Dumbfounded, Helena stared at the door. Louis couldn’t be so witless as to believe she’d be safe alone with a man of Sebastian’s reputation.
“I do not know the answer, mignonne, but he has indeed left us alone.”
Th
e faint amusement in Sebastian’s voice fanned her anger. She clung to it and faced him as he crossed the room toward her. She lifted her chin, ignoring the skittering panic chasing over her skin. “This is not wise.”
“I must agree, but it was your choice, mignonne.” He halted before her; she saw he was smiling—a distinctly predatory smile. “If the minuet is not to your liking, there’s another dance we might try.”
She studied his eyes, found them impossible to read in the poor light. “No.” She moved to cross her arms; he reached out and caught her hands, holding them lightly in his. She frowned at him. “I do not at all understand why you are doing this.”
His lips quirked. “Mignonne, I assure it is I who do not understand why you are behaving as you are.”
“Me? I would think the reason for my behavior was obvious. I have told you more than once that I will not be your mistress.”
One brown brow arched. “Have I asked you to be my mistress?”
She frowned. “No, but—”
“Bon, we have that much clear.”
“We have nothing clear, Your Grace—Sebastian,” she amended as he opened his lips. “You admit to pursuing me, to wishing to seduce me—”
“Stop.”
She did, puzzled by his tone, neither drawling nor cynical—straightforward.
He considered her, then sighed. “Would it help, mignonne, if I gave you my word I will not complete your seduction at any function we might attend, such as this ball?”
His word—she knew without asking that he would honor that to the death. Yet . . . “You said before that you are not playing a game with me. Is that true?”
His lips twisted, half wry smile, half grimace. “If you are a pawn, mignonne, so am I, and it is some higher power that moves us on this earthly board.”
Helena considered for one minute more, then drew breath and nodded. “Very well. But if you are not to seduce me en effet, then what . . . ?”
She raised her hands, palms up, ignoring the light grasp of his. He changed his grip, took her hands in his. She saw his smile dawn again, still predatory, still too fascinating for her peace of mind.
“The music will end soon. In lieu of my dance, I would claim a favor.”
She let her suspicion show. “And what is this favor?”
His smile deepened. “A kiss.”
She considered again. “You have already kissed me twice—no, three times.”
“Ah, but this time, I wish you to kiss me.”
She tilted her head, considered him. If it was she doing the kissing . . . “Very well.” She shook off his hands, and he let her.
Boldly, she stepped closer. Because of the difference in their heights, she had to slide her hands up over his chest, over his shoulders, and lock them about his neck—stretching herself against him.
He stood, passive, watching her from under hooded lids.
Praying that the sudden shock of the contact—breast to chest, hips to thighs—didn’t show, valiantly ignoring the fascinating contrast between the silken softness of his coat and the hard body it covered, she drew his head down, stretched up on her toes, and set her lips to his.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, but only in response, in equal measure. Reassured, pleasantly distracted, she repeated the caress, a little firmer, a little longer. His lips returned the pleasure, then parted slightly. She couldn’t resist the temptation.
He tasted . . . male. Different, enticing. His tongue met hers, retreated, returned. Another dance, another play, the ebb and flow of a physical touch, one rather more intimate than the meeting of hands.