Marrying Winterborne (17 page)

H
ELEN LOWERED HER HEAD
as if to concentrate on the mending in her lap. A sickening, strange, stomach-dropping feeling came over her. Somehow her hands continued the familiar task of sewing, jerkily stabbing the needle through the torn seam of a shirt. Panicked thoughts became ensnarled in her head, and she worked to pull them apart and make sense of them.

Albion was an uncommon name, but not entirely out of the ordinary. It could be a coincidence.

Please, God, please let it be a coincidence
.

Oh that look on Rhys's face. The kind of hatred a man would take to his grave.

Anxiety seethed inside her, making it the effort to remain outwardly calm excruciating. She had to leave the room. She had to go somewhere private, and take a few deep breaths . . . and she had to find Quincy.

He had come to the estate with Rhys. Quincy knew more of her family's secrets than anyone. She would insist that he tell her the truth.

While the conversation continued, Helen tied off the thread of her mending and slowly reached into the sewing box near her foot. She felt for the pair of tiny sewing scissors in the top compartment, and nudged the wickedly sharp blades apart. Deliberately she ran the side of her forefinger against the blade until she felt
a pinching sensation and a hot sting. Drawing her hand back quickly, she glanced with feigned dismay at the drop of bright red blood welling from the cut.

Rhys noticed immediately. He made a Welsh sound of disgruntlement, a flick of breath pushed between the edge of teeth and lower lip. “
Wfft
.” Tugging a handkerchief from inside his coat, he came to her in a few strides. Wordlessly he sank to his haunches in front of her and clamped the folded cloth around her finger.

“I should have looked before reaching for the scissors,” Helen said sheepishly.

His eyes had lost that chilling hardness and were now filled with concern. Carefully, he lifted the handkerchief to look at the cut on her finger. “It's not deep. But you need a plaster.”

Kathleen spoke from the settee. “Shall I ring for Mrs. Church, dear?”

“I'd rather go to her room,” Helen said lightly. “It will be easier there, with all her supplies at hand.”

Rhys rose to his feet, pulling Helen up with him. “I'll go with you.”

“No, do stay,” Helen said quickly, holding the handkerchief around her finger. “You haven't finished your cognac.” She stepped back from him. Avoiding his searching gaze, she sent a quick smile to the room in general. “The hour is late,” she said. “It's time for me to retire. Good night, everyone.”

After the family responded in kind, Helen left the parlor with measured steps, fighting the urge to break into a run. She continued down the grand staircase, crossed through the main hall, and descended the servants' stairs. In contrast to the quiet emptiness of the first floor, belowstairs bustled with activity. The servants had finished their dinner and were clearing away
dishes and flatware, while the cook supervised advance preparations for the next day's meals.

A burst of laughter came from the servants' hall. Inching closer to the doorway, Helen saw Quincy sitting at the long table with a group of footmen and maids. He appeared to be regaling them with stories of his new life in London. Quincy had always been a well-liked member of the staff, and he had surely been missed since he had been hired away by Rhys.

As Helen wondered how she might attract his attention without causing a scene, she heard the housekeeper's voice behind her.

“Lady Helen?”

She turned to face Mrs. Church, whose plump face was trestled with concern.

“What brings you belowstairs, my lady? You have only to ring, and I'll send someone up to you.”

With a rueful smile, Helen held up her injured finger. “A slight mishap with the sewing scissors,” she explained. “I thought it best to come to you directly.”

Mrs. Church clucked over the little wound, and led her to the housekeeper's room, just two doors away. It served as both a sitting room and a place where Mrs. Church conducted the business of household management. From the earliest time Helen could remember, Mrs. Church had kept a large medicine chest there. Whenever Theo, Helen, or the twins had injured themselves or had felt ill, they had gone to the housekeeper's room to be bandaged, dosed, and comforted.

Sitting at the small table, Helen remarked, “Everyone seems merry tonight.”

Mrs. Church opened the medicine chest. “Yes, they're fair tickled to have Quincy back for a visit. They've asked a thousand questions, mostly about the
department store. Quincy brought a catalog for everyone to marvel over. None of us can imagine so many goods to be found under one roof.”

“Winterborne's is very grand,” Helen said. “Like a palace.”

“So Quincy says.” After dabbing tincture of benzoin onto the cut, Mrs. Church cut a small strip from a piece of white sarcenet imbued with isinglass, and moistened it with lavender water solution. Deftly she wrapped the plaster around Helen's finger. “Quincy seems to have been invigorated by working for your Mr. Winterborne. I haven't seen him so spry in years.”

“I'm glad to hear it. As a matter of fact . . .” Helen tried to make her tone casual. “. . . I would like to speak privately with Quincy, if you would bring him here.”

“Now?”

Helen replied with a single nod.

“Of course, my lady.” An unaccountable pause followed. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Helen said quietly. “I think so.”

Mrs. Church stood, frowning. “Shall I bring some tea?”

Helen shook her head.

“I'll fetch Quincy straightaway.”

In less than two minutes, there was a tap at the door, and Quincy's short, stocky figure entered the housekeeper's room. “Lady Helen,” he said, his black-currant eyes smiling beneath the heavy white swags of his eyebrows.

It was a relief to see him. In the absence of any affection or interest from her father or Theo, Quincy had been the only kind male presence in Helen's life. As a child, she had gone to him whenever she was in trouble. He had always helped her without hesitation,
such as the time she had accidentally torn an entry in the
Encyclopædia Britannica
and he had removed the entire page with a razor blade, assuring her that the family would be no worse off for being deprived of the history of Croatian astronomy. Or the time she had knocked over a porcelain figurine, and Quincy had glued the head back on so precisely that no one had ever detected it.

Helen gave him her hand. “I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening.”

“Not an interruption,” Quincy said, pressing her palm warmly, “but a pleasure, as always.”

Gesturing to the other chair at the table, Helen said, “Please join me.”

The valet remained standing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You know that would not be fitting.”

Helen nodded slightly, her smile turning strained. “Yes, but this isn't an ordinary conversation. I'm afraid—” She paused, the words jamming inside, refusing to emerge. As she tried again, all she could seem to do was repeat numbly, “I'm afraid.”

Quincy stood before her, his expression patient and encouraging.

“I have something important to ask,” Helen finally managed to say. “I need you to tell me the truth.” To her annoyance, raw salt tears collected in the corners of her eyes. “I think I already know the answer,” she said. “But it would help if you would tell me—” She stopped as she saw the way his face had changed.

Quincy's shoulders were sinking as if from the weight of a terrible burden. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “you shouldn't ask.”

“I have to. Oh, Quincy . . .” Helen's temples throbbed
as she fixed her gaze on him. “Is Albion Vance my father?”

Slowly the valet reached for the empty chair, repositioned it, and sat heavily. Folding his hands into a compact bale of fingers, he rested them on the table. He focused on the lone casement window on the outside wall. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“I found an unfinished letter that my mother had written to him.”

Quincy was silent. His gaze was distant, as if he were staring all the way to the farthest edge of the world. “I wish you had not.”

“So do I. Please tell me, Quincy . . . is he my father?”

His attention returned to Helen. “Yes.”

She flinched. “Do I look like him?” she whispered.

“You look like neither of them,” he said gently. “You resemble only yourself. A unique and lovely creation.”

“Rabbit-faced,” Helen said, and could have bitten her tongue at the self-pitying remark. With chagrin, she explained, “She wrote that too.”

“Your mother was a complicated woman. Competitive with every female in the world, including her own daughters.”

“Did she ever love my father?”

“Until her last day of life,” he surprised her by saying.

Helen gave him a skeptical glance. “But she and Mr. Vance . . .”

“He was not her only indiscretion. Nor was the earl always faithful to her. But your parents cared for each other in their own fashion. After your mother's liaison with Mr. Vance had ended, and you were born, your parents resumed their relationship.” After removing his
spectacles, he fished in his coat for a handkerchief and cleaned the lenses meticulously. “You were the sacrifice. You were kept upstairs in the nursery, out of sight and out of mind.”

“What about Mr. Vance? Did he love my mother?”

“No man can see inside another's heart. But I don't believe he is capable of that particular emotion.” He replaced his spectacles. “It would be best to pretend that you never learned about this.”

“I can't,” Helen said, digging her elbows into the table and pressing the sockets of her eyes into her palms. “Mr. Winterborne hates him.”

Quincy's tone was uncharacteristically dry. “There isn't a Welshman who doesn't.”

Helen lowered her hands and looked at him. “What has he done?”

“Mr. Vance's loathing of the Welsh is well-known. He wrote a pamphlet that is widely quoted by those who seek to eradicate the use of Welsh language in schools. He believes their children should be forced to speak only English.” He paused. “But in addition to that, Mr. Winterborne has a personal grudge against him. I don't know what it is, only that it is so vile, he won't speak of it. The subject is dangerous and best left alone.”

Helen gave him a bewildered glance. “You're suggesting that I keep this from Mr. Winterborne?”

“You must never say a word to him, or to anyone.”

“But he'll find out someday.”

“If he does, you can deny knowledge of it.”

Helen shook her head in dazed misery. “I couldn't lie to him.”

“There are rare times in life when a lie serves the greater good. This is one of them.”

“But Mr. Vance may approach Mr. Winterborne someday and tell him. Or he may even approach me.” Distraught, she rubbed the corners of her eyes. “Oh God.”

“If he does,” the valet replied, “you will pretend to be astonished. No one will know that you were the wiser.”

“
I'll
know. Quincy, I must tell Mr. Winterborne.”

“Don't. For his sake. He needs you, my lady. In the short time I have known him, he has changed for the better because of you. If you care for him, don't force him to make a choice that will hurt him beyond healing.”

Her eyes widened. “A choice? Then you believe he would end the engagement if he knew?”

“It would be unlikely. But not impossible.”

Helen shook her head slightly. She couldn't fathom it. Not after the things Rhys had said and done, the way he'd held and kissed her that very afternoon. “He wouldn't.”

Quincy's eyes glimmered with some strong emotion. “Lady Helen, forgive me for speaking freely. But I've known you since you were an infant in the cradle. I always thought it a great injustice, and a pity, that an innocent child was so scorned and neglected. You were blamed by both of your parents, God rest their souls, for sins that were theirs, not yours. Why should you continue to pay the price? Why shouldn't you allow yourself to be cherished as you have always deserved?”

“I want to. But first I must tell Mr. Winterborne the truth about who I am.”

Quincy paused, looking troubled. “Mr. Winterborne is a good master. Demanding, but fair and generous. He looks after his people, and treats them with respect,
down to the lowest scullery maid. But there are limits. Last week, Mr. Winterborne saw one of his footmen, Peter, cuff a beggar boy that had run up to him on the street. He blistered Peter's ears with a shaming lecture, and dismissed him on the spot. The poor footman apologized and begged for forgiveness, but Mr. Winterborne wouldn't relent. Some of the other servants and I tried to approach him on Peter's behalf, and he threatened to dismiss us if we dared to say another word. He said there were some mistakes he could not forgive.” He was silent for a moment. “With Mr. Winterborne, there is a line never to be crossed. If someone does, he cuts them out completely, and never looks back.”

“He wouldn't do that to his wife,” Helen protested.

“I agree.” Quincy looked away before adding with difficulty, “But, you're not his wife yet.”

Stunned, Helen wondered if he was right, if it was truly that dangerous to tell Rhys about her father.

“Mr. Winterborne is not an ordinary man, my lady. He fears nothing, and answers to no one. He's above scandal, and in some ways he's even above the law. I daresay he conducts himself better than most would, in his position. But he can be unpredictable. If you want to marry Mr. Winterborne, my lady, you must keep your silence.”

T
HE DISTANT CHIMES OF
a clock drifted through the house as Helen slipped from her room and navigated the shadows of the upstairs hallway. Rhys had been lodged in a guest room in the east wing, for which she was thankful. They would need privacy for the conversation they were about to have.

She was as afraid as she had ever been about anything. Her heart pounded so hard that it felt as if something were striking her chest from the outside. She didn't know Rhys well enough to be certain how he would react when she told him. Whatever he might feel for her, it was founded on some ideal of perfection, of an aristocratic wife on a pedestal. The news she was about to tell him wasn't a step down from the pedestal—it was a leap off a cliff.

The problem was not with something she had done. The problem was with
who she was
, and there was no solution for that. Would Rhys ever be able to look at her without seeing shades of Albion Vance? She had spent most of her life with people who were supposed to love her, and hadn't. She couldn't endure spending the rest of it with a husband who would do the same.

By the time Helen reached the east wing, she was desperately cold despite the wool lining of her dressing gown and the thickness of her embroidered slippers.
Shivering, she approached Rhys's door and knocked tentatively.

Her stomach lurched as she was confronted with Rhys's huge dark form, silhouetted against the glow of the hearth and a small bedside lamp. He was dressed only in a robe, his chest and feet bare. Reaching an arm around her waist, he drew her past the threshold, closed the door, and locked it decisively.

As Rhys pulled her against him, Helen pressed her cheek against the exposed part of his chest.

Feeling the way she trembled, he cuddled her closer. “You're nervous,
cariad
.”

She nodded against his chest.

One of his hands gently cupped the side of her face. “Are you afraid that I'll hurt you?”

She understood that he was referring to the physical joining that had left her sore after their first time. What she feared, of course, was a far different kind of pain. Licking her dry lips, she forced herself to reply. “Yes. But not in the way you—”

“No, no,” he soothed, “it will be different this time.” He bent his head and hugged her as if he were trying to surround her with himself. “Your pleasure means more to me than anything in life.” One of his hands slid low on her hips to the beginning curve of her bottom. His hand traveled to her front, gently pressing her stomach before sliding to the place between her thighs.

The teasing stroke sent a thrill of sensation through her, and her legs quaked until she could hardly stand. She took a breath to speak, but it stuck in her throat as a half-sob. Swallowing it back, she said unsteadily, “It's not that, it's . . . I'm afraid because I think . . . I might lose you.”

“Lose me?” Rhys looked down at her keenly, and
her gaze fell from his. After a moment, she heard him ask, “Why would you worry about that?”

Now was the time to tell him. She tried to blurt it out—
Albion Vance is my father
—but she couldn't make herself do it. Her mouth refused to shape the words. All she could do was stand there and shiver like a treble wire of a piano, fine vibrations of cowardice singing through her.

“I don't know,” she finally said.

As she kept her face averted, continuing to tremble, Rhys bent to nudge a kiss against her cheek. “Ah you've made yourself upset,” he exclaimed quietly, and scooped her up with an ease that stole her breath away.

He was so strong, the heavy muscles of his chest and arms capable of crushing her. But he was gentle, careful, carrying her to an upholstered chair near the hearth and sitting with her sideways in his lap. Removing one of her slippers, he grasped her ice-cold foot in his big, warm hand and began to knead it slowly. His thumb rubbed into her arch, easing soreness she hadn't even been aware of. She bit back a quiet moan as he proceeded to massage every vulnerable place on her sole. Gently he squeezed each of her toes between his thumb and forefinger, and made small, firm circles on the ball of her foot. In a while he reached for her other foot, rubbing and pressing patiently until she had relaxed in his lap, her head resting against his heartbeat. Her breathing slowed as a kind of trance came over her, a drowsing-awake feeling.

Outside the windows, the winter wind raced over the close-grazed downs, causing tree limbs and branches to sway like unbolted gates. Creaks and settling noises came from the house's bones as the night deepened.

Rhys cradled her comfortably while they listened to
the crackling of the seasoned oak on the hearth and watched sparks dance and rise. No one had ever held Helen so close, for so long.

“Why do old houses creak so much?” he asked idly, playing with her braid and drawing the silky end across his cheek.

“When all the warmth fades at night, it makes the old boards contract and slip against each other.”

“A bloody massive house, it is. And you were left to your own devices in this place for too long. I didn't understand before, how alone you were.”

“I had the twins for company. I watched over them.”

“But there was no one to watch over you.”

A sense of uneasiness came over her, as it always did whenever she reflected on her childhood. It had seemed as if her very survival had depended on never complaining or drawing attention to herself. “Oh I—I didn't need that.”

“All little girls need to feel safe and wanted.” He stroked back the fine loose locks around her face, his fingertips gently following the changing patterns of firelight against her hair. “When you grow up without something, the lack of it is always with you. Even when you finally have it.”

Helen looked up at him in wonder. “Do you ever feel that way?”

His smile turned self-mocking. “My fortune is so large,
cariad
, that the numbers would frighten any reasonable man. But something inside me always insists that every last shilling could disappear tomorrow.” His hand charted the shape of her hip and followed the line of her thigh. Clasping her knee, he stared into her wide eyes. “When we were in London, you told me that your world was very small. Well, my world is very large.
And you're the most important person in it. You're safe and wanted now, Helen. In time, you'll become used to that, and you won't worry.” As she turned her face against his chest, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “We're bound to each other,” he whispered, “for as long as the world exists. Remember?”

Helen rubbed her cheek against his velvet robe. “We haven't made our vows yet.”

“We did that afternoon, when you came to my bed. That's what it meant.” His fingers slid beneath her chin, coaxing her to look at him. Amusement deepened the faint whisks at the outer corners of his eyes. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, but there's no getting rid of me.”

Desperately she stared at the face above hers, all strong, stark angles and shadows, a striking framework for those compelling sable eyes. Rhys hid nothing, letting her see the tenderness that was reserved for her alone. She felt the overwhelming pull between them, like the force of gravity between twin stars.

Rhys adjusted her higher on his chest, his powerful body flexing beneath her. Her breasts felt hot and full, and she turned to press them against him. Dizzy with guilt and longing, she linked her arms around his neck. She wanted more of him, his skin, his taste, his body inside hers.

Tell him
, her tortured conscience screamed.
Tell him!

Instead, she heard herself whisper, “I want to go to bed now.”

Beneath her weight, where she rested on him intimately, she felt a thickening pressure.

His brows lifted in subtle teasing. “Alone?”

“With you.”