Free The Promise in a Kiss by Stephanie Laurens Page A

that she had done so did not surprise him; his agent’s report had confirmed his supposition. She and her sister were the last of the de Stansions, a very old aristocratic French family. Her mother had been a Daurent, another senior house of the French nobility. Helena’s birth was as good as his; she’d been reared, as had he, to know her worth. Their arrogance was a part of them, bred into them—she had her own brand, as did he.
    Unfortunately for her, such feminine arrogance brought out the conqueror in him.
    â€œYou would do well to consider, mignonne, that there might be more to a gentleman than meets the eye.”
    â€œI am not a child, Your Grace—I am well aware that most men mask their true natures.”
    â€œSebastian—and permit me to point out, mignonne, that not all women are as open as you.”
    How had they got onto that point? Helena barely had time for the thought before Sebastian whisked her through a pair of curtains she’d imagined were merely wall hangings. Instead, they’d concealed an archway leading into a small, luxuriously appointed salon.
    Finding herself in the middle of the room, cut off from the ballroom now that the curtains had fallen shut, she dropped her own mask and frowned—openly.
    â€œThis is not, I am sure”—she gestured— “comme il faut.”
    She all but glared at Sebastian as he came to stand before her. The infuriating man did nothing more than raise one brow. Why she was so irritated with him she could not say, but she’d had a strong suspicion even before he’d arrived that he’d been deliberately steering her away from Lord Were.
    To her mind, Lord Were was looking more and more like the perfect avenue for her escape to freedom.
    â€œI appreciate your help in introducing me to the ton, Your Grace, but I am—how do you English say it?—more than eight, so I will be my own judge. And your veiled aspersions on Lord Were’s character I do not credit at all.”
    She capped her dismissal of his arguments with a contemptuous wave; she would have preferred to sweep back to the ballroom on that note, but he was standing directly in her way. She held his blue gaze belligerently.
    The aggravating man had the temerity to sigh.
    â€œI fear you will have to readjust your thinking, mignonne . The gentleman to whom I referred was not Were.”
    Helena frowned. It took her a moment to replay his statement: . . . there might be more to a gentleman than meets the eye . She looked at him, blinked.
    His lips quirked. “Indeed. The gentleman I referred to was me.”
    â€œYou.” She couldn’t credit it—couldn’t believe what logic was telling her, nor what she could see in his eyes.
    She felt his hand at her waist, sliding, felt a quiver run the length of her spine.
    He drew her closer. “You remember that night in the moonlight in the gardens of the Convent des Jardinières de Marie.”
    His voice had taken on a mesmerizing cadence; the blue of his eyes was even more hypnotic.
    â€œI kissed you. Once, to thank you.”
    Trapped in his web, she was incapable of pulling back. Her hands rose to rest on the silk of his sleeves as he urged her nearer. And she went, lids falling as he bent his head.
    â€œWhy?” she whispered as his lips neared hers. She moistened her own. “Why did you kiss me a second time?”
    The question to which she’d always wanted an answer.
    â€œThe second time?” His breath brushed her lips. “I kissed you a second time . . . to savor you.”
    He did so again. His lips closed over hers, cool, firm, knowing. She knew she should resist, hold back; instead, she teetered on some invisible brink, then something inside her unlocked, gave. He sensed it. His hands locked about her waist, and he drew her to her toes. His lips hardened, firmed, became more demanding.
    And she was tumbling, falling . . .
    Why