Part 20 (1/2)

He looked down at the note in his hand. With two fingers, he opened it, smoothed it. Reread it.

Then he crumpled it. With one flick, he sent it flying into the fire. The flames flared for an instant, then subsided.

Sebastian considered them, then turned and strode for the door.

Chapter Five.

ITstarted raining during the night and continued through the dawn, a steady, relentless downpour that left the streets awash and the skies a leaden gray.

Sebastian spent the morning at home attending to estate business, then essayed forth to White's for lunch-for distraction. But the conversation was as desultory as the weather; he returned to Grosvenor Square in midafternoon.

”Do you wish for anything, my lord?” Webster, his butler, shook water from his cloak, then handed it to a waiting footman.

”No.” Sebastian considered the library door; he started toward it. ”If anyone should call, I don't wish to be disturbed.”

”Indeed, Your Grace.”

A footman opened the door; Sebastian crossed the threshold, then paused. The door closed behind him. He grimaced, and headed for the sideboard.

Two minutes later, a brandy balloon liberally supplied with amber liquid in one hand, he sank into the leather armchair before the fire and stretched his damp shoes toward the blaze. He sipped, let the brandy and the fire warm him and chase away the chill that was only partly due to the weather.

Helena-whatwas he to do about her?

He'd understood very well all she'd accused him of; the unfortunate fact was that all she'd said was true. He couldn't deny it. There seemed little point in pretending that skillful manipulation wasn't, at base, a large part of his power, a large part of the a.r.s.enal men such as he-ex-warrior conquerors-used in these more civilized times. If given a choice, most people would rather accept his manipulation than face him over a battlefield.

”Most people,” most unfortunately, did not include females reared to be the wives and queens of warrior conquerors.

She, in fact, was too much like him.

And, very clearly-very obviously to his highly attuned senses-she'd been subjected to her guardian's manipulations for too long, too consistently, too much against her unexpectedly strong will.

He could understand far better than most that enforced submission to another's will, especially coupled with awareness of the means of ensuring such submission-an awareness of the manipulation practiced on her-would have grated on Helena's proud and stubborn soul. Would ultimately have become unbearable. Her will was a tangible thing, not to be underestimated-as he'd discovered last night.

Spoiled by ladies who would at the most have pouted at his strategy, then allowed him to cheer them up, he'd been completely unprepared for Helena's fury. Her revelations, however, were what had given him pause.

They were what had him here, taking refuge in brandy and silence, hoping some solution would spontaneously emerge. As things stood . . .

He could hardly pretend he was not what he was, and if she'd set her stubborn mind against all liaisons with men such as he, if she could not bear to be the wife of a man such as he . . . what, indeed, could he do?

Other than brood. The occupation was unfamiliar. He didn't appreciate the hold she had on his mind, on his senses, on his thoughts, let alone his dreams.

Somewhere along the line, simple pursuit had trans.m.u.ted to obsession, a state with which he'd had until now no serious acquaintance. His previous conquests, predatory though they might have been, had never really mattered.

Despite her eminently clearly stated position, he couldn't turn away and let Helena go. Simply let her disappear from his life.

Accept defeat.

Allow her to go through life never knowing what it would be like to scale the heights with him.

He watched her through the crowd at Lady Devons.h.i.+re's drum and inwardly shook his head. At himself. If Helena heard his last thought, she'd have his entrails for garters, yet . . . it was, underneath all else, how he felt.