The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Dangereux.

The word whispered through her brain. She shivered.

“Come.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take you to her.”

Laying her fingers in his, she let him lead her across the room. Delivering her most correctly to Marjorie’s side, he exchanged bows with Louis, posing beside Marjorie, then bowed formally to her and withdrew.

“Mon Dieu! Helena—“

She raised her hand, cutting off Marjorie’s words. “I know—but we have come to an agreement of sorts. He accepts I will not be his lover, but—as he finds me amusing and there is no way I can see to dismiss him if he does not wish to be dismissed—he has consented to help me in finding a suitable gentleman to wed.”

Marjorie stared at her. “He has agreed . . . ?” After a moment she shook her head. “The English—they are mad.”

Louis straightened. “Mad or not, he could be a valuable ally, a most useful source of information. If he is inclined to be indulgent, and he is so much older, after all—“

Marjorie snorted. “He is thirty-seven, and if half I have heard is true, those of twenty-seven would be hard put to keep pace with him.”

“Be that as it may”—Louis tugged at his waistcoat; he was twenty-seven—“if Helena has made it clear she will not be his latest conquest and he is yet of a mind to be helpful, it would be foolish indeed not to avail ourselves of his aid. I am certain my uncle, monsieur le comte, would encourage us to accept monsieur le duc’s offer.”

Helena inclined her head. “On that, I would agree.” Fabien was ever one to use any tool that came to hand.

Marjorie looked uncertain but sighed. “If you are sure that is what monsieur le comte would expect . . . eh, bien, we will follow that road.”

Chapter Two

MARJORIE might have acquiesced to their scheme, but she remained unconvinced; every time Helena returned to her escorted by St. Ives, Marjorie behaved as if he were a wolf in temporarily amiable mood, but certain, when hunger struck, to revert to type.

“There is nothing to fear, I assure you.” Beside Marjorie, Helena squeezed her arm. They were standing in Lady Harrington’s ballroom surrounded by holly and ivy; trailing leaves swirled about the ornate columns while red berries winked from garlands gracing the walls.

St. Ives had just arrived. Announced, he paused at the top of the steps leading down to the ballroom’s floor, scanning the crowd, noting their hostess, then searching further . . . until he saw her.

Helena’s heart leaped; she told herself not to be silly. But as he descended, languidly elegant as always, she couldn’t deny the excitement flaring in her veins.

“He’s just helping me decide on a suitable husband.”

She repeated the phrase to calm Marjorie, even if she’d never believed the “just.” She might have told him she would not be his lover, but he’d never agreed or accepted that. He had, however, said he would help her find a husband—she believed he was sincere. It wasn’t hard to see his reasoning. Once she was safely married to a suitably complaisant lord, he, St. Ives, would be first in line to be her lover.

And in such a position he’d be doubly hard to resist.

A thrill of awareness—a presentiment of danger—flashed through her. Once he’d helped her to a marriage such as the one she sought, he’d be even more dangerous to her.

Then he was there, bowing over her hand, speaking politely to Marjorie, then asking her to stroll. She agreed; danger or not, she was already committed and could not easily draw back.

Easily escape his net.

The realization opened her eyes, had her attending more closely. He sensed it; she felt it in his glance, the brush of his blue eyes over her face.

“I have no intention of biting,

mignonne—not yet.”

She slanted him a glance, saw the amusement in his beautiful eyes, and humphed. “Marjorie is worried.”

“Why? I have said I’ll help you find a husband. What is there to concern her in that?”

Helena narrowed her eyes at him. “You would be wise not to attempt ingenuousness, Your Grace. It does not become you.”

Sebastian laughed. She continued to delight him, continued, at some level few had ever touched, to engage him. He steered her through the crowd, stopping to chat here and there, to point out this one or that, to admire the ice sculpture of an angel standing in a bower of holly on the terrace, the pièce de résistance of her ladyship’s decor.