The Promise in a Kiss by Stephanie Laurens

knight. He’ll drive to Twickenham tomorrow and have a chat with the magistrate, and that’s the last we’ll hear of the orphanage closing.”
    The countess paused, then added, “I wouldn’t want you to think ladies run to him with every concern. Far from it. But when there’s no other way, it’s immeasurably comforting to know there’s one last person who, if the thing’s possible at all, will help. And with the utmost discretion. Even if you ask him outright about the Menteith diamonds, even after so many years, he won’t say a word. And by tomorrow evening he’ll have forgotten all about Twickenham.”
    Helena was fascinated. “Does he do the same for gentlemen in distress?”
    The countess caught her eye. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”
    Helena laughed. Sebastian crossed to her side, one brow arching. She shook her head.
    â€œWe had best get on. Mme Thierry will be anxious.”
    An understatement; Helena nodded. They made their adieus, then walked quickly back to the carriage drive. Their appearance together, Helena noted, drew little attention, even from the most rabid scandalmongers perched in their carriages swapping the latest on-dits .
    They reached the carriage, and Sebastian handed her in. Although relieved to see her return, even Marjorie seemed less concerned than previously. Sebastian bowed, then left them, strolling languidly to where his own carriage waited farther along the avenue.
    Helena watched him go. She couldn’t imagine Fabien helping anyone for no reason.
    N ow that her eyes had been opened, Helena saw a great deal more. At Lady Crockford’s soirée that evening, she watched Sebastian make his way toward her, watched as he was stopped again and again, by this lady, then that. Before, she had assumed that it was he who stopped to speak—now she saw it was they who spoke first, who caught his eye with a smile.
    Gentle words, grateful smiles.
    The ladies were not, in the main, the sort one might imagine would catch his roving eye. Many were older than he, others too awkward or plain ever to have been likely candidates for his less-acceptable attentions.
    He’d cut a swath through the London salons with a double-edged sword. Sheer arrogant masculinity on the one hand, unexpected kindness on the other.
    He neared, and his gaze met hers. She fought to quell a shiver.
    Joining them, he exchanged bows, spoke a few words with Marjorie and Louis, then turned to her. One brow arched.
    She smiled and gave him her hand. “Shall we promenade?”
    His expression was indulgent. “If you wish.”
    Sebastian guided Helena through the throng and tried to ignore her nearness—the subtle warmth of her slender figure, the light touch of her fingers on his. Tried to block out the French perfume she wore, that wreathed about her and none too subtly beckoned the beast, urged him to seize and devour.
    Spending so much time with her was fraying his reins, raising expectations yet leaving them unfulfilled. Only his supreme dislike of conducting his affairs in the full glare of the ton’s attention held him back from pursuing her overtly. The news he was to wed would cause a sensation, but if he waited just a few weeks more until Christmas drew close and the ton quit the capital, then the necessary formalities of his offer and her acceptance could be played out in private.
    Infinitely preferable, given he was not entirely sure of her.
    A surprise and a challenge—she continued to be both.
    Taking advantage of his height, he scanned the guests, noting any gentlemen potentially useful for passing the time—for distracting her. Carefully avoiding Were. That had been a misjudgment; Were was a friend. He had never been one to fashion rods for his own back. Helena would not get another chance to consider Were, not if he could help it.
    They were leaving a group of ladies who’d waylaid them when George emerged from