Marrying Winterborne (13 page)

“I've been ruined,” Helen added, perhaps a bit too cheerfully. But after twenty-one years of being shy and predictable and sitting quietly in corners, she had discovered an untoward enjoyment in shocking people.

In the stunned silence that followed, she turned back to Rhys and began to unknot his silk necktie.

Rhys reached up to stop her, but flinched in agony. “
Cariad
,” he said gruffly, “what are you doing?”

She pushed back the lapels of his coat. “Having a look at your shoulder.”

“Not here. I'll have a doctor see to it later.”

Helen understood his desire for privacy. But there was no way that she could allow him to leave Ravenel House while he was injured and in pain. “We must find out whether it has been dislocated again.”

“It's sound.” But he grunted in pain as she pulled the coat carefully off his shoulder.

Immediately Kathleen came to help, kneeling by his other side. “Don't move,” she cautioned. “Let us do the work.”

They began to divest him of the garment. Rhys steeled himself, but as they tugged at the coat, he shoved them back. “
Argghh!
”

Helen paused and looked at Kathleen in worry. “We'll have to cut it off.”

Rhys was trembling, his eyes closed.

“The devil you will,” he muttered. “I've already had a shirt cut off me this morning. Let it be.”

Kathleen cast an imploring glance at her husband.

With an explosive sigh, Devon went to pick up something from the library table, and returned to the group on the floor. As he approached, he flicked open a silver folding knife with a long gleaming blade.

The sound, quiet as it was, caused Rhys to flinch reflexively, his eyes flying open. He moved to confront the threat, and cursed with pain, sitting down hard on his rump.

“Easy, arsewit,” Devon said acidly, sinking to his
haunches beside him. “I'm not going to kill you. Your valet will do that for me when he realizes you've ruined two bespoke shirts and a coat in one day.”

“I don't—”

“Winterborne,” Devon warned softly, “you've insulted my wife, debauched my cousin, and now you're delaying my dinner. This would be an excellent time to keep your mouth shut.”

Rhys scowled and held still while Devon employed the blade with meticulous skill. The knife slid along the seams of the garments until they began to peel from his body like bark from a silver birch. “My lady,” he said to Kathleen, and paused, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth. “I apologize. For how I behaved that day. For what I said. I”—a groan escaped him as Kathleen gently pulled the sleeve from his aching arm—“have no excuse.”

“I'm equally to blame,” Kathleen said, folding the coat and setting it aside. Meeting Rhys's surprised gaze, she continued resolutely. “I acted on impulse, and created a difficult situation for everyone. I knew better than to go to a gentleman's house alone, but in my worry over Helen, I made a mistake. I accept your apology, Mr. Winterborne, if you'll accept mine.”

“It was my fault,” he insisted. “I shouldn't have insulted you. I didn't mean a word of it.”

“I know,” Kathleen assured him.

“I've never been attracted to you. I couldn't desire a woman less.”

Kathleen's lips quivered with a repressed laugh. “The repulsion is quite mutual, Mr. Winterborne. Shall we cry pax and start over?”

“What about what he's done to Helen?” Devon asked in outrage.

Rhys watched warily as the knife sliced through his shirt.

“That was my fault,” Helen said hastily. “I went uninvited to the store yesterday and demanded to see Mr. Winterborne. I told him that I still wanted to marry him, and I made him exchange my ring for a new one, and then I—I had my way with him.” She paused, realizing how that sounded. “Not
in
the store, of course.”

Straight-faced, Kathleen said, “Dear me, I hope he didn't put up a struggle.”

Devon gave his wife a sardonic glance. “Kathleen, if you would be so kind, have Sutton fetch one of my shirts. One of the looser-fitting ones.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kathleen rose to her feet. “Perhaps he should also bring—” She broke off as the shirt fell away, revealing the broad expanse of Rhys's bare chest, and the violently discolored shoulder. It looked intensely painful, the muscles visibly knotted beneath the flesh.

Helen was silent with anguish at the sight. She let her fingers curl gently over the knob of his wrist, and felt the subtle inclination of his body toward her, as if he were trying to absorb her touch.

“What caused this?” Devon asked curtly, nudging Rhys to lean forward so he could glance at his back, where several more black bruises marked the smooth amber skin.

“I went with Severin to look at a block of property near King's Cross,” Rhys muttered. “Some debris fell from a condemned building.”

Devon's scowl deepened. “When did you become so damned accident-prone?”

“Since I began spending more time with my friends,” Rhys said acidly.

“I suppose it's too much to hope that debris fell on Severin as well?” Devon asked.

“Not a scratch on him.”

Sighing, Devon turned to Kathleen. “We'll need brandy and ice bags as well as the shirt. And a camphor poultice—the kind we used on my cracked ribs.”

Kathleen smiled at him. “I remember.” She strode to the door and flung it open, and halted abruptly as she discovered a crowd eavesdropping at the threshold. Her gaze moved over three housemaids, a footman, Mrs. Abbott, and Devon's valet.

The housekeeper was the first to react. “As I was telling all of you,” she said loudly, “it's time to go about your work, and mind your p's and q's.”

Kathleen cleared her throat as if trying to choke back a laugh. “Sutton,” she said to the valet, “I shall need you to bring a few items for our guest. Did you overhear Lord Trenear quite clearly, or should I repeat the list?”

“Brandy, ice, a poultice, and a shirt,” the valet replied with great dignity. “I will also obtain a length of fabric to fashion a sling for the gentleman's arm.”

As Sutton left, Kathleen turned to address the housekeeper. “Mrs. Abbott, I'm afraid a porcelain vase has been accidentally overturned.”

Before the woman could reply, all three housemaids excitedly volunteered to sweep up. One couldn't help but question whether their enthusiasm was for their work, or the desire to be in the same room with the half-naked Winterborne. Judging from the way they were craning their necks to glance at him, definitely the latter.

“I'll do it myself, my lady,” the housekeeper declared, shooing the housemaids away. “I'll return momentarily with the broom.”

Kathleen turned to the twins, who had remained at the threshold. “Is there something you would like to ask, girls?”

Pandora looked at her hopefully. “May we say hello to Mr. Winterborne?”

“Later, darling. He's in no condition for that right now.”

“Please tell him we're so very sorry that a building fell on him,” Cassandra said earnestly.

A smile wove through Kathleen's voice as she replied. “I'll convey your kind wishes. Now, off you go.”

Reluctantly the twins trudged from the library.

After closing the door, Kathleen headed back to the group near the settee. Along the way, she retrieved a lap blanket that had been draped over the arm of a chair.

Devon was examining Rhys's shoulder, palpating it carefully to discern whether or not the bone had come loose from the socket. “You should be at home in bed,” he said brusquely, “not traipsing across London proposing to young women you've ruined.”

Rhys scowled. “First, I don't traipse, and second, Helen's—
devil take you
, that hurts!” Exhausted, he dropped his head to his chest.

Helen regarded him sympathetically, knowing how he hated not being in control. Rhys was always well dressed and in command of himself. His very name connoted success, luxury, and elegance. None of that was consistent with finding himself on the floor, battered, bruised, and forcibly divested of his clothing.

“And second?” she prompted gently, bringing him back to his unfinished thought.

“You're not ruined,” he said gruffly, his head still down. “You're perfect.”

Helen's heart twisted with painful sweetness. She
wanted badly to comfort and cradle him. Instead she had to settle for stroking his black hair very lightly. He pushed his head against the caress, like an affectionate wolf. Her palm moved along the side of his face to his jaw and down to the firm, perfect line of his good shoulder.

“It seems stable,” Devon said, sitting back on his heels. “I don't think it's been reinjured. Helen, if you continue to fondle the bastard right in front of me, I'll have to dislocate his other shoulder.”

Helen withdrew her hand sheepishly.

Lifting his head, Rhys gave Devon a baleful glance. “She's leaving with me tonight.”

Devon's face hardened. “If you think—”

“But we would rather have a June wedding,” Helen interrupted hastily. “And above all, we would like to have your blessing, Cousin Devon.”

“Here you are, Mr. Winterborne,” Kathleen said brightly, coming forward to drape the lap blanket over his tawny exposed torso. “Let's help him up onto the settee—the floor is too drafty.”

“I don't need help,” Rhys grumbled. With effort, he managed to hoist himself onto the leather upholstery. “Helen, go pack your belongings.”

Helen was filled with consternation. She couldn't bring herself to oppose Rhys, especially when he was injured and vulnerable. But she didn't want to leave Ravenel House on these terms. Devon had been extraordinarily kind, letting her and the twins stay at Eversby Priory, when anyone else in his position would have cast them out without a second thought. Helen had no desire to divide the family by eloping and excluding them all from her wedding.

She glanced at Kathleen, silently pleading for help.

Understanding at once, Kathleen spoke to Rhys in a placating tone. “Surely there's no need for that, Mr. Winterborne. You both deserve a proper ceremony, with family and friends around you. Not some hasty slap-and-dash affair.”

“Slap-and-dash was good enough for you and Trenear,” Rhys retorted. “If he didn't have to wait for a wedding, why do I?”

Kathleen hesitated before replying with amused chagrin. “We had no choice.”

It took approximately two seconds for Rhys's agile brain to process the implications. “You're expecting,” he said flatly. “Congratulations.”

“You didn't have to tell him,” Devon muttered.

Kathleen smiled at him as she seated herself. “But my lord, Mr. Winterborne will be part of the family soon.”

Devon rubbed the upper half of his face with one hand, as if the statement had caused an instant migraine.

“The same circumstances may soon apply to Helen,” Rhys said, deliberately provoking him further. “She could also be with child.”

“We don't know that yet,” Helen said, reaching out to arrange the blanket over his chest. “If it turns out to be the case, the plan must change, of course. But I would rather wait until we find out for certain.”

Rhys stared at her, making no effort to conceal the desire smoldering beneath his stillness. “I can't wait for you,” he said.

“But you will,” Devon said coolly. “That's the condition of my consent. You've treated Helen like a pawn in a chess game and manipulated the situation to your advantage. Now you'll bloody well have to wait until June,
because that's how long it will take before I'll be able to look at you without wanting to throttle you. In the meantime, I've had enough of Ravenels running amok in London. Now that our affairs are in order, I'm taking the family back to Hampshire.” He glanced at Kathleen with an arched brow, and she nodded in agreement.

At the same time, a distant wail came from the farthest threshold of the double library.
“Noooo!”

Kathleen glanced quizzically toward the sound. “Pandora,” she called out, “do not eavesdrop, if you please.”

“It's not Pandora,” came the disgruntled reply, “it's Cassandra.”

“It is
not
,” another young voice said indignantly. “I'm Cassandra, and Pandora is trying to land me in trouble!”

“You're both in trouble,” Devon called back. “Go upstairs.”

“We don't want to leave London,” one of them said, while the other added, “The country is so drear-itating.”

Devon glanced at Kathleen, and in the next moment they both struggled to hold back grins.

“When am I going to see Helen?” Rhys demanded.

Devon seemed to relish his former friend's suppressed wrath. “If I have my way, not until the day of the wedding.”

Rhys returned his attention to Helen. “
Cariad
, I want you to—”

“Please don't ask that of me,” Helen begged. “A June wedding is what we had planned before. You've lost nothing. We're betrothed again, and this way, we'll have my family on our side.”

She saw the struggle on his face: fury, pride, need.

“
Please
,” she asked gently. “Say you'll wait for me.”

A
FTER THEY HAD SENT
Mr. Winterborne home in his carriage, with his arm secured in a sling and rubber ice bags packed around his shoulder, the Ravenels had dinner and retired early for the evening. Kathleen had been pleased and not at all surprised that Devon, despite his lingering resentment, had made certain that his friend was well taken care of before he departed. Although Mr. Winterborne had angered and disappointed him, there was no doubt that Devon would forgive him.

Kathleen watched appreciatively as he shed his dressing-robe to join her in bed. Her husband, who loved riding, pugilism, and sports of all kinds, was an athletic and superbly fit man.

Settling on his back, Devon stretched with a pleasured sigh.

Kathleen propped herself up on an elbow and drew her fingertips idly through the dark hair on his chest. “Do you think it might be a bit severe,” she asked, “not to let them see each other for the next five months?”

“There's no chance in hell that Winterborne will stay away from her that long.”

Kathleen smiled, tracing the sturdy edge of his collarbone. “Why did you forbid him, then?”

“The bastard tramples through life like a conquer
ing army—if I didn't force him to retreat now and then, he'd have nothing but contempt for me. Besides, I'd still like to kill him for what he did to Helen.” Devon sighed shortly. “I knew we shouldn't have left the girls alone, even for a day. To think I was worried about the twins, when Helen was the one who went out seeking a scandal.”

“She wasn't seeking scandal,” Kathleen countered reasonably. “She went to . . . well, to reclaim her fiancé. And one must view the situation in balance; it's not fair to blame him entirely.”

His brows lifted. “Why are you taking Winterborne's side, when you've been against the match from the beginning?”

“Because of Helen,” she admitted. “I knew she would do anything for the good of the family, even marry a man she didn't love. I also knew that Mr. Winterborne intimidated her. But that's changed. I believe she truly wants him now. She's no longer afraid of him. The way she stood her ground with him this evening altered my opinion of the match entirely. If this is what she wants, I will support her.”

“I can't overlook Winterborne's actions,” Devon grumbled. “Out of regard for me, if for no other reason, he shouldn't have taken the innocence of a young woman under my protection. It's a matter of respect.”

Kathleen hoisted herself more fully over him, staring down into his blue eyes. “
This
,” she mocked gently, “from a man who seduced me in nearly every room, stairwell and hay-nook of Eversby Priory. Where was your regard for innocence then?”

His frown disappeared. “That was different.”

“Why, may I ask?”

Devon flipped her over, reversing their positions
neatly and surprising a giggle from her. “Because,” he said huskily, “I wanted you
so much . . .
”

She writhed and laughed as he unfastened her nightgown.

“. . . and as lord of the manor,” he continued, proceeding to strip her naked, “I thought it was time to exercise my
droit de seigneur
.”

“As if I were some medieval peasant girl?” she asked, shoving him onto his back and climbing over him.

Grabbing his marauding hands, she tried to pin him down with her entire weight.

A deep laugh escaped him. “Love, that won't work. You're no heavier than a butterfly.” Clearly enjoying their play, he lay unresisting as she gripped his thick wrists more tightly. “A determined butterfly,” he conceded. As he stared up at her, his smile faded, and his eyes darkened to intense blue. “I was a selfish bastard,” he said softly. “I shouldn't have seduced you.”

“I was willing,” Kathleen pointed out, inwardly surprised by his remorse. He was changing, she thought, rapidly gaining maturity as he shouldered the responsibilities that had been forced on him so unexpectedly.

“I would do it differently now. Forgive me.” He paused, frowning in self-reproach. “I wasn't raised to be honorable. It's damned difficult to learn.”

Kathleen slid her hands over his until their fingers interlaced. “There's nothing to forgive, or regret.”

Devon shook his head, not allowing her to absolve him. “Tell me how to atone.”

She bent to brush her lips against his. “Love me,” she whispered.

With great care, Devon rolled until she was caught
beneath him. “Always,” he said huskily, and possessed her mouth while his hands slid over her body. He made love to her slowly, with exquisite skill. Long after he'd made her ready for him, he finally nudged her thighs apart and eased inside. She wriggled in frustration as he refused to press deeper, no matter how she tried to urge him.

“Devon . . .” Her breath came in little flurries. “I need more.”

“More of what?” His mouth drifted to the base of her throat.

She scowled and squirmed. “Oh I hate it when you tease me!”

He smiled. “Almost as much as you love it.” Relenting, he slid an inch forward.

“Deeper,” she gasped. “Please, Devon—”

“Like this?” he asked gently.

Kathleen arched beneath him, her lips parted in a silent cry as he took her with fierce, tender urgency, loving her body and soul.

“F
ERNSBY
,” R
HYS CALLED
out, frowning as he sorted through the sheaf of papers on his desk with a frown.

The private secretary appeared promptly at the threshold of his open door. “Yes, Mr. Winterborne?”

“Come in.” He straightened the paper into a neat stack, replaced it in a cardboard file envelope, and tied the attached string around it. “I've just looked through the documents sent by Mr. Severin's office.” He handed her the envelope.

“The ones pertaining to the block of residential buildings near King's Cross?”

“Aye. Deeds, mortgages, contractor's agreements, and so forth.” He gave her a dark glance. “But there's
not one piece of paper in that entire file that bears the owner's name. Severin knows better than to expect me to buy property without knowing who's selling it.”

“I would have thought it was legally required for the owner's name to be listed.”

“There are ways around it.” Rhys nodded toward the file in Fernsby's hands. “The mortgage wasn't financed by a bank, but through a loan from a cooperative building society. According to the deed, the property is owned by a private investment company. I'd bet a hundred pounds that it's being held in trust for an unnamed party.”

“Why would someone go to such trouble instead of buying it in his own name?”

“In the past, I've bought property anonymously to keep the asking price from going through the roof when they hear my name. And I have business adversaries who would enjoy putting me in my place now and then, by denying me something I want. Likely this man's reasons are similar. But I want his name.”

“Would Mr. Severin be willing to tell you, if you asked him directly?”

Rhys shook his head. “He would have told me already. I suspect he knows it would ruin the deal if I found out.”

“Shall I give this information to the same man we hired to research the canning factory purchase?”

“Aye, he'll do.”

“I'll take care of it right away. Also, Doctor Havelock is waiting to have a word with you.”

Rhys rolled his eyes impatiently. “Tell him my shoulder is as good as—”

“I don't give a tinker's damn about your shoulder,” came a gravelly voice from the threshold. “I've come about a more important matter.”

The speaker was Dr. William Havelock, formerly the private physician to a handful of privileged London families. He had also been a medical journalist with progressive views, writing about poor-law medicine and public health issues. Eventually his wealthy patients had been irked by the political debates he had stirred up, and had turned to other, less controversial practitioners.

Rhys had hired Havelock ten years ago, ever since the store had first broken ground on Cork Street. It had made sense to hire a permanent staff doctor to take care of his employees, keeping them healthy and productive.

The middle-aged widower was a fit, sturdy man with a lionesque head, a shock of snow-white hair, and eyes that had seen humanity at its highest and lowest. His craggy face was routinely set in truculent lines, but when he was with his patients, his features softened with a grandfatherly kindness that immediately earned their trust.

“Dr. Havelock,” Mrs. Fernsby said with a touch of annoyance, “I asked you to wait in the visitors' foyer.”

“Winterborne doesn't mind interfering with my schedule,” he said testily, “so I've decided to interfere with his.”

They exchanged narrow-eyed glances.

More than a few employees had speculated that beneath the habitual antagonism between Havelock and Mrs. Fernsby, the two were secretly attracted to each other. Seeing the pair at this moment, Rhys was inclined to believe the rumor.

“Good morning, Havelock,” Rhys said. “How have I interfered with your schedule?”

“By foisting an unexpected visitor on me during a
day when I have at least a dozen patients to attend to.”

Rhys sent Mrs. Fernsby a questioning glance.

“He's referring to Dr. Gibson,” she told him. “I interviewed her as you asked. Having found her both qualified and agreeable, I sent her to Dr. Havelock.”

Havelock asked brusquely, “How can you judge her qualifications, Fernsby?”

“She has a medical degree with honors and top prizes,” Mrs. Fernsby retorted.

“From
France
,” Havelock said with a slight sneer.

“Considering how English doctors failed to save my poor husband,” Mrs. Fernsby snapped, “I would take a French doctor any day.”

Before the argument could develop into a full-fledged brawl, Rhys interceded quickly. “Come in, Havelock, and we'll discuss Dr. Gibson.”

The physician entered the office, saying pointedly as he passed the secretary, “I would like some tea, Fernsby.”

“That's
Mrs
. Fernsby to you. And you may find all the tea you want at the staff canteen.”

Pausing, Havelock turned to give her an offended glance. “Why can he call you Fernsby?”

“Because he is Mr. Winterborne, and you are not.” Mrs. Fernsby focused her attention on Rhys. “Sir, would you care for some tea? If so, I suppose I could place an extra cup on the tray for Dr. Havelock.”

Rhys struggled to conceal his amusement before replying blandly, “I believe I would. Thank you, Fernsby.”

After the secretary had left the office, Rhys said to Havelock, “I made it clear to Dr. Gibson that her hiring was subject to your approval.”

A scowl divided the older man's forehead into a
ladder of ridges. “She informed me it was
a fait accompli
, the presumptuous chit.”

“You did say last month that you needed an assistant, aye?”

“One of my choosing, since I'm the one who will be called upon to train and guide him.”

“Do you doubt her proficiency?” Rhys asked.

Havelock could have destroyed Garrett Gibson's incipient career with a simple “yes.” However, he was too honest to take that route. “Had any man come to me with her qualifications, I would have hired him on the spot. But a woman? There's too much prejudice to overcome. Even the female patients will prefer a male doctor.”

“At first. Until they become accustomed to the idea.” Seeing the objection on the older man's face, Rhys continued with a hint of amused chiding, “Havelock, I employ hundreds of hardworking women who demonstrate their skill every day. Recently I promoted a salesgirl to manager of her department, and her performance has been equal to that of any man at her level. And obviously Fernsby's abilities are beyond question. I'm not a radical, Havelock; these are facts. Therefore, as men of reason, let's give Dr. Gibson a chance to prove herself.”

Havelock reached up to tug fractiously at a lock of white hair as he considered the situation. “I've fought enough battles for one lifetime. I have no desire to take part in women's struggles against injustice.”

Rhys smiled, his gaze unrelenting.

The doctor let out a sighing groan, acknowledging that he was being given no choice in the matter. “Damn you, Winterborne.”

T
HE DAY WAS
bitterly cold, the air laced with frost that stung the nose and chilled the teeth. Helen shivered and gathered her wool half-cape more tightly about her neck, and pressed her numb lips together in a futile effort to warm them.

According to the rules of mourning, enough time had passed since Theo's death that the Ravenel sisters could now respectably leave their faces uncovered in public, so long as they wore veils draped down the backs of their hats or bonnets. Helen was grateful that she no longer had to squint through a layer of black crepe.

The Ravenel family and a handful of servants were about to depart London on a train bound for Hampshire. It seemed to Helen that Waterloo Station, a ten-acre system of sheds filled with a complex web of platforms and additions, could not have been more perfectly designed to cause the maximum amount of confusion for travelers. The volume of travelers practically doubled each year, forcing the station to expand in an ad hoc fashion. To make matters worse, the railway employees often gave contradictory information about where a train would arrive or depart. Porters carried luggage to the wrong trains and guided people to the wrong hackney carriage ranks and booking offices. Passengers seethed and shouted in frustration as they milled inside the open-sided sheds.

Helen jumped at the sound of a nearby brass orchestra that began to play a regimental march with strident enthusiasm. The first battalion of the Coldstream regiment had been brought down from Chichester, and a crowd had gathered to cheer their arrival.