The Promise in a Kiss (13 page)

“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.”

“Acquit me of any wish to confuse you,
mignonne,
but am I right in assuming you will not agree to leaving this uncomfortably overcrowded salon with me to seek a quieter place where we might talk?”

She'd instantly stiffened. “You assume correctly, Your Grace.”

Sebastian sighed. “You are the devil's own daughter to seduce,
mignonne.
”

The smile that curved her lips suggested she approved of the epithet.

“For all that, you'll still be mine.”

The smile vanished. She flashed him a look of righteous fury; if he hadn't still held her hand, she would have whirled, curtsied, and flounced off. But the instant she started to move away, he drew her back. “No—don't leave me.” He covered the simple, far-too-heartfelt plea with an easy smile. “You're safer with me than with any other—and together we're better entertained than we otherwise would be.” He caught her eye. “A truce,
mignonne
—until tonight.”

He'd intended to speak with her of his intentions, the purpose behind his invitation. He'd counted on Thierry's having received his letter and having told her of his request—she would have agreed readily to a private discussion after that. But . . . not knowing of his invitation, she would not go apart with him—and it was impossible for him to mention the word “marriage” in such a crowded place; he would bring all conversation to a halt.

She was searching his eyes, well aware of the caveat—that when he said “until tonight,” he meant just that. That tonight he would come for her, and
then
they would see.

She tilted her head, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace—a truce.”

Sebastian smiled, raised her hand to his lips. “Until tonight.”

H
er cloak already wrapped about her, her mask already in place, Helena left her room and headed for the stairs, summoned by Marjorie's call.

“We will be late,
ma petite
! Such a wait we will have!”

“I'm coming.”

Helena started down the stairs just as the front door opened. Thierry, still in his morning coat, tired and weary, came in.

Marjorie had whirled; now she rushed to her husband.
“Mon Dieu!
Thank God you are come—we must go
immédiatement
!”

Thierry summoned a smile for her and for Helena. “You will have to permit me to change,
chérie.
Go ahead, and I will follow.”

“But, Gaston—”

“Madame, I cannot grace the masquerade in all my dirt. Let me get my costume”—Thierry's glance took in the mail stacked on the side table—“and glance over these letters. Then I will follow
tout de suite, chérie
—that I promise.”

Marjorie pouted, but accepted the assurance. She kissed Thierry's cheek.
“Tout de suite, oui?”

Thierry returned the kiss.
“Oui.”

He beamed at Helena and kissed his fingers to her. “You look ravishing,
ma petite.
Have fun.”

Scooping up his letters, he strode quickly for the stairs, passing Louis with a reassuring word.

Louis helped Marjorie and Helena into the carriage, then joined them. The coach lurched and rumbled off toward Berkeley Square. As Marjorie had prophesied, there was a long line of carriages waiting to set their passengers down before Lowy House.

The night was clear and bitingly cold, yet the sight of wave after wave of fantastically garbed guests arriving in costumes both outrageous and rich had drawn a large knot of onlookers. A plush red carpet laid from front door to pavement's edge was flanked by banks of holly and ivy. Flares burned brightly, illuminating the arriving guests for all to see.

When Helena was handed down from the carriage, there were no oohs and aahs. She appeared a gray mouse, draped in rich velvet, true enough, but hardly outstanding. Then she lifted her head and put back the hood of her cloak. Every eye fixed on her. The light from the flares caught the gold circlet of laurel leaves set amid her black curls, danced over the solid gold mask, also stamped with laurel leaves, that hid her face. Even though the cloak still concealed the rest of her costume, mouths dropped open as the onlookers stared.

With every indication of proprietorial pride, Louis led both Helena and Marjorie up the sweep of red and on through the open front door. The moment they were inside, Helena retrieved her hand and tugged at the gold cloak strings at her throat.

She'd worn the costume before, was well aware of its effect on susceptible males; as she handed the heavy cloak to a waiting footman, his eyes nearly started from his head. In the slim sheath of pale blue silk fashioned in a Roman toga, with telltale laurel leaves worked in gold thread at the neckline, hem, and along the fluttering border, she was every man's fantasy of a Roman empress. Which was who she'd elected to be: St. Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine. Seduced by the dramatic tone that pervaded masquerades, everyone who knew her always assumed she would come as Helen of Troy.

The silk sheath was anchored by a gold clasp on her right shoulder; the costume left most of her shoulders and arms bare. She wore gold amulets on both arms, gold bracelets on both wrists. There was gold dangling from her lobes and a heavy gold necklace encircling her throat. Her skin was whitest ivory, her hair blacker than black in contrast. With the gold and pale blue as a foil, she looked stunning and knew it. Drew confidence from the fact.

Extremely high heels concealed beneath the long skirts added to her mystery—fully masked, her lack of height was the characteristic most searched for.

Expecting to enjoy her evening thoroughly, spiced with the anticipation of a seminal and final victory over St. Ives, she walked beside Marjorie into the ballroom, head high, looking around boldly—as an empress, she could do as she pleased.

She'd triumphed at masquerades at the French court in this costume—the flowers of the English nobility gathered tonight were to be her next conquests. Separating from Marjorie, who was rather too easy to spot with her auburn hair imperfectly concealed by her shepherdess's hat, Helena moved into the crowd.

The room was bedecked as a magical grotto with the symbols of yuletide the theme. Midnight blue silk scattered with gold and silver stars was draped across the ceiling; the walls were decorated with swags of green and brown velvet against which evergreen boughs, holly, and ivy had been fixed. Huge logs burned in the hearths, adding to the considerable heat; spiced champagne was being continuously served by footmen dressed as elves.

Against this backdrop, the elite of the ton formed a rich tapestry of shifting colors and costumes, of fantastic wigs and amazing hats. At this early stage the revelers were looking about, weaving and reweaving through the crowd, some in groups but most moving indepen-dently, recognizing and noting others, searching for those they hoped to meet but had yet to identify.

Helena spotted her first Paris within minutes. He stood tall, eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd, examining all the women in sight. His gaze rested on her for one instant, then moved on. Helena smiled behind her mask and turned away. Paris One was Lord Mortingdale. A good sign perhaps? Or did his choice of costume show a sad lack of appreciation of her wit?

Continuing around the room, she found three more Parises; they all saw her—one looked interested but did not pursue her when she moved away. One of the three was Mr. Coke, a gentleman who had tried to pay her considerable attention. The other two she could not identify, but neither of them was Sebastian—of that she was sure.

There were a number of Roman senators in the crowd. As was usually the case, they were gentlemen for whom the toga meant freedom from their corsets. To Helena's relief, none had thought to array himself as an emperor. One of the portly crew, on spying her, came rustling up to suggest they were a pair. One glance and a cool word disabused him of the idea.

“Oh, well, had to try, you know!” With a grin, the gentleman bowed and left her.

Gaining the side of the room, Helena paused and turned to scan the throng. Even with her high heels, she couldn't see far; the huge wigs and elaborate headdresses so many wore blocked her view. She'd covered nearly half the long room. Farther ahead she glimpsed an archway leading to another salon. She craned her neck, peering between bodies . . .

And felt Sebastian's presence materialize like a flame at her back.

As she registered the fact and turned to face him, his fingers closed about her hand.

“
Mignonne,
you are exquisite.”

She felt the usual jolt as his lips brushed the backs of her fingers, was momentarily lost, adrift in the blue of his eyes, in the warmth that shone there, real appreciation tinged with desire, edging into . . .

She blinked, and her conscious view expanded—to take in his gold half-mask, like her own embossed with laurel leaves. She blinked again, lifted her gaze—took in the gold wreath set amid the burnished brown of his hair. Sucking in a breath, eyes wide, she swept her gaze down—over the white toga edged with gold-embroidered laurel, topped with the purple robe of an emperor.

“Who—” She had to stop to moisten her lips. “Who are you supposed to be?”

He smiled. “Constantius Chlorus.” He raised her hand again, held her gaze as he turned it and pressed his lips to her palm. “Helena's lover.” He changed his hold, touched his lips to her wrist, to where her pulse raced beneath her skin. “Ultimately her husband, the father of her son.”

Breathing was increasingly difficult; Helena tried to find her temper—she couldn't even summon a frown. “How did you know?”

The curve of his lips was triumphant. “You do not like being taken for granted,
mignonne.
”

He was right, so right she wanted to scream—or weep, she wasn't sure which. Being with someone who knew her—could read her—so well was unnerving—and so appealing.

She finally managed a slight frown. “You are an extremely difficult man to deal with, Your Grace.”

He sighed, his fingers shifting over hers as he lowered her hand. “So I have often been told,
mignonne,
but you don't truly find me so difficult, do you?”

Her frown grew more definite. “I'm not sure.”

There was so much about which she was unsure when it came to him.

He'd been studying her face; now he said, “I take it Thierry has yet to return?”

“He arrived home just as we were starting out. He will no doubt be here shortly.”

“Good.”

She tried to read Sebastian's face. “You wish to talk with him?”

“In a manner of speaking. Come.” Sebastian took her hand and drew her on down the room. “Stroll with me.”

She threw him a puzzled, slightly suspicious glance but consented to stroll by his side. Others had similarly found mates; they were stopped frequently as other guests tried to guess their identities.

“That Neptune is magnificent—and the Sun King, too.”

“Mme de Pompadour is Therese Osbaldestone, which is something of a surprise.”

“Did she recognize us, do you think?”

“I expect so. Very little misses those black eyes.”

They were nearly at the end of the room when Sebastian tightened his hold on her hand. He glanced down as she looked up questioningly. “
Mignonne,
I need to speak with you privately.”

Helena stopped walking. Started to frown. “I cannot—will not—be private with you. Not again.”

He exhaled through his teeth, glanced around, noted how close others were. “I cannot discuss what I wish to discuss in such surrounds—and it's not possible to arrange to meet with you privately by any other means.” Not without tipping the wink to the gabblemongers.

She didn't say anything. The stubborn set of her lips gave him her answer.

Sebastian knew he was close to losing his temper. It had been a very long time since anyone—let alone a slip of a woman—had dared deny him so stubbornly. And for once in his life, his intentions were honorable.

“Mignonne—”
He instantly knew he'd chosen the wrong tone; her spine stiffened like a poker. He exhaled, then stated, “I give you my word that you will be safe with me. I do need to speak with you.”

The stubborn set of her chin eased; her lips shifted, twisted, grimaced lightly. But . . .

Briefly she returned the clasp of his fingers, then shook her beautiful head. “
Non.
I cannot . . .” She drew breath, lifted her chin. “I dare not go apart with you, Your Grace.”

Helena watched his eyes darken, although his face changed not at all.

“Do you question my word,
mignonne
?”

The words were soft, steely.

She shook her head. “No—”

“You don't trust me?”

“That is not it at all!” It wasn't
him
she didn't trust—but she couldn't tell him that. Too revealing, too much an acknowledgment of her susceptibility, her vulnerability—her weakness over him. “It is just that . . . No. I cannot go apart with you, Your Grace.” She tugged. “Sebastian, let me go!”