Cynster - The Promise In A Kiss Part 34

He met her gaze, studied her eyes, then nodded. "You have not agreed-yet."

Helena growled as he urged her on.

"You are too wise to cut off your nose to spite your face-no matter how much your temper would like to."

Shehated it that he could read her so well. "Bien,then I will visit your house andconsider your proposal."

He ignored her waspish, decidedly haughty tone.

He opened another door, one leading into a minor corridor, avoiding the gallery altogether. "I will escort you downstairs to the front hall, then we'll send for the Thierrys." He glanced at her. "I fear you will need to guard your temper,mignonne . No one will believe you haven't accepted me."

She shot him another narrow-eyed look, but he was right-again. No one did. No one even thought to ask the question.

The Thierrys, summoned by a footman, joined them in the front hall. One glance at their faces was enough to confirm that the news was out and that they'd already heard.

"Ma pet.i.te!Such wonderful tidings!" Eyes wide, Marjorie hugged her delightedly. "Vraiment!It is a coup!" she whispered, then stepped back to let Thierry have his turn.

He, too, was openly thrilled. After congratulating her, he shook hands with Sebastian.

Who smiled easily, the very picture of a proud groom-to-be. Helena gritted her teeth, pressed her lips tightly together as Sebas-tian's blue gaze came to rest on her face.

"I read your letter just this evening," Thierry explained. "Mille pardons-I was from town. I came hereimmediatement to tell madame and mademoiselle."

Sebastian nodded, waving aside the apology. "It seems our secret is out." He shrugged lightly. "It matters not at this juncture. I will be leaving London early tomorrow. If it's convenient, I will send my traveling coach to Green Street with instructions to leave at eleven. That will allow you an easy drive into Cambridges.h.i.+re. You will arrive in the late afternoon." He bowed. "And I will be there to greet you."

"It is all most amiable," Marjorie enthused. She gave him her hand. "We will be most thrilled to visit at such a grand house. I have heard it is magnificent."

Sebastian inclined his head; his lips quirked as he turned to Helena. "And you,mignonne, will you, too, be thrilled?" He murmured the words, deliberately suggestive, as he brushed his lips to her fingers.

Helena raised her brows. "As to that, Your Grace, we shall see."

Chapter Eight.

HADhe truly been thinking of marrying her all along? Swaying as St. Ives's traveling coach rumbled through the countryside, Helena considered the possibility. She would rate it no higher than that-he was the type of man she understood; regardless of his reputation, he would always adhere to honor's dictates. Especially over a woman such as she.

Unwritten rules had plagued her all her life; she comprehended them instinctively. Regardless of whether marrying her had always been his intention, on being discovered in a compromising situation, he would have reacted precisely as he had, giving her the protection of his name. And then insisting, making her believe, that he'd wanted to marry her from the first. Honor would have dictated the first action, his eccentric kindness the second.

She stifled a sniff. Glanced across the carriage at Louis, slumped, unhandsomely asleep, mouth agape. Louis had been drinking; he'd stumbled down the stairs this morning looking like death, his skin pasty, his eyes heavily shadowed. He'd barely acknowledged the Thierrys' concerned inquiries, waving aside all offers of breakfast, tight-lipped and trembly.

Which was altogether unlike Louis. He usually craved attention, grabbed all that was offered.

If she had to guess, she would say something had occurred to shake him badly. She couldn't imagine what.

Marjorie sat beside her, thrilled, happy, and relieved. Thierry sat opposite his wife, relaxed, less worried than he'd appeared in recent days. Marjorie's maid, Thierry's valet, and Louis's man Villard were following in another carriage with the baggage; the maid who had been tending Helena had come down with a cold and been left behind.

The St. Ives traveling coach had appeared precisely on time-there had, of course, been no question that they would accept St. Ives's invitation and journey into Cambridges.h.i.+re. For her, it was an unexpected challenge, a sudden and unantic.i.p.ated change in direction.

Secure, safe, and warm-the coach was the epitome of luxury, all velvet and leather, the doors and windows fitted so well that not a single draft could get in-yet she was not of a mind to allow herself to be lulled into complaisance. Marrying a man like Sebastian Cynster had never been part of her plans. Nevertheless, here she was, all but formally affianced to a man as powerful as any she'd ever known. That fact alone spoke volumes. Between Fabien and Sebastian there was, she judged, little to choose-not in the matter of real power, the ability to make things happen.

Fabien was a master. Sebastian was a past master. Even worse.

With the usual contrariness of fate, that point was now a very strong argument urging her to accept him.

If she did, she'd be safe from Fabien.

But at what cost?

That, she told herself as she glimpsed a pair of imposing gateposts ahead, was what she had to learn.

Her first sight of Somersham Place, princ.i.p.al residence of the Dukes of St. Ives, distracted her. The coach rumbled through the open gates, then bowled along a well-tended drive bordered by trees, short stretches of lawn, and shrubs. Then they rounded a curve and left the trees behind-and the house stood before them, pale in the weak light of the winter's day.

Immense, imposing, impressive, yet not cold. Helena studied it, trying to find the right words. Built of sand-colored stone, the facade and all the walls she could see had stood for many years; they were solid, established, and had mellowed, settling into the landscape that had been created around them. The wide lawns, the size of the trees that dotted them, the way the lake she glimpsed beyond the lawns sat so perfectly within the vista, testified that both house and gardens had matured and reached a certain harmony.

Accustomed to the heavily structured, geometrically exact surrounds of French n.o.ble houses, Helena was intrigued by the lack of all such formality here. Despite that lack, the result was magnificent, palatial-unquestionably the home of a wealthy and powerful man. Yet there was more, something else. Something unexpected.

The house was welcoming. Alive. Oddly warm-as if the stone facade were a benevolent defense protecting some gentler existence within.

A bemusing observation, yet as the coach halted before the sweep of steps leading up to the front door, she couldn't shake the conviction.

Thierry descended first, then handed her down. Moving past him, she fought at least to mask the eagerness that seized her-to hide it from Sebastian, who had come out of the door as the carriage rolled up and was now descending the steps with his usual languid grace.

She offered her hand; he took it and bowed, then straightened and drew her to him. Turning with her, he let his gaze travel along the handsome facade, then glanced at her, arching a brow. "Dare I hope my home meets with your approval,mignonne ?"

The curve of his long lips, the light in his eye, suggested he knew that it did.

Helena lifted her chin. "I have yet to see beyond its facade, Your Grace. It's common knowledge facades can be deceiving."

Their gazes met, held, then, his smile deepening, he inclined his head. "Indeed."

Turning, he greeted Thierry and Marjorie, exchanged a nod with Louis, then led them indoors.

In the front hall Sebastian introduced her to his butler, Webster, and the housekeeper, a Mrs. Swithins. The latter was an unflappable, matronly woman; on learning of Helena's lack of a maid, she promised to send a girl up. "I'll have your bags taken up and unpacked the instant they arrive."

"Until then," Sebastian said, "we'll repair to the drawing room."

"Indeed, Your Grace." Mrs. Swithins bobbed a curtsy. "Tea will be ready-you need only ring."

Sebastian inclined his head, apparently unperturbed by the woman's familiarity; Helena inwardly shook her head. The English were different in many ways. She found their easier manners relaxing.

As Sebastian ushered them across the hall, she struggled not to look this way and that, to stare about her. Despite the fact that it was still weeks to Christmas, the scent of evergreens hung in the air. A holly wreath sporting bright red berries was mounted over the huge hearth at the end of the hall.

She'd fully expected that odd promise of warmth to be merely a feature of the facade. Instead . . . it wasn't warmth, real warmth, but rather a lingering sense of peace, of harmony, of happiness past, present, and antic.i.p.ated that radiated from the walls, enfolding her in its welcome.

Fabien's fortress, Le Roc, was cold and barren; she'd never sensed any warmth there. Her own home, Cameralle, was . . . cool. It might, she thought, dredging her memories of the time her parents had been alive, once have held a similar sense of peace, but that had faded, dissipated; the long halls were now filled with a quiet sense of waiting.

Here there was a sense of waiting, too, but it was different-expectant, confident, as if happiness and joy were a.s.sured.