"Every time you wear these,mignonne, think of . . . this."

She hadn't meant to let him get so close. Hadn't meant to tip up her face and let him kiss her. But with the intoxicating warmth of him so near, the murmurous sound of his deep voice in her ear, the sense-stealing sensation of the pearls, still warm, still shifting provocatively between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she was lost.

His lips closed over hers. At the first hint of pressure, the first demand, she opened to him, not submissively but defiantly, refusing, even now, to surrender.

She could kiss him and survive, let him kiss her and still not be his. If he thought otherwise, he would learn. Reaching up, she slid her fingers into his hair and boldly kissed him back. Surprised him for a second, but only that.

His response was unexpected-no suffocating rush of pa.s.sion, of overwhelming desire. Instead, he matched her, gave her all she wanted, hinted at more. Lured her on.

She knew it, but resistance was impossible. The only way she could hold on to her self, retain some semblance of awareness and self-will, was to immerse herself in the kiss, give herself over to it and follow his lead, noting each step along the way, knowingly taking each one.

Within seconds he had taken her from this world. Only he could lead her back.

Sebastian released the pearls, left them to lie, a faint memory between her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Closing his arms about her, he drew her to him, until her soft flesh was once again pressed against his much harder frame. Desire swelled, gnashed like some ravenous beast, wanting more-much more.

Wanting her beneath him, sheathing him.

He knew it couldn't be-not yet. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. He didn't even dare caress her more definitely, his rake's instincts warning not yet, not yet.

She was driving him slowly, steadily, mad. If he didn't have her soon . . .

Never had he waited so long; no other woman-none he had desired-had ever denied him. Had ever refused to take the journey with him.

Yet despite the fact that her body was his, despite the fact that her pulse leaped when he neared, her pupils dilated and her skin warmed the instant he touched her, her mind refused to yield-her will stubbornly stood in his way.

Every night he went without her only increased his desire, that primitive urge to seize, slake his l.u.s.t . . . possess.

Her hands touched his cheeks, framed his face, held it steady as she pressed a flagrantly pa.s.sionate kiss on him in return for his most recent foray. He felt his control shake, quake, as she teased and taunted him to reply . . .

He did, for one instant let his shield slip, let her glimpse what waited for her-the heat, the unbridled pa.s.sion behind his suave mask.

All resistance fled before his onslaught; her spine, until then infused with her stubborn will, softened. Melted.

He drew back, quickly, before desire and rampant pa.s.sion ran away with him-with them. Chest laboring, he lifted his head. Felt her drag in a long breath, felt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s press against his chest.

Then her lids fluttered; from beneath the lace of her long lashes, he saw her eyes gleam. They were more jewel-toned than his emeralds about her throat, hanging at her ears, circling her wrists.

Despite his frustration, satisfaction welled and warmed him. He eased his hold on her; she opened her eyes, blinked, stepped back.

Glanced at him warily.

He managed not to smile. "Come,mignonne -we must return to the ballroom."

She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the door. He paused as they reached it. Raising one hand, he hooked a finger in the pearl strands and lifted them from beneath her bodice, then draped them over the silk once more.

"Remember,mignonne. " He caught her wide gaze. "Whenever you wear them, think of what will be."

When Helena awoke the next morning, the first thing she saw was his pearls cascading out of the green leather case. They sat on her dresser where she had left them-and mocked her.

"Je suis folle."

With a groan, she turned her shoulder on them, but she could, like phantoms, feel them as if they were still about her throat, at her ears, on her wrists.

She'd been mad indeed to think that, in that arena, she could hope to stand against him and prevail.

Her eyes narrowed as she thought back over the entire episode. Turning, she looked at the pearls again. Her first impulse had been to bury them at the bottom of her trunk. Pride dictated that she wear them every night. He'd comprehensively won that round, but she couldn't let him know it.

Which meant . . . that she would indeed remember every touch of the pearls, warm from his hand, against her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Would indeed wonder . . .

She was getting very close to being out of her depth. She couldn't let him win the next round.

And she couldn't call a halt to the game.

She was doing it again-pulling back, tumbling obstacles into his path.

Across Lady Cottlesford's ballroom, Sebastian watched Helena with something very like aggravation simmering behind his facade.

Time was running out. He hadn't imagined, when he'd set out to make her admit she wanted him, that it would take this long. There were only five days left to Lady Lowy's masquerade, the event that in recent years had heralded the ton's exodus from London.

He had five more days-five nights, more accurately-to gain her capitulation. To gain some indication that she would welcome his advances quite aside from a formal proposal of marriage. That was the minimum he would accept.

Five nights. Plenty of time normally. Except, with her, he'd already been laying siege for seven nights. Although he'd dented her walls, he hadn't yet set them crumbling, hadn't yet convinced her to lower her drawbridge and welcome him in.

"How's the wife hunting going?"

Martin. Sebastian turned as his youngest brother clapped him on the shoulder.

One glance at his face and Martin took a step back, held up his hands. "No one heard, I swear."

"Pray that that's true." Yet another irritation.

"Well? Do you still have your eye on the comtesse? Fetching piece, I admit, but sharp, don't you think?"

"Let her hear you speak of her like that and she's liable to demand I string you up by your thumbs. Or worse."

"Fire-eater, is she?"

"Her temper is marginally better than mine."

"Oh, all right, all right, I'll stop teasing. But you can't deny the issue has a certain personal relevance. You can hardly expect me to be uninterested."

"Uninterested, no.Less interested, certainly."

Martin ignored that and looked around. "Have you seen Augusta?"

"I believe," Sebastian said, studying the lace at his cuff, "that our dear sister has quit the capital. Huntly sent word this morning."

Martin glanced sharply at him. "She's all right?"