great deal to recommend it.

“My commendations, mignonne. Such foresight is enviable.”

She smiled; her lids veiled her eyes as she turned as Clara reappeared. “You are not the only one who can scheme, Your Grace.”

Clara escorted Helena to a large bedchamber halfway along one wing.

“The Thierrys are at the end, so you may be comfortable.” Clara glanced about, noting the brushes and bottles on the dressing table, the trunks already emptied and set in one corner. “Now I can summon your maid and introduce you, if you wish.”

“No, no.” Helena turned from her own survey. The huge four-poster bed, hung with silk tapestries, draped in satin, had captured her attention. “I believe I will rest for an hour or so. I have time, have I not?”

“Indeed you have, dear. We keep town hours, more or less, so we’ll dine at eight. Shall I tell the maid to wake you? Her name is Heather.”

“I’ll ring.” The idea of an hour of blissful peace sounded wonderful.

“Then I’ll leave you.” Clara turned to the door, then stopped and glanced back. Her eyes, Helena noted, had turned misty.

“I never thought Sebastian would marry, and that would have been a very big mistake.” Clara paused, then added, “Words can’t express how pleased I am you’re here.”

With that she departed, gently closing the door, leaving Helena pondering the wooden panels. She had never looked to be here, in this position, yet . . . there was much to be said for being a duchess.

Sebastian’s duchess.

She drifted to the window. It looked out over a rose garden to the lake. Dusk was rapidly falling. The gardens seemed extensive; tomorrow she’d investigate. Returning to the dressing table, she lit a lamp, then sat and started to pluck pins from her hair.

The mass tumbled down around her shoulders as a knock fell on the door.

Sebastian? That first thought was immediately superseded by the reflection that it was unlikely. Ignoring the sudden thrill that had flashed through her, and its subsequent fading, she called, “Come.”

The door opened; she turned and saw Louis standing in the doorway. She rose. “What is it?” He really did not look well.

“These are for you.”

He held out two letters. Crossing to the door, Helena took them.

Louis shifted as she glanced at them. “I’ll leave you to read them. Once you have”—he gestured vaguely—“we’ll talk.”

He turned and shambled off. Helena watched him go, then, frowning, closed the door and returned to the dressing table.

One packet was addressed to her in Fabien’s distinctive hand. The other was from Ariele. Dropping Fabien’s letter on the table, Helena sat and broke the seal on her sister’s missive.

As she read the first words, she relaxed, very conscious of relief. The way Louis had behaved, she’d already tensed, worrying . . . but no. Ariele was well. The daily round at Cameralle went on much as usual.

Helena smiled again and again as she read the first sheet—read of their ponies and the exploits of the geese. Halfway down the second sheet, Ariele broke off, then continued.

Phillipe has arrived (how odd!). He says monsieur le comte wishes me to come to Le Roc and we must leave tomorrow. Bother! I do not like Le Roc, but I suppose I will have to go.