Cynster - The Promise In A Kiss Part 42

Inwardly sighing, he glanced down at her dark head, then brushed a kiss across her forehead, closed his eyes-and left fate to do her worst.

Helena was not proud of herself the next morning. She woke to find herself alone, yet the bed bore eloquent testimony to all that had transpired. The tangled sheets were still warm with Sebastian's heat. Without him, she felt chilled to the marrow.

Clutching a pillow, she stared across the room. What was she doing, allying herself so intimately with such a powerful man? It had been madness to have let it happen. Yet it seemed pointless now to pretend regret.

A regret that, despite all, she didn't feel.

Her one real regret was that she couldn't tell him everything, couldn't lean on his strength, draw on his undeniable power. After last night it would be such a relief to throw herself on his mercy, beg for his help. But she couldn't. Her gaze fell on the letters, folded on the dressing table.

Fabien had made sure she and Sebastian were on opposing sides.

Before she could sink deeper into the mire of her fears and wallow in despair, she rose and tugged the bell for her maid.

Sebastian was sitting at the head of the breakfast table, sipping his coffee and glancing over a news sheet when Helena walked into the room.

He looked up; their gazes met. Then she turned away, exchanged an easy smile with Clara, and headed for the sideboard. His gaze remained on her, delectable in a silk print gown, while his mind rolled back through the night past, through the pa.s.sion and fulfillment, both so intense, to the question-questions-to which he yet lacked answers.

Helena turned; he continued watching, waiting . . .

Plate in hand, she approached the table. She traded mild comments with Marjorie and Clara, then continued on to the chair at his right.

Just as well.

He waited until she sat and settled her skirts, then drew breath.

She looked up at that moment. He glimpsed the shadows swirling in her eyes, dulling the peridot depths. He started to reach for her hand-stopped as she looked down.

"I wondered . . ." With her fork, she toyed with a portion of kedgeree. "Do you think we might go for another ride-like yesterday?" She glanced at the window, at the day outside. "It's still clear, and who knows how long that will last."

There was a wistfulness in her voice, evoking the memory of how relaxed and, if not carefree, then at least temporarily relieved of her dark burden she had seemed the previous morning, when they'd flown across his fields before the wind. She glanced up again, brows gently arched.

Again he glimpsed her eyes.

Shackling his impatience, he inclined his head. "If you wish. There's a long ride north we could try."

She smiled, a fleeting gesture that too quickly faded from her lips. "That would be . . . pleasant."

Why she didn't simply say "a relief," Sebastian didn't know. That their ride together was that-a relief, a distraction from her troubles-was transparently obvious to him. And while she was in that state, relieved of that inner burden, he couldn't bring himself to shatter the mood and press her for details.

Thus, when they returned to the house three hours later, he was no nearer to answering either of his questions. One he would have to wait for her to tell him of her own accord; trust could not be forced, only earned. At least between them. From others he might command it, but not from Helena.

That left the more obvious question he had to ask her. There was no longer any reason he could not put that before her, on the table between them.

It might even help with the other, by encouraging the trust he sought to gain.

When they rose with the others from the luncheon table, he took her hand and drew her aside. "If you would grant me a few minutes of your time,mignonne, there are a few details I believe we should address."

He couldn't read her eyes as she studied his face. Then she glanced at the windows, to the prospect dimmed by the sheeting rain. No escape there. Marjorie and Clara pa.s.sed them, going ahead as if they hadn't noticed. Thierry and Louis had already left for the billiard room. She drew in a breath as if girding her loins, then glanced at him and inclined her head. "If you wish."

He wished . . . a great many things, but he took her hand in his and led her to his study.

Helena struggled to mask her tension, her trepidation-not of him but of what he might tempt her to say, to do. To confess. He ushered her through the door a footman threw open, into what she perceived to be his study. The wide desk, obviously in use by the stacks of papers and ledgers on its top, the large leather chair behind it and the plethora of doc.u.ment boxes and ledgers packed into shelves around the room confirmed that. The room was, however, unexpectedly comfortable, even cozy. Wide windows looked over the lawns; although the light outside had dimmed, lamps had been lit, their golden glow falling softly on well-polished wood, on velvet and leather.

She crossed to where a fire burned brightly in the hearth, dispelling the chill creeping through the gla.s.s. On the way, she glanced about, surrept.i.tiously searching for a case or a display cabinet-somewhere Fabien's dagger might reside. She felt driven to look, yet despaired at having to do so. For having to repay Sebastian in such a deceitful way.

Halting before the hearth, she held her hands to the fire, then straightened as he joined her.

He stopped before her, took her hands in his. Looked into her face, into her eyes. She couldn't read his, felt confident he couldn't read hers. As if acknowledging their mutual defenses, the ends of his lips lifted in a wry, self-deprecatory smile.

"Mignonne,after the events of last night, you know, and I know, that we've already taken the first steps down our joint path. In terms of making decisions, we've already made ours-you yours, me mine. Nevertheless, between such people as we are, there is a need for a formal yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question."

He hesitated; searched her eyes again. She didn't glance away, try to avoid the scrutiny-she was too busy searching herself, trying to sense his direction. Wondering if the uncertainty she sensed came from him-or her.

Then his lips twisted. He looked down, simultaneously raising her hands to kiss one, then the other.

"Be that as it may"-his voice had deepened, taken on that tone she now a.s.sociated with intimacy-"I do not wish to press you. I will ask you my simple question when you are ready to give me a simple answer." He glanced up, met her eyes again. "Until then, know that I am here, waiting"-again his lips quirked-"albeit not patiently. But for you,mignonne . . . rest a.s.sured I will wait."

That last sounded like a vow. Her surprise must have shown in her face, in her eyes-in his a markedly self-deprecatory light glowed, as if he were shaking his head at himself over how lenient he was being with her.

And he was. More than most she understood that-that his natural impulse would be to press her to accept his offer, to declare herself won. To admit she was his, his to rule, to command.

She'd expected a demand to surrender formally; she'd steeled herself to vacillate, to prevaricate if need be, to use every feminine wile she possessed to delay any such declaration. If she gave in and allowed him to a.s.sume he'd triumphed and to crow, presumably publicly, over it, then when she fled, the damage would only be worse.

The rage her defection provoked would be only more intense.

She'd come into the room prepared to do whatever violence to her feelings was necessary to accomplish all she wished-to save Ariele while minimizing harm to him. "I . . ." What could she say in the face of such empathy? He knew nothing of her problem, yet he'd sensed her difficulty and drawn back from exacerbating her situation, even though he didn't understand.

"Thank you." The words left her lips in a soft sigh. Lifting her head, she held his gaze, smiled, let her relief and grat.i.tude show in her eyes, in her expression. She drew breath-and it came easier. Gently tugging her hands from his, she clasped them before her. "I will . . . I promise I will tell you when I can answer your simple question."

She would never be able to do so, but there was nothing she could do to change that.

His gaze, piercing blue, searched her eyes again, but there was nothing more she was willing to show him. She kept her sadness at that last thought well hidden; for Ariele's sake, she had to remember that they were, in effect, adversaries now.

Already hard, his features hardened further. His expression a stony mask, he inclined his head. "Until then."

The strength of his reined temper reached her; she instinctively lifted her chin. He considered her for a moment, then said, his tone even, controlled, almost distant, "Clara will be in the back parlor. It would be wise if you were to join her there."

The warning could not have been more blunt. She held his gaze for one moment, then inclined her head. "I will leave you, then."

Gracefully, she swept around, her gaze taking in the room in one comprehensive glance. There were four large chests, set against the walls at various points, all shut, all with keyholes.

She crossed to the door, opened it, and went out, drawing it closed behind her. Only then losing the telltale warmth of Sebastian's gaze.

She would have to search his study.

Sometime.