Marrying Winterborne (20 page)

Now, trying to control her blush, Helen tore her gaze from his. “Did you have a pleasant ride?” she asked softly, watching as Kathleen introduced Devon to Lady Berwick.

“Which ride are you referring to?” His tone was so bland that at first she didn't perceive his implication.

Helen shot him a shocked glance. “Don't be wicked,” she whispered.

Rhys grinned and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. The gentle pressure of his mouth on the backs of her fingers did little to calm the rioting color in her face.

Lady Berwick's brittle voice came from several feet away. “Not so cool and composed now, I see. Lady Helen, introduce me to the gentleman who seems to have set you all aflutter.”

Helen went to her with Rhys at her side. “Lady Berwick,” she murmured, “this is Mr. Winterborne.”

A curious change came over the countess's face as she stared at the big, black-haired Welshman before her. Her steely eyes turned as soft as mist, and a hint of girlish color rose in her cheeks. Instead of giving him a nod, she extended her hand.

Without hesitation, Rhys enclosed the older woman's jewel-laden fingers in a gentle grip, and bowed over her hand with easy grace. He straightened and smiled at her. “A pleasure.”

Lady Berwick studied him, her gaze wide and almost wondering, although her voice remained coolly assessing. “A young man. I confess, I expected some
one of more advanced years, in light of your accomplishments.”

“I was set to learn my father's trade at an early age, my lady.”

“You have been described to me as a ‘business magnate.' It is my understanding that the term is used for a man who has amassed wealth so great that it cannot be measured on any ordinary scale.”

“I've had a stroke of luck now and then.”

“False modesty is evidence of secret pride, Mr. Winterborne.”

“The subject makes me uncomfortable,” he admitted frankly.

“As well it should—any discussion of money is vulgar. However, at my age, I will ask whatever I like, and let anyone reproach me if they dare.”

Rhys laughed suddenly in that free, attractive way he had, his teeth white against his amber complexion. “Lady Berwick, I would never reproach nor refuse you anything.”

“Well then, I have a question for you. Lady Helen insists that in taking you for a husband, she is not marrying down. Do you agree?”

Rhys glanced at Helen, his eyes warm. “No,” he said. “Every man marries above himself.”

“Do you believe, then, that she should wed a man of noble pedigree?”

Returning his attention to the countess, Rhys hitched his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Lady Helen is so far above all men that none of us deserve her. Therefore, it might as well be me.”

Lady Berwick let out a reluctant cackle, staring at him as if spell-struck. “Charmingly arrogant,” she said. “I almost find myself in agreement with you.”

“Ma'am,” Kathleen said, “Perhaps we should send the gentlemen to refresh themselves and change into more appropriate attire for tea. The housekeeper will have a conniption at the sight of these muddy boots clomping across the carpets.”

Devon grinned. “Whatever a conniption is, I feel certain I don't want to be the cause of one.” He leaned down and kissed his wife's forehead, in spite of all her previous warnings about Lady Berwick's dislike of physical demonstrations.

After making polite bows, the men left the receiving room.

Lady Berwick's mouth twisted wryly. “There is no lack of manly vigor in this household, is there?” Her gaze turned absent as she stared at the empty doorway. As she continued, she seemed almost to be speaking to herself. “When I was a girl, there was a footman-in-waiting at my father's estate. A handsome rascal from North Wales, with hair black as night, and a knowing gaze . . .”

A distant memory had stirred her, something withheld but tender radiating through the temporary softening of her expression. “A rascal,” she repeated gently, “but gallant.” Recovering herself, she cast a stern glance at the young women around her. “Mark my words, girls. There is no greater enemy of virtue than a charming Welshman.”

Feeling Pandora's elbow poking discreetly against her side, Helen reflected with chagrin that she could vouch for that.

“D
O NOT CROSS YOUR
legs, Pandora. Occupy your chair entirely. Cassandra, try not to fling the drapery of your skirts all about while sitting down.” Lady Berwick dispensed these and many other instructions to the twins during afternoon tea, with the expertise of a woman who had trained many young ladies in the arts of deportment.

Pandora and Cassandra did their best to follow the countess's commands, although there would be private bemoaning later about how the older woman could turn the pleasant ritual of teatime into a trial of endurance.

Kathleen and Devon managed to focus most of the conversation on one of Lady Berwick's favorite subjects: horses. Both Lord and Lady Berwick were keen horse enthusiasts, occupying themselves with the training of thoroughbreds at their Leominster estate. In fact, that was how they had originally become acquainted with Kathleen's parents, Lord and Lady Carbery, who had owned an Arabian stud farm in Ireland.

Lady Berwick displayed a lively interest upon learning that Kathleen would inherit at least two dozen horses of purebred Arabian stock, and a parcel of land comprising a riding school, stables, paddocks, and an arena. Even though Lord Carbery's title and estate lands would be passed on to the nearest male issue, a
great-nephew from his father's side, the stud farm had been built by Kathleen's parents and had never been entailed.

“We'll arrange for three or four of the horses to be brought here,” Devon said, “but the rest of the stock will have to be sold.”

“The difficulty will be in finding buyers who understand the nature of Arabians,” Kathleen said with a frown. “They have to be managed differently than other breeds. Placing an Arabian with the wrong kind of owner could lead to many problems.”

“What will you do with the farm?” Rhys asked.

“I'd like to sell it to the next Lord Carbery and have done with it,” Devon said. “Unfortunately, according to the farm manager, Carbery has no interest in horses.”

“No interest in horses?” Lady Berwick echoed, seeming aghast.

Kathleen nodded ruefully. “When Lord Trenear and I reach Glengarriff, we'll be able to take account of all that must be done. I'm afraid we may have to stay a fortnight to resolve everything. Perhaps even a month.”

The countess knit her brows. “I'm afraid it won't do for me to remain at Eversby Priory so long.”

West, who had seated himself as far away from Lady Berwick as possible, said insincerely, “Oh that's too bad.”

“My daughter Bettina is in her first confinement,” Lady Berwick continued. “The birth is expected to occur soon, and I must be with her in London when the labor begins.”

“Why don't you stay at Ravenel House with Helen and the twins?” Devon suggested to the countess. “You could manage them just as easily in London as here.”

Pandora clapped her hands together in enthusiasm.
“I would
love
that, there is
so much more
to do in town—”

“Oh
do
say yes, my lady!” Cassandra exclaimed, bouncing in her chair.

The countess gave them both a stern glance. “This display is unseemly.” When the girls had fallen completely silent, she said to Devon, “My lord, that would seem an ideal solution. Yes, we will do that.”

Helen was quiet and still, but her heart quickened at the thought of returning to London, where she would be closer to Rhys. She didn't dare look in his direction, even when she heard him speak calmly to Lady Berwick.

“I'll escort you and the girls on the train to London, if that would be agreeable.”

“It would, Mr. Winterborne,” came the decisive reply.

“I'm at your service,” Rhys continued. “It would be a privilege to assist with anything you require while you're in town.”

“Thank you,” the countess said with great dignity. “Coming from a man of your extensive connections, I realize that is no small offer. We will prevail on you if necessary.” She paused to stir another lump of sugar into her tea. “Perhaps you might call on us at Ravenel House from time to time.”

Rhys smiled. “It would be my pleasure. In return, I would like to invite you to Winterborne's as my personal guest.”

“A department store?” Lady Berwick sounded disconcerted. “I only frequent small shops, where the tradesmen are acquainted with my preferences.”

“My sales clerks would show you the greatest variety of luxury goods you've ever seen in one place.
Gloves, for example—how many pairs do they bring out for you at a little shop? A dozen? Two dozen? At the glove counter at Winterborne's, you'll view ten times that many, made of glacéed kid, calf suede, doeskin, elk, peccary, antelope, even kangaroo.” Seeing her interest, Rhys continued casually, “No fewer than three countries have a part in making our best gloves. Lambskin dressed in Spain, cut in France, and hand-stitched in England. Each glove is so delicate, it can be enclosed in the shell of a walnut.”

“You offer those at your store?” the countess asked, clearly weakening.

“Aye. And we have eighty other departments featuring items from all over the world.”

“I am intrigued,” the older woman admitted. “But hobnobbing with the common herd . . . the crowds . . .”

“You could bring the girls after-hours, when the daytime customers have gone,” Rhys said. “I'll have some of the sales clerks stay to assist you. If you like, my assistant will make a private appointment for Lady Helen to consult with the store's dressmaker. It's time to begin designing her trousseau, aye?”

“It's beyond time,” Kathleen said, sending her husband an inquiring glance.

“Knowing little of these matters,” Devon replied, “I'll leave it to your judgment.”

“Then if Lady Berwick consents,” Kathleen said, “and Helen wishes it, the dressmaker at Winterborne's could begin on the trousseau while Lord Trenear and I are away.”

Helen nodded. “That would be lovely.” She looked at Rhys for just an instant, seeing past his relaxed veneer. Judging from the gleam in his eyes, he was coming up with all manner of plans.

“I will give the matter due consideration,” Lady Berwick remarked, frowning as Pandora tapped the fingers of both hands on the table in a burst of excitement. “Child, do not make a tambourine of the tea table.”

H
ELEN FOUND IT
both a pleasure and torture to go through an ordinary day with Rhys there at Eversby Priory. He was within her sight, her reach, but they were always in the company of others. It was exhausting to have to conceal how much she felt, how her heart raced whenever he entered the room. She had never expected how powerful the combination of physical desire and love would be. At some moments she was filled with melancholy, reflecting that her time with him was slipping through her fingers like fine white sand. She had to tell him about her father . . . she just couldn't make herself do it yet.

The hours before midnight dragged by slowly, while Helen paced and fidgeted and waited in her room until the household had finally settled. She hurried barefoot through the hallways to the east wing in her white nightgown and robe, impatience pumping through her veins.

She arrived at Rhys's door, and it opened before she even touched it, a strong arm reaching out to pull her inside. The key turned firmly in the lock, and Rhys caught her close with a soft laugh. Helen was electrified by the feel of him all along her, the aggressive pressure of him against her belly. His mouth blotted out every thought as he searched her hungrily, unlocking a flood of desire that she was too inexperienced to control. She responded blindly, desperate for him, her hands sliding into his thick hair to pull his head down harder over hers.

After undressing her where she stood, Rhys carried her to the bed. Stretching her out beneath him, he began to feast on her with deliberate slowness, biting and licking on the pulses in her throat, breasts, wrists. She felt the touch of his hand between her thighs, teasing lightly. He splayed the soft flesh open, his fingers cool and gentle as they stroked on either side of the hot bud. She couldn't stop twisting, straining, twining her limbs around his at every possible opportunity. He resisted, wanting to play, wanting to indulge in lavish variety when all she wanted was to have him inside her
now
.

His whisper curled into her ear like smoke. “You're not wet enough for me,
cariad
.”

“I am,” she managed to say between labored gasps.

“Show me.”

After the briefest of hesitations, she reached down to clasp his erection. A shallow gasp escaped her as she felt the heavy pulse of his flesh, the shaft thickening until she was unable to close her fingers around it. Guiding him between her thighs, she rubbed the head of his sex over soft feminine layers and pleats, circling the most sensitive part of him against her until it was glossed with moisture and they were both shaking.

Rhys pushed against the swollen opening, stretching her, coaxing her flesh to yield. She arched, helpless and overtaken, aware of nothing but the pleasure of him filling her. He grasped her hips, pushing and pulling her slowly on his hard shaft, and she made sounds she'd never made in her life, moaning and purring at the intense delight of his possession.

When the last shudders had left her, and Helen had regained her breath, Rhys rolled and maneuvered her easily. She found herself straddling his lap as he sat on
the edge of the bed. The position felt strange and awkward, and she linked her arms around his neck, fearing she might fall backwards.

Rhys slid a reassuring hand low on her spine. His mouth tugged at hers, his teeth lightly grazing her lower lip. He seemed to be waiting for something. She glanced down in confusion at the rampant erection pressed between them, wondering what he expected of her.

He laughed quietly, the lamplight striking sparks in his midnight eyes. “You look like a dove caught in a snare.”

“I don't know what to do,” she protested, hot and mortified.

Cupping her bottom with his free hand, Rhys guided her upward and gently brought her closer to his body. “Lower yourself onto me,
cariad
.”

Her eyes widened as she understood what he intended.

She gripped his shoulders and obeyed, easing downward inch by cautious inch. Unable to take all of him, she stopped in discomfort. His supportive hand lifted her at once, lessening the inner pressure.

The black crescents of his lashes lowered, the space between his brows contracting. A sheen of perspiration had given his face and chest the look of cast bronze. He bit his lip and muttered something in Welsh.

“I can't understand what you're saying,” Helen whispered.

After taking a raw breath, he let out a rasp of amusement. “Just as well. I paid you a compliment—but a crude one. Hold onto me.” He eased back and supported himself on his elbows, letting her rest partially on his torso. “Is this better?”

Helen nodded with a little gasp of relief. In this position, she was able to control his depth. What an amazing feeling it was to have all that sinewy power beneath her, his robust body braced between her thighs.

There was a flicker of challenge in his eyes, and his hips nudged upward in playful invitation.

Helen moved carefully, rising and lowering, catching her breath at the hot slide of him within her. He was patient, letting her experiment, while his heart beat like a trip-hammer beneath her flattened palms. She found a gliding back-and-forth motion that sent spasms of heat through her. Judging from his ardent groan, he seemed to enjoy it as well. His mouth caught at the tips of her breasts whenever she moved high enough, and she began to delight in teasing him, sometimes letting him have what he wanted, sometimes withholding. The ribbon had come loose from her hair, the curtain of silvery locks tickling his face and chest.

“You like to torment me,” Rhys said, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure.

“Yes.” In fact, it was fun, enormously exciting fun of a kind she'd never imagined.

The hint of a grin crossed his lips and vanished quickly as she plunged harder, filling herself with him. He began to answer her rhythm in earnest, fisting his hands in the bedclothes. She loved the sight of him lost to passion, his head tilted back and his strong throat exposed, the muscles of his chest sharply delineated. A storm of sensation swept through her, and her shuddering body locked on him. He continued to thrust, the movements becoming jerky and forceful, finishing in a powerful shove that arched his hips and most of his back completely off the bed.

As soon as he was able, he sank back down and
pushed Helen's hair back with an unsteady hand to look at her face. “Was I too rough with you,
cariad
?”

“No.” Helen stretched luxuriously over him. “Was I too rough with you?”

He chuckled and relaxed. “Aye, did you not hear me begging for mercy?”

“Is that what you were doing?” She bent to let her mouth hover teasingly above his. “I thought you were urging me on.”

A slow smile crossed his face. “I was doing a bit of both,” he conceded, and drew her down to him.

They talked lazily for a while, while the night drowsed around them and shadows subsided in the corners.

“You charmed Lady Berwick despite herself,” Helen told him, leaning back against his chest as he sat with his shoulders propped on the headboard. “I think she invited you to call on us at Ravenel House before she even realized what she was doing.”

His warm hand coasted along the slender length of her arm. “I'll visit as often as she'll allow.”

“I'm certain she'll want to see Winterborne's now, after all your talk of gloves. How did you know that would tempt her?”

“Most women her age go first to the glove counter when they enter the store.”

“What counter do women my age first go to?”

“Perfumes and powder.”