Marrying Winterborne (15 page)

H
ELEN
'
S SPIRITS LIGHTENED AS
she entered the cheerful bustle of the front receiving room. West and the twins sat on the carpeted floor, unpacking hampers and boxes, while Kathleen opened correspondence at the writing desk in the corner.

“I always thought I didn't like courtship,” West said, sorting through a hamper from Winterborne's. “But it turns out that I was merely on the wrong side of it. Courtship is one of those activities in which it's better to receive than give.”

Weston Ravenel bore a close resemblance to his older brother, handsome and blue-eyed, with the same strapping build and air of disreputable charm. In the past few months, he had thrown himself into learning as much as possible about agriculture and dairying. The former rake was never happier than when he had spent a day in the company of tenants, working the land and coming home with muddy boots and breeches.

“Have you ever courted anyone, Cousin West?” Pandora asked.

“Only if I was certain the lady was too intelligent ever to accept me.” West stood in an easy movement as he saw Helen come into the room.

“You don't wish to marry, then?” Helen asked lightly, taking a place on the unoccupied settee.

Smiling, West placed a flat blue satin box in her lap. “How could I ever be satisfied with only one sweet from the entire box?”

Helen lifted the lid, her eyes widening as she discovered a treasure trove of caramels, jelly creams, candied fruit, toffees and marshmallow drops, all wrapped in twists of waxed paper. Her wondering gaze traveled to the nearby mountain of accumulating delicacies . . . a smoked Wiltshire ham and collar bacon, a box of dry-cured salmon, pots of imported Danish butter, tinned sweetbreads, and a sack of fat glossed dates. There was a basket of hothouse fruits, wheels of Brie in papery white rinds, cunning little cheeses wrapped in netting, jars of rich fig paste, pickled quail eggs, bottles of jewel-colored fruit liqueur meant to be sipped from tiny glasses, and a gold-colored tin of cocoa essence.

“What can Mr. Winterborne be thinking?” she asked with a flustered laugh. “He's sent enough food for an army.”

“Obviously he's courting the entire family,” West told her. “I can't speak for everyone else, but I for one feel thoroughly wooed.”

Kathleen's wistful voice came from the corner. “I could eat that entire ham by myself.” In the past few days, she had begun to experience insatiable cravings one moment and incipient nausea the next.

West grinned. Rising to his feet, he brought a pressed-glass jar of almonds to her. “Will these do?”

Kathleen pried the lid open and ate one of the almonds. As she crunched it between her teeth, the sound could be heard across the room. Evidently finding them to her liking, she devoured several in rapid succession.

West looked both amused and mildly perturbed.
“Not so fast, darling, you'll choke.” He went to the sideboard to pour some water for her.

“I'm starving,” Kathleen protested. “And these almonds are exactly what I've been craving, I just didn't know it until now. Did Mr. Winterborne send only one jar?”

“I'm sure he'll send more if I ask,” Helen volunteered.

“Would he? Because—” Kathleen fell abruptly silent, her attention fixed on the letter in her hand.

Helen felt a creeping sensation along her spine, warning that something terrible had happened. She saw Kathleen's narrow shoulders hunch forward, as if she were trying to protect herself from something. Blindly Kathleen fumbled to set the jar on the desk, but placed it too close to the edge. The container crashed to the floor. Fortunately it landed on a bit of carpet, preventing the glass from shattering. Kathleen didn't even seem to notice, her attention fixed on the letter.

Helen hurried to her, reaching her just before West did. “What's wrong, dear?”

Kathleen's complexion had turned chalky, her breath shallow and fitful. “My father,” she whispered. “I could only read the first part. I can't think.” Helplessly she handed the letter to Helen.

The news couldn't be good. Approximately a month earlier, Kathleen's father, Lord Carbery had suffered an accident at his riding arena in Glengarriff, when his horse had reared and caused his head to hit the edge of a support beam. Although Carbery had survived the blow, his health had been poor ever since.

West gave the water glass to Kathleen, pressing both her small hands around it as if she were a child. “Drink this, sweetheart,” he said quietly. His concerned gaze
met Helen's. “I'll fetch Devon. He should be close by. He's meeting with the timberman about felling the oak on the east side.”

“There's no need to interrupt him,” Kathleen said, her voice strained but calm. “This can wait until he's finished. I'm perfectly fine.” Unsteadily she lifted the glass to her lips and drained at least half of it in painful gulps.

Looking over her head at West, Helen told him soundlessly “
Go
,” and he left with a short nod.

Helen returned her attention to the letter. “He passed away two days ago,” she murmured, scanning the written lines. “The farm manager writes that Lord Carbery was troubled by headaches and seizures since the accident. He went to bed early one night and died in his sleep.” She settled a gentle hand on Kathleen's shoulder, feeling the fine tremors of tightly leashed emotion. “I'm so sorry, dear.”

“He was a stranger,” Kathleen said quietly. “He sent me away to be raised by someone else. I don't know what I should feel for him.”

“I understand.”

Kathleen's cold fingers came to cover hers. “I know you do,” she said with a faint, bleak smile.

They stayed like that for a quiet moment. Pandora and Cassandra approached hesitantly.

“Is there something we can do, Kathleen?” Pandora asked, kneeling by her chair.

Glancing into the girl's earnest face, Kathleen shook her head and reached out to draw her close. Cassandra knelt on the other side and embraced them both.

“There's no need to worry,” Kathleen said. “I'll be all right. How could I not be, when I have the dearest sisters in the world?” Closing her eyes, she leaned her
head against Pandora's. “We've been through a great deal together in a short time, haven't we?”

“Does this mean another year of mourning?” Pandora asked.

“Not for you,” Kathleen reassured her, “only for me.” She sighed. “Huge with child, and lumbering about dressed in black—I'll look like one of those hopper-barges loaded with refuse and sent out to sea.”

“You're too small to be a barge,” Cassandra said.

“You'll be a tugboat,” Pandora added.

Kathleen let out a dry chuckle and kissed them both. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks. She stood from the chair and straightened her skirts with a few deft tugs. “There's much to do,” she said. “The funeral will be in Ireland.” She gave Helen a stricken glance. “I haven't been there since I was a child.”

“You don't have to make decisions right now,” Helen said. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down.”

“I can't, there are things I must—” Kathleen stopped as Devon entered the room.

His intent gaze swept over her, coming to rest on her bleached white face. “What is it, love?” he asked gently.

“My father's gone.” She tried very hard to sound prosaic. “It's not a surprise, of course. We knew that he was in ill health.”

“Yes.” Devon came forward and took her rigid form against his, wrapping her in his arms.

“I'm perfectly calm,” she said against his shoulder.

“Yes.” Devon kissed her temple. His face was taut with concern, the blue eyes hazed with tenderness.

“I'm not going to cry.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “He certainly wouldn't have wanted my tears.”

Devon smoothed her hair, his hand covering half her small head. “Give them to me, then,” he said softly.

Kathleen hid her face in his shirtfront, her slight form seeming to wilt. In a few seconds, a low, broken keening sound began to emerge without stopping. Her husband laid his cheek on her head and cradled her closer against the solid reassurance of his body.

Realizing that they were all
de trop
in what had become a deeply private moment, Helen gestured for the twins to leave the room with her.

After closing the door, Helen suggested, “Let's go to the library and send for tea.”

“I wish we'd brought the sweets with us,” Pandora fretted.

“Helen, what's going to happen?” Cassandra asked as they walked through the entrance hall. “Will Kathleen really go to Ireland for the funeral?”

“I think she should, if possible,” Helen said reflectively. “It's important to say good-bye.”

“But her father won't know,” Pandora pointed out.

“Not for his sake,” Helen murmured, linking an arm with her younger sister's and patting her hand affectionately. “For hers.”

POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

MR. RHYS WINTERBORNE

CORK STREET LONDON

HAVE JUST LEARNED THAT MY WIFE'S FATHER LORD CARBERY IS DECEASED. ALTHOUGH CIRCUMSTANCES LESS THAN IDEAL YOUR PRESENCE WOULD BE GREATLY WELCOME IN HAMPSHIRE.

OBLIGED IF YOU WOULD SEND SALTED ALMONDS FOR LADY TRENEAR.

—TRENEAR

“F
ERNSBY
,” R
HYS SAID CURTLY,
looking up from the telegram, “clear my schedule for the week and arrange for two tickets on the next train from London to Hampshire. Have someone run to Quincy and tell him to pack for me and himself. And tell a clerk at the food hall to pack all the salted almonds we have, in a bag to be hand-carried.”

“All?”

“Every last jar.”

As the secretary rushed out of the office with lunatic speed, Rhys lowered his forehead to the surface of his desk. “
Diolch i Dduw
,” he muttered.
Thank God.

If an invitation hadn't come soon, he would have had
no choice but to storm Eversby Priory like an invading army. He was sorry for the death of Kathleen's father, but more than anything he was desperate to see Helen again. It had seemed impossible that Helen was beyond his reach when he wanted her so badly. All he'd been able to do was wait, which was the thing in life he had always been worst at.

Helen had sent three or four letters a week, telling him the latest news about the family and recent events in the village, the restoration work being done on the house, and the progress of the hematite ore quarry. She had sprinkled in descriptions of things like candle making, or harvesting the forced rhubarb they had grown in one of the glasshouses. Prim, cheerful, chatty letters.

He was mad with longing, sick with it.

His work, his store, had always absorbed his unlimited energy, but now it wasn't enough. He burned with desire, a constant fever beneath his skin. He wasn't sure if Helen was the illness or the cure.

As it turned out, the next train departed in three hours. Since there wasn't nearly enough time to have his private train car made ready, nor was there an immediately available locomotive to couple it with, Rhys was more than happy to go by regular train. By some miracle, the unflappable Quincy managed to pack their bags with such efficiency that they were able to reach the station in time. Had there been any lingering question in Rhys's mind about the merit of having a valet, it was forever silenced.

During the two-hour journey from London to Alton Station, Rhys found himself leaning forward in his seat as if to urge the toiling engine to a greater speed. At last the train stopped at Alton Station, and Rhys found
a hired carriage to convey him and his valet to Eversby Priory.

The massive Jacobean manor house was in the process of being restored, and had been ever since Devon had inherited it. Richly ornamented with parapets, and arcade arches, and bristling with rows of elaborate chimneystacks, the Jacobean house surveyed its surroundings like a dignified dowager at a ball. The discovery of a hematite deposit on the estate had come none too soon—without a heavy infusion of capital, the manor would have fallen to ruins before the next generation could inherit.

Rhys and Quincy were greeted by the butler, Sims, who said something to the effect that they hadn't been expected quite so soon. Quincy agreed that their arrival had indeed been precipitate, and the two servants exchanged a quick glance of mutual commiseration over the difficulties posed by rash and demanding employers.

As Rhys prowled restlessly around the front receiving room, waiting for someone to appear, it occurred to him that his surroundings were deeply comfortable in a way that his modern house was not. He'd always preferred newness, associating old things with decay and dowdiness. But the faded charms of Eversby Priory were soothing and welcoming. It had something to do with the way the furniture was arranged in cozy groups on the flowered rug. Books and periodicals were stacked on small tables, and there were cushions and lap blankets everywhere. A pair of friendly black spaniels wandered in to sniff at his hand, and left at the sound of some distant noise in the house. Baked sweet smells wafted into the room, heralding the approach of afternoon tea.

He hadn't known what to make of the fact that he had been invited to Eversby Priory at a time of mourning. From what he knew of mourning rituals—which wasn't much, save for the merchandise he sold at his store—a recently bereaved family did not invite or accept visitors. Calls of condolence weren't encouraged until after the funeral.

However, Quincy, who was versed in such matters and had known the Ravenels for decades, had explained the significance of the invitation. “It would appear, sir, that Lord and Lady Trenear have decided to treat you as one of the family, even though you have not yet married Lady Helen.” Turning away, he had added with a hint of disapproval, “This new generation of Ravenels is not always traditional.”

Rhys's thoughts snapped back to the present as Devon entered the room.

“Good God, Winterborne.” Devon looked bemused and a bit weary. “I only sent the telegram this morning.” But he smiled in the old comfortable way, and reached out to shake Rhys's hand firmly. It seemed that their differences had been set aside.

“How is Lady Trenear?”

Devon hesitated, as if debating how much to admit. “Fragile,” he finally said. “She's grieving not for the father she lost so much as the father she never had. I've sent for Lady Berwick, who will arrive tomorrow from Leominster. Kathleen will find comfort in her presence—the Berwicks took her in after her own parents sent her away from Ireland.”

“The funeral will be there?”

Devon nodded a slight frown. “Glengarriff. I'll have to take her. Needless to say, the timing is bloody inconvenient.”

“Couldn't you find a suitable traveling companion for her?”

“Not in her condition. I need to be with her. She's having morning sickness, and is more at the mercy of her emotions than usual.”

Rhys considered the logistics of the trip. “The fastest way is to go from Bristol to Waterford by steamer, and stay the night at the Granville—it's a fine hotel with a railway station close by. You could take a train to Glengarriff the next day. If you wish, I'll wire my office to make travel arrangements. They know the schedules of every ship and steam packet route going to and from England, as well as every railway station and halt in existence.”

“I would be much obliged,” Devon said.

Wordlessly Rhys picked the black leather Gladstone bag he'd carried inside, and gave it to him.

Lifting his brows, Devon unlatched the end catches, pulled the top apart, and looked inside the bag. A slow grin crossed his face as he beheld two dozen glass jars of salted almonds packed among layers of tissue paper.

“I gather Lady Trenear has a fondness for them?” Rhys asked.

“Cravings,” Devon said, his smile lingering. “Many thanks, Winterborne.” Closing and latching the bag, he said affably, “Come to the library, we'll have a brandy.”

Rhys hesitated. “Where is everyone?”

“West is at the quarry site and will return soon. The twins are out walking, and my wife is resting upstairs. Helen is most likely still out at the glasshouse with her orchids.”

Knowing that Helen was nearby—alone, in the glasshouse—caused Rhys's heart to pound out a few extra beats. After a discreet, desperate glance at the
mantel clock, he said, “Four o'clock is a bit early for brandy, aye?”

Devon gave him an incredulous look, followed by a low laugh. “My God. What kind of Welshman are you?” Before Rhys could reply, he continued, “Very well. I'm going to deliver this”—he hefted the bag in his hand—“to my wife. As repayment for your generosity, I'll deny all knowledge of your whereabouts for as long as possible. But if you and Helen are late for tea, it's on your head.” He paused. “She's at the first glasshouse past the walled garden.”

Rhys gave him a short nod. He could feel himself bracing inwardly, a knot tightening at the pit of his stomach as he wondered how Helen would react to seeing him.

Devon's lips twitched. “No need to brood, Heathcliff. She'll be glad to see you.”

Although the reference escaped Rhys—he was not one for novels—he was annoyed to realize that his rampaging nerves were obvious. Damning himself silently, he couldn't keep from asking, “Has she mentioned me?”

Devon's brows flew upward. “
Mentioned
you? You're all Helen talks about. She's been reading Welsh history books and plaguing the family with accounts of
Owain Glynd
ŵ
r
and something called the
Eistedfodd
.” His eyes sparkled with friendly mockery. “Helen was hacking and spitting so much the other day that we thought she was coming down with a cold, until we realized she was practicing the Welsh alphabet.”

Ordinarily Rhys would have made some sarcastic retort, but he'd barely noticed the gibe. His chest had gone tight with pleasure.

“She doesn't have to do that,” he muttered.

“Helen wants to please you,” Devon said. “It's her nature. Which leads to something I want to make clear: Helen is like a younger sister to me. And although I'm obviously the last man alive who should lecture anyone about propriety, I expect you to behave like an altar boy with her for the next few days.”

Rhys gave him a surly glance. “I
was
an altar boy, and I can tell you that reports of their virtue are highly exaggerated.”

With a reluctant grin, Devon turned and headed back toward the main hall.

Rhys went to find Helen. Since it wouldn't do to alarm her by running and leaping on her like a madman, he forced himself to walk at a measured pace. Exiting the back of the house through the conservatory, he crossed a section of neatly mown lawn.

A sinuous graveled path led past sweeps of winter-flowering shrubs, and ancient stone walls covered with climbing vines that twisted together like lace. The estate gardens were clean and spare, the frosted ground biding its time until spring came to soften it. A breeze scented of peat smoke and sedge reminded him of the vale where he had lived in early childhood until his family had moved to London. Not that Llanberris, with its stony ground and abundant tarns, was anything like these manicured surroundings. But there was a particular smell of a place with lakes and rain, and Hampshire had it.

As he approached the row of four glasshouses, he saw movement in the first one, a slim black-clad shape gliding past frosted panes. His heart jolted, and a flush heated his face despite the biting February air. He didn't know what he expected, or why he was as nervous as a lad with his first sweetheart. Not long ago, he
would have scoffed at the suggestion that an unworldly young woman, a girl, could reduce him to this state.

He used one knuckle to rap gently on a glass pane. Carefully he ascended a stone step, let himself into the building, and closed the door.

Rhys had never been inside the glasshouse before. Helen had described it to him in detail while he had stayed at Eversby Priory, but he'd been encumbered by crutches and a leg cast. He had regretted not being able to walk out to see it, having understood how important it was to her.

The indoor climate was moist, warm, loamy. It seemed a world away from England, a glass palace filled with brilliant color and exotic shapes. He was greeted with the pungency of potting soil and dense greenery, and thin sharp orchid perfumes, and a pervasive smell of vanilla. His wondering gaze traveled over row upon row of tall plants, tables of orchids in pots and jars, orchid vines growing over the walls and curling upward toward a glittering glass firmament.

A slender figure emerged from behind an inflorescence of snow-white blooms. Helen's crystalline eyes caught the light, and her pretty lips rounded like a tea rose as she said his name in soundless bewilderment. She moved toward him, stumbling a little as she came around the table too fast. The hint of clumsiness, her obvious haste, electrified him. She had missed him. She had wanted him, too.

Reaching her in three swift strides, Rhys caught her up against him so tightly that her toes left the floor. Momentum turned them in a half-circle. Letting her back down, he dove his face into the warm fragrant skin of her neck and breathed her, absorbed her.

“
Cariad
,” he said huskily, “that was the first time
I've ever seen you move with less than swanlike grace.”

She gave an unsteady laugh. “You surprised me.” Her warm, delicate hands came to the cold sides of his face. “You're here,” she said, as if trying to make herself believe it.

Breathing unevenly, Rhys nuzzled her, amazed by the silkiness of her skin and hair, the tenderness of her flesh. Something like elation, only stronger, was pouring into his veins, intoxicating him. “I could eat you,” he muttered, pushing past her caressing hands to find her lips, feeling her mouth with his. Helen responded eagerly, her fingers sliding into his hair and shaping against his skull.

He murmured rough-soft endearments between kisses, while Helen clung to him. Her sweet little tongue stroked against his in the way he'd taught her, and the sensation shot down to his groin. Staggering slightly, he had to reach down to the edge of the table to steady himself.
Holy hell
. He had to stop now, or he wouldn't be able to stop at all. Taking his mouth from hers, he let out a shuddering sigh, and another, laboring to bring his desire under control. The muscles of his arms trembled as he forced them to loosen.

It didn't help that Helen was stringing flowerlike kisses along the taut line of his jaw, infusing fresh sensation into his blood. “I thought you might come tomorrow or the next day—”

“I couldn't wait,” he said, and felt her cheek curve against his.

“This must be a dream.”

Too full of heat to restrain himself, Rhys reached down and gripped her hips snugly against his. “Is this real enough for you,
cariad
?” A coarse gesture that no gentleman would have made. But Helen knew what to expect of him by now.