Hélène carefully turned and placed her feet on the floor. It wouldn’t do for him to find her lounging on the settee, even if it was the most comfortable position for her leg.

  He entered a few moments later, and Hélène’s pulse increased at the sight of him. Few men, if any, were as handsome as Mr. Stanwick. Today he was put to rights with his hair brushed and jaw clean-shaven. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been disheveled. Hélène was torn over which appearance she preferred. There was something wicked about him being in a state of near undress with mussed hair that warmed her to the core, though seeing him turned out neatly was pleasant as well.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Hélène.” He bowed before her. “I trust that you are feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She gestured towards a chair so he could sit. Stanwick chose the one closest to the settee. He was so close she could smell the citrus scent of his shaving soap. Goodness, why hadn’t he chosen a chair on the other side of the table? He was much too close in proximity to her even if it was perfectly proper.

  Hélène looked back at the young footman waiting in the doorway. “Please bring tea and cakes.”

  When the footman left the room, she turned more fully towards him. “Did you bring my winnings?”

  Stanwick simply stared at her.

  “You did say they were still mine?” Her breath hitched and stomach tightened, but this time it had nothing to do with how handsome Stanwick was but with sheer panic that he may have changed his mind. “I did not misunderstand?”

  “I am simply holding on to them for the time being.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I would like some answers first.”

  She opened her mouth to question him when the footman entered with the tea service. That was certainly quick, but given the hour, cook probably had the tray already prepared. Hélène straightened and waited for the young man to place it in the middle of the table and leave. As she leaned forward to pour, Stanwick did as well. Their fingers brushed, and hers came alive with a current she’d never before experienced. Hélène yanked her hand back as if she had been burned, yet the tingling remained. Stanwick simply grasped the handle and lifted. Had she been the only one to be affected by the touch?

  “I’ll be happy to pour since the last time you attempted it you pulled a few stitches.”

  While she was perfectly capable of leaning forward now, Hélène simply nodded, a bit bewildered by the warmth and tingling that shot through her at the mere brush of his fingers. Had the injury to her leg affected more of her person than she realized?

  He shifted and handed the teacup and saucer to her. Hélène was very careful not to touch him when accepting for fear the same sensation would happen again and she would end up spilling tea into her lap.

  Stanwick prepared a cup for himself but set it aside. His eyes were intense as he studied her.

  Why had she jerked back as if he’d scalded her? The brush of her fingers warmed his in a way he hadn’t expected. Had she experienced the same and it surprised her? Sebastain wanted to grasp her hand in his to see if the warmth would spread. His eyes focused on hers. They were a lovely shade of blue.

  He shouldn’t be thinking about her eyes, or the charming pink flush of her skin, or the lovely rosebud mouth.

  Sebastain leaned closer. The door was open, and he didn’t wish for the servants to overhear their conversation. Likely they knew what she had been about the other evening, but he didn’t want to add to the gossip. “Why did you come to my club dressed as a man to gamble?”

  She shifted towards him. Those full lips were close enough that all he had to do was lean further and he could kiss them. Why did he even want to do such a thing? He was still a bit angry and had already deduced she was mad.

  “I told you,” Hélène whispered. “I needed the funds.”

  “I am sure your brothers will see to your welfare.”

  She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I do not wish for the Trents or anyone else to see to my welfare. I wish to make my own way, as I did while Mother was still alive.”

  No woman made her own way unless she was of the lowest class. “Where would you care to go if you made your own way?”

  She straightened and smiled. “Milan.”

  Sebastain rubbed his chin and studied her. “I do not understand. Isn’t all your family here?”

  “My brothers will not let me do as I wish.” She crossed her arms across her breasts. “In Milan I can continue as an actress and be a part of the theatre without anyone saying that it’s not proper.”

  “You wish to return to Milan, live alone, and perform on the stage?” This was a lady, a Trent. Trents were respectable. Actresses, for the most part, were not.

  She hitched an eyebrow but didn’t answer. Of course, she had just told him that was what she intended to do, but he couldn’t grasp the fact she wanted to be on her own. It simply wasn’t done. Especially when one was part of a family Society held in high regard.

  “Who would protect you?”

  Hélène blew out a breath. “Because I am a woman, you think I need someone to protect me?” She stood, balancing her weight with both hands on the head of the cane. “I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Women are supposed to be taken care of,” Sebastain said as he came to his feet. “They are delicate and more vulnerable than a man.”

  “By whose standards?” Hélène demanded. “I will grant you that I am not as strong as you, but my mind is sharp.” She took a step away from him and her jaw tightened as pain sliced through her eyes. “And I recall doing very well fencing against you.”

  He gestured to the cane. “Not all that well.”

  Hélène straightened her spine. “It was simply because you have a longer reach.” She leaned toward him. “Admit it, my skill was not lacking.”

  Sebastain shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit he had been impressed. Such an action would only encourage her to put herself in further danger. Besides, her lips were inches from his. All he needed to do was bend slightly forward and they would be touching.

  They drew him, like an addict to opium. Though he knew this was a mistake he would likely regret, Stanwick could not pull back.

  Twelve

  Hélène’s knees nearly gave way when his lips touched hers. Firm, but gentle, coaxing, and delicious. Thank goodness she was leaning on her cane or she would be in a heap on the floor.

  His hand came around to the back of her head, and he tilted just slightly before tracing the seam of her lips. She parted hers, not sure what to do, allowing her instincts to take control. He delved, and she was lost in a sea of sensations. Her hands lost the grip of the cane. It clattered against the table, upsetting a teacup, but she didn’t care. Bracing all her weight on her good leg, she clutched at his shoulders, dearly wishing the corner of the table did not separate them

  Stanwick’s hand snaked around her waist, lifting her from the ground as he moved closer. His kiss deepened further, and all Hélène could do was hold on and be swept away.

  This was nothing like the stage kisses she had encountered in the past. Those had been closed mouth and quick. Even the ones that were supposed to have been passionate never were. She had never been heated to the core as she was now. All Hélène wanted to do was draw Stanwick as close to her person as physically possible.

  “When Jordan told me what happened, he also assured me that you were not familiar with my sister, Stanwick.”

  Stanwick yanked his lips from hers and straightened. Thank goodness he kept a hand anchored about her waist, because Hélène was fairly certain her legs could not hold her at this moment.

  She glanced past Stanwick to find Bentley, Elizabeth and Jordan standing just inside the room. How long had they been there?

  Stanwick slowly let go of Hélène. She balanced herself on her uninjured leg, grasped the arm of the settee, and lowered herself to a seated position. “Would you care for tea?”

  “That would be lovely.” Elizabeth smiled brightly and gave a quick pull of the bell before she settled down beside Hélène.

  The cup Hélène had been drinking from was on the floor, the contents soaked up by the lovely cream and rose woven carpet. The stain might never come out. Every time she saw it, Hélène knew she would remember the moment she was thoroughly kissed for the very first time.

  Why had Bentley, Jordan, and Elizabeth decided to visit now? Couldn’t they have waited an hour, or even a day? How much longer would Stanwick have kissed her? Now that they were here, she would never know.

  She glanced at the men. Bentley was glowering at Stanwick while Jordan studied Stanwick with interest. Perhaps Stanwick shouldn’t have kissed her, but it wasn’t as though her brothers had a say in these matters.

  Stanwick looked grim. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed the kissing as much as she? He had instigated it and could have stopped anytime he wished. So why did he look far from pleased at the moment?

  Bentley jerked his head towards the hall.

  Stanwick turned briefly towards the ladies. “If you will excuse me.” He executed a slight bow and followed Bentley and Jordan out of the room.

  What was that all about?

  Damn and blast. He lost his head for a moment and would now be shackled for life. Sebastain followed the Trent brothers out of the library and into a sitting room further down the hall.

  He was going to marry a madwoman, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  After they entered the salon, Bentley closed the door behind him. Jordan sauntered over to a sideboard where there was a selection of decanters. He pulled the stopper out of one containing a dark liquid and sniffed. He pulled back quickly as though whatever sat inside had gone to ruin. He chose a second decanter and sniffed the contents. This time he smiled. He set the decanter aside and gathered three glasses before pouring one for each of them.

  “I have looked past the fact that Hélène came to Dagger’s dressed as a man,” Bentley said as he took a step forward.

  “That was of her own choosing, as I didn’t know she was a lady until hours later.” Sebastain held his ground even though Bentley was advancing on him. Even if Bentley took a swing, Sebastain would not fight back or cower. He had quite thoroughly kissed the earl’s sister. Even if he knew it would likely earn him a blackened eye in the end, Sebastain suspected he would have still kissed Hélène.

  He hated to admit it to himself, but the moment her lips touched his, the rest of the world ceased to exist. That had never happened to him before. Several times he had enjoyed a lady’s company, even intimacy, but was aware of who else could be in the house or who might call or enter a chamber. He was always very careful never to allow himself to be caught in this situation.

  He hadn’t even bothered to shut the bloody door when the desire to kiss Hélène struck. When had he become so careless? Was it the woman who made him careless? She certainly didn’t bow to convention.

  Jordan Trent pressed a glass into Bentley’s hand, stopping the earl’s advancement. Jordan then handed one to Sebastian. While the two brothers sampled the liquid, Sebastain simply held his and waited. He would drink when this was done and not before. He needed to keep his head about him.

  “I overlooked the fact that you stayed the night in this house after she was injured.”

  “As you should,” Sebastain agreed. “I was only here because I was concerned with her health.”

  “You still remained in a house, unchaperoned, with an innocent young lady,” Bentley ground out.

  “You think me so low as to seduce a lady who had just received seven stitches because of my rapier?” Sebastain demanded.

  Bentley fisted his free hand and took a step forward.

  Jordan placed a hand in the center of Bentley’s chest and looked at Sebastain. “Perhaps you should refrain from using words such as seduce where one of our sisters is concerned.”

  Jordan took another sip of the brandy and studied Sebastain over the edge of his glass. “You also exposed her leg without thought.”

  She was bleeding and had fainted. Was he supposed to just let her lie there and wait for a doctor to arrive? “Would you prefer I risked her death because of propriety?”

  The brothers shared a look that Sebastian could not read.

  “I barely noticed her leg. All I was fixated on was the gash and the blood.” He glanced away. It was a sight he would never forget and doubted he would ever forgive himself for.

  “I know. I was there,” Jordan reminded him.

  “Then why mention it now?” Sebastain demanded.

  “I would have dismissed the incident on account of your concern at the moment—” Jordan tilted his head and looked Sebastain in the eye “—if we hadn’t found you just now, not only kissing Hélène, but holding her rather close.”

  Sebastain thrust his fingers through his hair. There was no argument he could make to get out of this situation. If he had a younger sister and had come across her and a gentleman in the same situation, he would be demanding the fellow marry her. “Very well.” He was soon to be a married man, something he had never wanted, and his wife may very well be mad.

  Thirteen

  Hélène kept glancing to the entry, waiting for the gentlemen to return. Why had they gone from the room?

  Elizabeth watched her, saying nothing as she sipped from her tea and sampled the cakes.

  “What are they doing?” Hélène finally asked.

  “I assume Jordan is keeping Bentley from bludgeoning Stanwick,” Elizabeth answered. “And Bentley is encouraging Stanwick to do the right thing.”

  “Do the right thing?” She glanced at Elizabeth in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “A gentleman does not kiss a lady as Stanwick kissed you without compromising her.”

  Hélène’s mouth popped open. She began to shake her head in denial. They were not going to force a marriage on her. It was bad enough her brothers wished to rule her life, but this was beyond anything she would allow.

  The gentlemen were talking as they came down the hall, though Hélène couldn’t make out what they were saying. She anxiously watched the door, waiting for them to enter. Surely Elizabeth was wrong.

  Jordan and Bentley appeared much happier than when they left, whereas Stanwick looked more serious and perhaps angry, if the tightness of his jaw was any indication. Perhaps her brothers had simply warned him away.

  “Congratulations,” Bentley began.

  “No,” Hélène said before he could say anything further.

  “They are correct,” Stanwick said, his tone all that was proper and respectful, unlike when he sat with her before they arrived. “I am honored to be betrothed.”

  He certainly didn’t look as though he was pleased. “Whom shall you be marrying? It surely isn’t me.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. Did he think she would swoon and thank him for the sacrifice? Did nobody in this room know her?

  “But I compromised you,” Stanwick insisted.

  “By kissing me?” She practically laughed. This was ridiculous.

  “He saw your bared leg as well,” Jordan informed her. “When you fainted, he carried you to your room and saw what damage had been done to your injury.”

  Heat infused her face. She hadn’t known that bit, which was slightly mortifying. Still, it didn’t signify. “He is also not the first man who has seen me near a state of undress.”

  They all stared at her as if dumbfounded. Various stages of shock were registered on their faces.

  “Hélène?” Bentley found his voice first “How could this be?” he asked slowly, his cheeks turning red.

  It took a moment before it dawned on her that he might think she had taken lovers. Clearly, none of those in the room had experience being backstage during a production. She laughed again, which further confused them. Of course, if she claimed to have had lovers, perhaps they wouldn’t make Stanwick marry her or force a Season on her. But Hélène wouldn’t lie to them, nor did she wish to sully her reputation.

  “Costume changes,” she finally said. “Sometimes a scene changes too quickly for an actor or actress to get back to their dressing room, and they change clothing in the wings.”

  Bentley’s shoulders relaxed, and Jordan blew out a breath. They really had thought she had taken lovers. How nice to know how highly her brothers regarded her.

  “I can assure you that many men have seen me in my shift, corset, and pantaloons.” She leaned forward and whispered. “And even more have seen my stockinged calves.”

  Bentley straightened and frowned at her. “That does not dismiss or excuse what we walked in on this afternoon.”

  They were all taking the kiss—a most enjoyable kiss—far too seriously. She wasn’t about to let the delicious incident change the course of her life. “You’re forcing Stanwick to marry me because of a simple kiss? I can assure you that I have been kissed by dozens of men.” Perhaps the number was a little high, but she had been kissed by twelve different men prior to this afternoon. Stanwick made thirteen and by far the best.

  “Pardon?” Bentley choked out.

  “You heard me.”

  Stanwick thrust his fingers through his hair. “How many of these kisses occurred on stage, and how many did not?”

  Why did it matter, she wanted to ask, but she knew the answer and the very reason she didn’t wish to tell them.

  “How many?” Stanwick asked again.

  “All of them.”

  “Stage kisses?” Stanwick clarified. “You certainly can’t compare the two.”

  Heat infused her cheeks. There certainly was a difference, but Hélène suspected that to admit such a thing would only convince Bentley they must marry. “It hardly signifies if there is a difference because I refuse to marry you.”

  Sebastain thought her rejection would bring relief. If the woman refused, there was little he could do, and he was free to continue as he had. Yet disappointment shot through him. He didn’t want to be married, yet he didn’t like it one bit that she refused to marry him. He was wealthy and had been told he was handsome. One day he would be an earl and she could be his countess. What was so bloody wrong with marrying him?