He drew away. Their eyes met, held.
“We were meant for each other, mignonne—can you not sense it? You will be my salvation—and I will be yours.”
A sound from the gallery beyond the closed door had them both turning. Sebastian swore beneath his breath. “We’ve run out of time tonight. Come.” Taking her elbow, he steered her to the door leading to the next room.
“I wish to leave this house.” She glanced at his hard face as he opened the door and ushered her through. She waited until he shut it, then stated, “I have not agreed to marry you.”
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.”
She hated it that he could read her so well. “Bien, then I will visit your house and consider 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 petite! 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 here immédiatement 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 Cambridgeshire. 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
HAD he 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 Cambridgeshire. For her, it was an unexpected challenge, a sudden and unanticipated 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.