The Promise in a Kiss Read Free Page B

snatch it. She’d accepted the document with a resigned air and agreed to come to London and search for an English husband.
    The document was secreted in her trunk, sewn into the lining. It was her passport to freedom and the rest of her life.
    â€œThe Earl of Withersay is an amiable man.” Louis’s dark eyes had fixed on the portly earl in the group she had recently left. “Did you speak with him?”
    â€œHe’s old enough to be my father.” And not the right sort of man. Helena searched the crowd. “I will find Marjorie and learn about this duke. There is no one else here suitable.”
    Louis snorted. “For a week you’ve been surrounded by the flower of the English nobility—I think you’re becoming too nice in your requirements. Given Uncle’s wishes, I believe I can find any number of candidates for your hand.”
    Helena shifted her gaze to Louis’s face. “Fabien and I have discussed his wishes. I do not need you to—how do they say it?—scupper my plans.” Her voice had grown cold. Holding Louis’s stubborn gaze, she haughtily inclined her head. “I will return to Green Street with Marjorie. There is no reason you need feel obliged to accompany us.”
    She stepped around him. Allowing her lips to relax into an easy smile, she glided through the throng. Marjorie, Mme Thierry, wife of the Chevalier Thierry, a distant kinsman, was her nominal chaperone. Helena had glimpsed her across the room. She headed in that direction, conscious of the male eyes that tracked her progress. Relieved that, in this season with society caught up in a frantic whirl, her entrance upon it had been much less noticeable than it would otherwise have been. Clusters of tittering ladies and garrulous gentlemen filled the room, spirits soaring, flown on the combination of her ladyship’s mulled wine and the goodwill of the season; it was easy to slip past with a nod and a smile.
    Fabien had arranged for Helena and Louis to stay with the Thierrys in lodgings in the best part of town. There was never any lack of funds where Fabien, or indeed, Helena, was concerned. The Thierrys, however, were not affluent and were exceedingly grateful to monsieur le comte de Vichesse for providing lodgings and board, servants, and an allowance permitting them to entertain the numerous friends and acquaintances they had made in their single, regrettably expensive year in London.
    The Thierrys were well aware of the influence Fabien de Mordaunt wielded, even in England. Helena’s guardian had a notoriously long arm. They were eager to provide whatever services monsieur le comte required, perfectly happy to introduce his ward to the ton and assist her in securing an acceptable offer.
    Helena had carefully nurtured the Thierrys’ gratitude. Despite the fact that Marjorie had a tendency to defer to Louis, she was nevertheless a fount of information on the eligibles within the English ton.
    There had to be one who would suit.
    She found Marjorie, a thin but elegant blonde of thirty, chatting animatedly with a lady and gentleman. She joined them. Later, they parted, and she drew Marjorie aside.
    â€œWithersay?”
    Helena shook her head. “Too old.” Too rigid, too demanding. “Louis said there was a duke present—St. Ives. What of him?”
    â€œ St. Ives? Oh, no, no, no .” Eyes wide, Marjorie waggled her head and shook her hands for good measure. She glanced around, then leaned closer to whisper, “ Not St. Ives, ma petite . He is not for you—indeed, he is not for any gently reared mademoiselle.”
    Helena raised her brows, inviting further details.
    Marjorie fluffed her shawl, then leaned closer still. “His reputation is of the most shocking. For years and years, so it has been. He is a duke, yes, and rich and possessed of estates the most extensive, but he has declared he will not marry.” Marjorie’s brief gesture