Halting before the desk, he smiled and took her hand. “Almost.” He kissed her gloved fingers, then turned to the two letters still lying open on his desk. “I took the declaration—I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I assumed you had.” Head tilted, she looked up at him, and waited.
“In this country, for us to marry, the fastest way is to procure a special license—a dispensation, if you will. I’ve written to a well- disposed bishop, but in support of my request, given you’re French and not your own mistress, I’ll need to enclose Fabien’s declaration.” He paused, then asked, “Have I your permission to do so?”
She smiled, slowly, glowingly. “Oui. Yes. Of course.”
He smiled. “Bon.” Releasing her, he reached for the candle and sealing wax. As she watched, he set his seal to the letter.
“It’s done.” He laid the letter on top of his missive for Augusta and another letter addressed to the Court of St. James. “Webster will send it by rider.”
He considered the second letter, wondered if he should mention it. He turned and met Helena’s peridot eyes—clear, free of clouds, although not yet of lingering worry.
“Come.” He took her hand. “Let’s be on our way.”
Chapter Twelve
THE coach was pulled by four powerful horses. It raced south through the countryside silent and still, frozen in winter’s icy grip.
Cushioned in the comfort of leather upholstery, cocooned in the warmth of soft furs and silk wraps with hot, flannel-wrapped bricks beneath her feet, Helena watched the chill world flash by. She tried, initially, to sit upright, to keep her spine erect and eschew the temptation to lean against Sebastian, solid and immovable beside her. But the hours passed and she nodded, then dozed as the carriage rocketed along; she woke to find her cheek cushioned on Sebastian’s chest, his arm heavy and reassuring around her, keeping her from falling to the floor.
Cracking open her lids, she glanced across the coach. Phillipe, sitting opposite, was asleep in one corner.
Letting her lids fall once more, she sank against Sebastian and slipped back into sleep.
And dreamed. A confusion of images that made no sense but were pervaded by desperation, by burgeoning hope, by a sense of fate and a nebulous fear.
She woke to the clatter of hooves on cobbles. Straightening, she glanced out the window, saw a jumble of shops and houses.
“London.”
She turned to meet Sebastian’s gaze. Phillipe, she noted, was peering interestedly at the streets. “We have to go through it?”
“Unfortunately. Newhaven’s near Brighton, which lies directly south.”
Her lips forming an “Oh,” she looked at the houses and tried to suppress her impatience.
Tried to push aside the belief that now they’d set out on this journey, they had to hurry, hurry, or else they’d fail. That speed was of the essence.
Sebastian’s hand closed about hers, tightened reassuringly. “There’s no way Louis will be able to warn Fabien in time.”
She glanced at him, searched his eyes, then nodded. She looked back at the houses.
A few minutes later Sebastian spoke to Phillipe, inquiring about a certain French noble family. From there the conversation expanded to the foibles of the French court. Phillipe appealed to Helena. Soon they were embroiled in an animated, far-from-felicitous dissection of the current political climate and the shortcomings of those supposedly at the country’s helm. Only when she noticed the houses thinning and glimpsed open country again did Helena remember the passage of time.
She glanced at Sebastian, saw his blue eyes glint from under his heavy lids. Returning to the scenery, letting the conversation taper off of its own accord, she inwardly shook her head. He might no longer play the games Fabien did, but of his skill she entertained little doubt.
Or that, now that she was his, now that he deemed her to be so, she would have to grow accustomed to such nudges of manipulation—to the gentle tensing of her strings—all for her own good, of course.
It was a price she’d never believed she would be willing to pay, yet for freedom, for him . . .
To be his—safe, secure, and allowed to be free. Allowed to live her own life as she wished. To fulfill her destiny as a lady of position, as the wife of a powerful man.
What price such a dream?
She dozed again as the coach raced on. It was evening, the shadows fading to night, when the coach drew up outside an inn facing a quay. Sebastian stirred, then descended; Helena watched him speak with a sailor who’d hurried up. The steady splash of waves and the smell of brine carried clearly on the evening air. The sailor appeared to be in Sebastian’s employ; having received his orders, he tugged his forelock and departed.
/> Sebastian returned to the coach. Opening the door, he beckoned. “Come, we have time to dine before the tide turns.”