Marrying Winterborne (19 page)

Rhys turned his head to kiss her. “You've no need to flatter my vanity.”

“I'm not flattering you. I think you're remarkable.”

Whether she really felt that way, or was merely playing the role of loyal spouse, her words smoothed over the rough-hewn, ragged places of his soul like some healing balm. God, he needed this, had always needed it. Her sleek young body pressed against his as she
drew her hands over him tentatively. He lay still and let her explore him, satisfying her curiosity.

“Was there ever a woman you thought of marrying?” she asked.

Rhys hesitated, unwilling to have his past probed and exposed. But she was underneath his armor now. “There was a girl I fancied,” he admitted.

“What was her name?”

“Peggy Gilmore. Her father was a furniture-maker who supplied my store.” His mind sifted through unwanted memories, pulling out ghostly images, words, shades of feeling. “A pretty girl with green eyes. I didn't court her—it never went that far.”

“Why not?”

“I knew that a good friend of mine, Ioan, was in love with her.”

Helen draped herself along his side, a slender leg hitching over one of his. “That's a Welsh name, isn't it?”

“Aye. Ioan's family, the Crewes, lived on High Street, not far from my father's shop. They made and sold fishing tackle. There was a giant stuffed salmon in the window.” He smiled slightly, remembering his fascination with the shop's displays of taxidermied fish and reptiles. “Mr. Crewe talked my parents into letting me take penmanship lessons with Ioan two afternoons a week. He convinced them that it would help their business to have someone who could write a good legible hand. Years later, when I began to expand my store, I hired Ioan as the merchandise controller. A fine, honest man, he was, good as gold. I couldn't blame Peggy for preferring him to me—I'd never have loved her the way he did.”

“Did they marry? Does he still work at the store?”

A dark feeling came over Rhys, as it always did when he thought about Ioan. He regretted having mentioned him, or Peggy—he didn't want to let the past intrude on his time with Helen. “Let's talk no more of it,
cariad
—it's not a pretty story, and the telling of it brings out the worst in me.”

But Helen was intent on prying the information from him. “Did you have a falling-out?”

Rhys was irritably silent, responding with a single shake of his head. He thought Helen would retreat then. But he felt her lips press against his cheek, while one of her hands slid into his hair and lay lightly against his skull. The silent consolation, so unexpected, undermined him completely.

Baffled by his inability to withhold anything from her, he let out a sigh. “Ioan's been dead these four years past.”

Helen was still and quiet as she absorbed the information. After a moment she kissed him again, this time on his chest. Over his heart.
Damn it
, he thought, realizing that he was going to tell her everything. He couldn't put any distance between them when she did something like that.

“He and Peggy married,” he said. “They were happy for a while. They were well matched, and Ioan had made a fortune with his private shares in the store. Anything Peggy wanted, he provided.” Rhys paused before admitting ruefully, “Except his time. Ioan worked the same hours he always had, staying late at the store each night. He left her alone for too long. I should have put a stop to that. I should have told him to go home and pay attention to his wife.”

“Surely that wasn't your place.”

“As his friend, I could have said it.” He felt Hel
en's head settle on his chest. “It won't be an issue in our marriage,” he muttered. “I won't keep bachelor's hours.”

“Our house is next to the store. If you work too late, I'll simply come and fetch you.”

Helen's pragmatic reply nearly made him smile.

“You'll have no trouble tempting me from my work,” he said, playing with her hair as it streamed over his chest in pale ribbons.

Gently Helen prompted, “Peggy became discontent?”

“Aye, she needed more companionship than Ioan provided. She went to social events without him, and eventually fell prey to the attentions of a man who charmed and seduced her.” Rhys hesitated, conscious of the same choking tightness that had invaded his throat the other spare handful of times he'd related the story. He forced himself to go on, laying out the events as if setting up a game of solitaire. “She came to Ioan, shamed and weeping, and told him that she was with child, and it wasn't his. He forgave her, and said he'd stand by her. The fault was his, he said, because he'd made her lonely. He promised to claim the babe as his own, and love it as a true father.”

“How honorable of him,” Helen said softly.

“Ioan was a better man than I could ever be. He devoted himself to Peggy. He was with her every possible moment during her confinement, from the quickening until the labor began. But it went wrong. The labor lasted two days, and the pains became so bad that they gave Peggy chloroform. She reacted badly—they'd given it to her too fast—she was dead in five minutes. When he was told, Ioan collapsed from shock and grief. I had to carry him to his room.”

Rhys shook his head, hating the memory of his own helplessness, his overwhelming need to fix everything and make it all right, the way he'd slammed repeatedly into the fact that he couldn't. “He went mad with despair,” he continued. “For the next few days he saw visions, talked to people who weren't there. He asked when Peggy's labor would be finished, as if the clock had stopped in that moment and couldn't be started again.” His lips curved with a humorless smile. “Ioan was the friend I always talked to when there was a problem I couldn't solve, when I needed to mull something over. I began to wonder if I'd gone a bit mad myself: More than once I caught myself thinking, ‘By God, I need to talk to Ioan about this, so we can figure out what to do.' Except that he was the problem. He was a broken man. I brought doctors to him. A priest. Friends and relations, anyone who might reach through to him.” He paused and swallowed. “A week after Peggy's death, Ioan hanged himself.”

“Oh my dear . . .” he heard Helen whisper.

They were both silent for a long time.

“Ioan was like a brother,” Rhys eventually said. “I've waited for the memory to fade. For time to make it better. But so far it hasn't. All I can do is shut it away, and not think of it.”

“I understand,” Helen said, as if she truly did. Her palm moved in a gentle circle on his chest. “Did the baby die?”

“No, it survived. A girl. Peggy's family didn't want it, in light of its origins, so they sent it to the natural father.”

“You don't know what became of her?”

“I don't give a damn,” he said bitterly. “She's Albion Vance's daughter.”

A
STRANGE, NUMB
feeling invaded Helen, as if her soul had just been jarred loose from her body. She lay still against him, her thoughts whirling like moths in the darkness. Why hadn't it occurred to her before that her mother probably wasn't the only woman that Vance had seduced and abandoned?

Poor unwanted infant—she was four now—what had Vance done with her? Had he taken her in?

Somehow Helen didn't think so.

No wonder Rhys hated him.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly.

“For what? You've nothing to do with it.”

“I'm just . . . sorry.”

She felt him take a tight-banded breath, and her numbness was swept away in a wave of compassion and tenderness. She wanted badly to comfort him, for the pain of the past and the hurt yet to be inflicted.

The fire had sunk down to red coals in their beds of ash, throwing off a thin buttered glow. Most of the heat in the room came from the big masculine form beside her. She moved along his body, feeling her way with lips and hands. He was still, clearly curious about what she intended. The drum-tight surface of his stomach contracted as she drew her mouth across it. Reaching his groin, she breathed in the intimate scent of him, musk and a hint of sharpness that reminded her of whittled birch, and sweetness, like a hot summer meadow. She heard his low exclamation as she touched the hard length of him, gripping until it swelled thickly against her fingers.

Rhys gasped out a few words, beseeching and urgent. Helen didn't think he realized that he was speaking in his native language, which of course she hadn't a hope of understanding. But he sounded so violently appreciative
that she bent to kiss him as she'd done before. His hips jerked reflexively, and he grunted as if he were in pain. Helen hesitated. His shaking hand came to her head and smoothed over her hair in what seemed to be a mixture of pleading and benediction. She dared to wrap her lips around him, tasting salt as she pulled back slowly. He tensed like a man strung on a torture rack, groaning as she repeated the caress.

In the next moment, he had rolled Helen onto her side, fitting their bodies together like a pair of spoons. One of his muscled arms hooked beneath her top knee, lifting it high, and Helen tensed in surprise as she felt him entering her. He kissed the side of her neck and murmured in Welsh, words like audible caresses. His mouth found the vulnerable spot low behind her ear, where he knew she was especially sensitive. She relaxed helplessly against him as he centered himself and rocked firmly upward, the angle teasing a new place inside her. After adjusting her top leg to rest on his, he slid a hand between her thighs.

Moaning, she abandoned herself to the rhythm he set, his strength all around her, the vital force of him sinking deep. His hips lunged with increasing power, driving the sensations to a higher pitch, until pleasure seemed to come from every direction. A scalding flush came over her, followed by a stronger one. She turned her mouth against the hard arm beneath her neck, biting into the dense muscle, trying to muffle her cries. His scorching breath struck her neck in rapid gusts, and she felt the graze of his teeth and the scrape of his bristle on the tender skin. Twisting, convulsing, she forced her hips down on his, taking his full length, and he poured into her with a ragged groan, holding deep and fast.

They were both still, relaxing slowly. When Helen
could finally move, she eased her top leg down. She was limp and heavy, replete with satisfaction. Deep within her belly, where Rhys still pressed, she felt an insistent pulse, and she couldn't tell whether it came from him or her.

His hand coasted gently over her body, caressing her hip and waist. Helen quivered as he bit gently at her earlobe. He had drawn his legs up behind hers, the hair on his limbs pleasantly coarse against her skin.

“You forgot to speak in English,” she said after a moment, her voice languid. “During.”

His lips toyed with the rim of her ear. “I was so wild for you, I couldn't have told you my own name.”

“You don't think anyone heard us, do you?”

“I think it was no accident that I was given a room far away from the family.”

“Perhaps they were afraid you would snore,” she said lightly, and paused. “
Do
you snore?”

“I don't think so. You'll have to tell me.”

Helen snuggled deeper into his embrace. Sighing, she said, “I can't be found here in the morning when the maid comes to light the grate. I should go back to my room.”

“No, stay.” His arms tightened. “I'll wake you early. I never sleep past dawn.”

“Never? Why not?”

Rhys smiled lazily against her neck. “It's what comes of being raised a grocer's son. My day started at first light, delivering baskets of orders to families around the neighborhood. If I was fast enough, I could stop for a five-minute game of marbles with friends before going back to the shop.” He chuckled. “Whenever my mam heard marbles clicking in my pocket, she took them and gave me a clout to the side of the head. There
was no time for play, she would say, with so much work to be done. So I took to wrapping them in a handkerchief to keep them quiet.”

Helen pictured him as a gangly boy, hurrying through his morning chores with a cache of forbidden marbles in his pocket. A bloom of emotion expanded in her chest, an electrifying happiness that almost bordered on pain.

She loved him. She loved the boy he had been, and the man he was now. She loved the look and smell and feel of him, the brusque charm of his accent, the touchy pride and determined will that had taken him so far in life, and the thousand other qualities that made him so extraordinary. Turning in his arms, she pressed herself as tightly to him as she could, and gradually surrendered to an uneasy sleep.

“T
HE CARRIAGE IS COMING
down the drive,” Cassandra said, kneeling on the settee and staring through the receiving room window. “They've almost reached the house.”

It had fallen to West to collect Lady Berwick and her lady's maid at the Alton railway station, and bring them to Eversby Priory.

“Oh God,” Kathleen muttered, putting a hand to her chest as if to calm a rampaging heartbeat.

She had been tense and distracted throughout the morning, walking from room to room to make certain that every detail was perfect. Flower arrangements had been scrutinized and divested of any drooping blossoms. Carpets had been ruthlessly beaten and brushed, silver and glass had been polished with soft linen, and all the candleholders had been loaded with new beeswax tapers. Every sideboard was weighted with bowls of fresh fruit, and bottles of chilled champagne and soda water had been set in ice-filled urns.

“Why are you so worried about how the house looks?” Cassandra asked. “Lady Berwick has already seen it once before, when you married Theo.”

“Yes, but I wasn't responsible for anything at the time. Now I've been living here for almost a year, and if anything is amiss, she'll know it's my fault.”

Pacing in a continuous circle, Kathleen spoke distractedly. “Remember to curtsy when Lady Berwick arrives. And don't say ‘How do you do'—she doesn't like that—just tell her ‘Good afternoon.'” She stopped abruptly and cast a wild glance at their surroundings. “Where are the dogs?”

“In the upstairs parlor,” Pandora said. “Do you want them down here?”

“
No
, dear God, no, Lady Berwick doesn't allow dogs in the receiving room.” Kathleen stopped in her tracks as an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. “Also, don't say anything about the pet pig we had living in the house last year.” The pacing resumed. “When she asks a question of you, try to answer simply, and don't be amusing. She doesn't like wit.”

“We'll do our best,” Pandora said. “But she already doesn't like Cassandra and me. After we met her at the wedding, I heard her telling someone that we behaved like a pair of Bilberry goats.”

Kathleen continued to pace. “I wrote to her that you'd both become accomplished and well-mannered young ladies.”

“You lied?” Pandora asked, her eyes widening.

“We had just begun our etiquette lessons at the time,” Kathleen said defensively. “I assumed our progress would go a bit faster.”

Cassandra looked worried. “I wish I'd paid more attention.”

“I don't care a pickle if Lady Berwick approves of me or not,” Pandora said.

“But Kathleen does,” Helen pointed out gently. “That's why we're going to try our best.”

Pandora heaved a sigh. “I wish I could be perfect like you, Helen.”

“Me?” Helen shook her head with an uncomfortable laugh. “Darling, I'm the least perfect person in the world.”

“Oh, we know you've make mistakes,” Cassandra said cheerfully. “What Pandora meant was that you always
appear
to be perfect, which is all that really matters.”

“Actually,” Kathleen said, “that's not what really matters.”

“But there's no difference between
being
perfect and
seeming
perfect as long as no one can tell,” Cassandra said. “The result is the same, isn't it?”

Looking perturbed, Kathleen rubbed her forehead. “I know there's a good answer for that. But I can't think of what it is right now.”

In a minute or two, the butler, Sims, brought Lady Berwick to the receiving room.

Eleanor, Lady Berwick, was a woman built on a majestic scale, tall, broad-shouldered, and bosomy, with a way of moving that reminded Helen of the prow of a great sailing ship gliding through calm waters. The effect was enhanced by the complex draperies that formed the skirts of her dark blue dress, rippling in her wake as she proceeded into the room. With her narrow face, paper-thin lips, and large, heavy-lidded eyes, the countess was not a beautiful woman. However, she possessed an air of stunning assurance, a shrewd confidence that she knew the answers to any questions worth asking.

Helen saw the automatic pleasure on Lady Berwick's face as her gaze fell upon Kathleen, who had rushed forward. Clearly Kathleen's fondness for her was returned. However, as Kathleen threw her arms around her, Lady Berwick looked nonplussed by the demonstration of affection. “My dear,” she exclaimed with a touch of reproof.

Kathleen didn't let go. “I was going be dignified.” Her voice was muffled against the older woman's shoulder. “But as you walked in just now, I felt as if I were five years old again.”

Lady Berwick's gaze turned distant, one of her long pale hands settling on Kathleen's back. “Yes,” she eventually said. “It isn't easy to lose one's father. And you've had to do it twice, haven't you?” Her voice was like unsweetened tea, crisp with tannins. After a few fond pats, she said, “Let us don our armor of control.”

Kathleen pulled back and cast a bemused glance at the empty doorway. “Where has Cousin West gone?”

“Mr. Ravenel was eager to escape my presence,” Lady Berwick said dryly. “He did not seem to enjoy our conversation in the carriage.” After a meaningful pause, she commented without a smile, “A merry fellow, isn't he?”

Helen was fairly certain the statement was not intended as a compliment.

“Cousin West may seem a trifle irreverent,” Kathleen began, “but I can assure you—”

“There is no need to explain his character, which is indeed a trifle: nothing but sugar and air.”

“You don't know him,” one of the twins said beneath her breath.

Hearing the quietly rebellious murmur, Lady Berwick turned sharply to gaze at the three Ravenel sisters.

Kathleen hastened to introduce them, while they each curtsied in turn. “Lady Berwick, my sisters-in-law—Lady Helen, Lady Cassandra, and Lady Pandora.”

The countess's dispassionate gaze fell on Cassandra first, and she motioned for the girl to approach. “The posture is merely adequate,” she observed, “but
that can be corrected. What are your accomplishments, child?”

Having been prepared for the question in advance, Cassandra replied hesitantly. “My lady, I am able to sew, draw, and watercolor. I play no instruments, but I am well-read.”

“Have you studied languages?”

“A little French.”

“Have you any hobbies?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Excellent. Men are afraid of girls with hobbies.” Glancing at Kathleen, Lady Berwick remarked in an aside, “She's a beauty. With a bit more polish, she'll be the belle of the season.”

“I have a hobby,” Pandora volunteered, speaking out of turn.

Lady Berwick turned to her with raised brows. “Indeed,” she said frostily. “What is it, my bold miss?”

“I'm making a board game. If it turns out well, I will sell it in stores, and earn money.”

Seeming astonished, Lady Berwick sent Kathleen a questioning glance. “Board game?”

“The kind meant for parlor amusements,” Kathleen explained.

Lady Berwick turned back to Pandora with narrowed eyes. Unfortunately Pandora forgot to keep her gaze lowered, and stared back at her audaciously.

“An excess of vitality,” Lady Berwick said. “The eyes are a pleasing shade of blue, but the gaze is that of a wild stag.”

Helen risked a quick glance at Kathleen, who looked defensive on Pandora's behalf.

“Ma'am,” Kathleen began, “Pandora is merely—”

But Lady Berwick gestured for her to be silent.
“Does it not concern you,” she asked Pandora, “that this hobby, along with the distasteful desire to earn money, will alienate prospective suitors?”

“No, ma'am.”

“It should. Don't you wish to marry?” At Pandora's lack of response, she pressed impatiently, “Well?”

Pandora glanced at Kathleen for guidance. “Should I say the conventional thing or the honest thing?”

Lady Berwick replied before Kathleen was able. “Answer honestly, child.”

“In that case,” Pandora said, “No, I don't wish to marry, ever. I like men quite well—at least the ones I've been acquainted with—but I shouldn't like to have to obey a husband and serve his needs. It wouldn't make me at all happy to have a dozen children, and stay at home knitting while he goes out romping with his friends. I would rather be independent.”

The room was silent. Lady Berwick's expression did not change, nor did she blink even once as she stared at Pandora. It seemed as if a wordless battle were being waged between the authoritative older woman and the rebellious girl.

Finally Lady Berwick said, “You must have read Tolstoy.”

Pandora blinked, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected statement. “I have,” she admitted, looking mystified. “How did you know?”

“No young woman wants to marry after reading Tolstoy. That is why I never allowed either of my daughters to read Russian novels.”

“How are Dolly and Bettina?” Kathleen burst in, trying to change the subject by asking after the countess's daughters.

Neither Lady Berwick nor Pandora would be sidetracked.

“Tolstoy isn't the only reason I don't wish to marry,” Pandora said.

“Whatever your reasons, they are unsound. I will explain to you later why you
do
wish to marry. Furthermore, you are an unconventional girl, and you must learn to conceal it. There is no happiness for any individual, man or woman, who does not dwell within the broad zone of average.”

Pandora regarded her with baffled interest. “Yes, ma'am.”

Privately Helen suspected that the two women were looking forward to a ripping argument.

Lady Berwick gestured to Helen. “Come hither.”

Helen obeyed, and stood patiently as the countess surveyed her.

“Graceful deportment,” Lady Berwick said, “with a modest downcast eye. Quite lovely. Do not be too shy, however, as that will cause people to accuse you of pride. You must cultivate a proper air of confidence.”

“I will try, ma'am. Thank you.”

The countess surveyed her with an appraising glance. “You are affianced to the mysterious Mr. Winterborne.”

Helen smiled faintly. “Is he mysterious, ma'am?”

“He is to me, as I have not personally encountered him.”

“Mr. Winterborne is a gentleman of business,” Helen replied carefully, “with many obligations that keep him too busy to attend many social events.”

“Nor is he invited to the exclusive ones, as he is of the merchant class. You must be distressed by the
prospect of an unequal marriage. He is beneath you, after all.”

Although the words stung, Helen schooled her features into impassiveness, aware that she was being tested. “Mr. Winterborne is in no way beneath me, ma'am. Character is a far more important measure of a man than birth.”

“Well said. Fortunately for Mr. Winterborne, marriage to a Ravenel will elevate him sufficiently that he will be allowed to mix in good society. One hopes he will prove worthy of the privilege.”

“I hope aristocratic society will be worthy of
him
,” Helen said pointedly.

The gray eyes sharpened. “Is he high-minded? Refined in his tastes? Exquisite in his comportment?”

“He is well-mannered, intelligent, honest, and generous.”

“But not refined?” Lady Berwick pressed.

“Whatever refinements Mr. Winterborne does not possess, he will certainly acquire them if he wishes. But I wouldn't ask him to change anything about himself, as there is already far too much to admire, and I would be in danger of excessive pride on his behalf.”

Lady Berwick gazed at her steadily, her gray eyes warming. “What an extraordinary girl. ‘Cool as callar air,' as my Scottish grandfather used to say. You'll be wasted on a Welshman—I vow, we could have married you to a duke. Still, this sort of union—the alliance of wealth with breeding—is necessary for even the best families nowadays. We must reconcile ourselves to it with grace and forbearance.” She glanced at Kathleen. “Does Mr. Winterborne appreciate his good fortune in acquiring such a wife?”

Kathleen smiled. “You will be able to decide for yourself when you meet him.”

“When will this occur?”

“I expect Mr. Winterborne and Lord Trenear to arrive momentarily. They rode out to the eastern perimeter of the estate, to view the site being prepared for railway tracks and a platform halt. They promised to return and change in time for afternoon tea.”

Before Kathleen had even finished the sentence, Devon had come to the doorway. He smiled at his wife. “And so we have.” A swift conversation took place in their shared gaze—an unvoiced question, concern, reassurance—before he strode in to meet Lady Berwick.

He was followed by Rhys, who was similarly dressed in riding clothes: cord-breeches and boots, and a coat of heavy woolen broadcloth.

Rhys paused beside Helen, smiling down at her. He smelled like the outdoors: cold morning air, wet leaves, and horses. As usual, there was the snap of peppermint on his breath. “Good afternoon,” he said, in the same soft way he'd murmured, “Good morning” upon waking her much earlier that day. Remembering their night together, Helen felt a dreadful blush coming on, the kind only he could inspire, a blaze of color that kept building on itself until it seemed she'd been thrown into a bonfire.

She'd had a restless sleep, tossing and turning, her mind plagued with worries. More than once she'd become aware of Rhys soothing and stroking her back to sleep. When he had finally awakened her at dawn, she had given him an apologetic glance and mumbled, “You'll never want to share a bed with me again.”

Rhys had laughed quietly, pulling her up against his chest and caressing her naked back. “Then you'll be surprised when I insist on it again tonight.” After that, he made love to her one last time, disregarding her feeble protests that she had to leave.