Marrying Winterborne (4 page)

Mrs. Fernsby straightened her neck and spine like a belligerent hen, continuing to view him with patent suspicion. “Yes, sir.”

After closing the door, Rhys returned to Helen, who was pouring tea. She was poised on the edge of the chair, her back as straight as a lightning rod.

“Will you take some?” she asked.

He shook his head, watching her intently. Mrs. Fernsby had been right: Helen appeared delicate, more so than he had remembered. Her cameo-pale wrist was so slender, it scarcely seemed able to bear the weight of the teapot. Perhaps she didn't want to be treated like a hothouse flower, but she hardly seemed to have more substance than one.

Christ, how would she handle the demands he would make of her?

But then her steady gaze met his, and the impression of fragility faded. Whatever Helen might feel for him, it wasn't fear. She had come to him, sought him out, in an act of will and unexpected boldness.

He knew the ultimatum he'd given her was indecent, a contradiction of everything he aspired to, but he didn't give a damn. It was the only way he could be sure of her. Otherwise, she might back out of the engagement. He didn't want to think about what losing her again would turn him into.

Helen stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “How long has Mrs. Fernsby been in your employ?”

“Five years, since she was widowed. Her husband succumbed to a wasting disease.”

Sorrow and concern shadowed her sensitive face. “Poor woman. How did she come to work for you?”

Although Rhys was usually disinclined to talk about his employees' personal lives, Helen's interest encouraged him to continue. “She had helped to manage and run her husband's hosiery and glove shop, which gave her a solid understanding of the retail business. After
her husband passed away, she applied for a position at Winterborne's. She applied as a secretary to the manager of the advertising department, but the manager refused to interview her, as he felt only a man could handle such responsibility.”

Helen's expression showed not a hint of surprise or disagreement. Like most women, she had been raised to accept the notion of male superiority in the world of business.

“However,” Rhys said, “Fernsby outraged the hiring supervisor by asking to speak to me directly. She was turned away immediately. When I was told of it the next day, I sent for Fernsby, and interviewed her personally. I liked her pluck and ambition, and hired her on the spot as my private secretary.” He grinned as he added, “She's lorded over the advertising department ever since.”

Helen appeared to mull over the story as she proceeded to consume a tea sandwich, a sliver of Sally Lunn bun, and a tart so small it could encompass only one glazed cherry. “I'm not accustomed to the idea of a woman holding a position among men at a place of business,” she admitted. “My father always said that the female brain was insufficient to the demands of professional work.”

“You disapprove of Fernsby's actions, then?”

“I approve wholeheartedly,” she said without hesitation. “A woman should have choices other than to marry or live with her family.”

Although she probably hadn't meant that to sting, it did. Rhys gave her a dark glance. “Perhaps instead of proposing, I should have offered you a position alongside the secretaries in the front office.”

Pausing with the teacup near her lips, Helen said, “I would rather marry you. It will be an adventure.”

Somewhat mollified, Rhys picked up a light chair with one hand and moved it close to her. “I wouldn't count on much adventuring if I were you. I'm going to look after you and keep you safe.”

She glanced at him over the rim of the cup, her eyes smiling. “What I meant was,
you
are the adventure.”

Rhys felt his heartbeats tumbling like a row of tin soldiers. He had always enjoyed women casually, sampling their favors with relaxed ease. Not one of them had ever caused this aching craving that Helen seemed to have unlocked from the center of his soul. God help him, he could never let her find out the power she had over him, or he would be at her mercy.

In a few minutes, Mr. Sauveterre, the jeweler, entered the office with a large black leather case held in one hand, and a small folding table in the other. He was a small, slim man with a prematurely receding hairline and a keen, incisive gaze. Although Sauveterre had been born in France, he spoke English with no accent, having lived in London since the age of two. His father, a successful glassmaker, had encouraged his son's artistic ability and eventually secured an apprenticeship for him with a goldsmith. Eventually Sauveterre had attended a Paris art school, and after graduation had worked as a designer in Paris for Cartier and Boucheron.

As a young man with a desire to distinguish himself, Sauveterre had leapt at the chance to become Winterborne's master jeweler. He possessed abundant skill and confidence in his own considerable talent, but just as important, he knew when to keep his mouth shut. A good jeweler protected the secrets of his clients, and Sauveterre knew an abundance of them.

Sauveterre bowed deftly. “My lady.” He set the
leather case on the floor. He proceeded to unfold the little campaign table in front of Helen, and pulled a tray from the case. “I understand you wish to view betrothal rings? The diamond was not to your taste?”

“I would prefer something smaller,” Helen told him. “A ring that won't be a nuisance during needlework or piano practice.”

The jeweler didn't bat an eye at hearing the priceless diamond described as a nuisance. “But of course, my lady, we will find something to suit you. Or failing that, I can create anything you desire. Do you have a particular gemstone in mind?”

She shook her head, her awestruck gaze moving over the sparkling rings arrayed along channels of black velvet.

“Perhaps there's a color you fancy?” Sauveterre prompted.

“Blue.” She glanced at Rhys cautiously as she replied, and he gave her a slight nod to confirm that she could choose anything she liked.

Bending to rummage through the case, the jeweler began to nimbly arrange rings on a fresh tray. “Sapphires . . . aquamarines . . . opals . . . alexandrites . . . ah, and here is a blue topaz, quite rare, unearthed from the Ural Mountains in Russia . . .”

For at least a half-hour, Sauveterre sat beside Helen to show her various rings and discuss the merits of the stones and settings. As she became comfortable in the jeweler's presence, Helen began to speak more freely with him. In fact, she became positively chatty, discussing art and music, and asking about his work in Paris.

It was, arguably, a more relaxed exchange than she'd ever had with Rhys.

As jealousy stabbed him like a driven nail, Rhys strode to his desk and reached into a glass jar of peppermint creams. The jar, replenished once a week, occupied a permanent corner of his desk. Popping a soft white wafer into his mouth, he went to glare out the window. The confection, made of egg whites, icing sugar, and flavored essence, instantly dissolved in a melting flood of mint.

“What is this?” he heard Helen ask the jeweler.

“A moonstone surrounded by diamonds.”

“How beautiful. What makes the stone glow that way?”

“The effect is called adularescence, my lady. The moonstone's natural layers refract the light and make it appear to shine from within.”

Perceiving that the ring had caught Helen's fancy, Rhys went to have a look at it. She handed the ring to him, and he inspected it closely. The semiprecious stone was a smooth oval cabochon of an indeterminate color. As he turned it from side to side, ambient light struck hot and cool blue flashes from the pale depths.

It was a lovely ring, but even with the surround of diamonds, the central gem was infinitely humbler than the one he had first given her. It wasn't fit for the wife of a Winterborne. Silently he damned Sauveterre for having brought up such an unassuming piece of jewelry in the first place.

“Helen,” he said shortly, “let him show you something else. This is the least valuable ring from the entire tray.”

“To me it's the most valuable,” Helen said cheerfully. “I never judge the worth of something by how much it actually costs.”

“A pretty sentiment,” Rhys commented. As the
owner of a department store, it gave him chest pains. “But this isn't good enough for you.”

Diplomatically the jeweler offered, “If you like, I could surround it with larger diamonds, and widen the shank—”

“I love it exactly as it is,” Helen insisted.

“It's a semiprecious stone,” Rhys said in outrage. Any of his past lovers would have scorned the thing.

Sauveterre broke the tense silence. “A stone of this quality, Mr. Winterborne, is perhaps more valuable than you may assume. For example, it's worth more than a middling sapphire or a ruby of the second water—”

“I want my wife to have a ring that's worthy of her,” Rhys snapped.

Helen stared at him without blinking. “But this ring is what I want.” Her voice was gentle, her expression mild. It would be easy to override her opinion—especially since it was clear that she didn't understand what she was asking for.

Rhys was about to argue, but something about her gaze caught his attention. She was trying not to be cowed by him, he realized.

Lucifer's flaming ballocks. There was no way in hell he could refuse her.

Enclosing the ring in his clenched fist, he gave the jeweler a glance of pure murder. “We'll take it,” he said curtly.

While Sauveterre slid the glittering trays back into the case, Rhys muttered Welsh curses under his breath. Prudently, neither the jeweler nor Helen asked him to translate.

After Sauveterre closed the leather case, he took Helen's proffered hand and bent over it in a gallant ges
ture. “My lady, please accept my felicitations on your betrothal. I hope—”

“It's time for you to leave,” Rhys said shortly, ushering him out.

“But the camp table—” Sauveterre protested.

“You can retrieve it later.”

The jeweler strained to glance over his shoulder at Helen. “If I may be of service in any other—”

“You've helped enough.” Rhys pushed him across the threshold and closed the door with a decisive shove.

“Thank you,” Helen said in the silence. “I know it's not what you would have chosen, but it's made me happy.”

She was smiling at him in a way she never had before, the corners of her eyes crinkling winsomely.

Rhys couldn't fathom why she was so pleased to have exchanged a diamond for a moonstone. All he understood was that she needed to be protected from her own naiveté. “Helen,” he said gruffly, “when you have the upper hand, you must not give it away so easily.”

She gave him a questioning glance.

“You just exchanged a costly ring for one that is only a fraction of its value,” he explained. “It's a bad bargain, it is. You should demand something to make up the difference. A necklace, or a tiara.”

“I don't need a tiara.”

“You need to ask for a concession,” he persisted, “to bring the ledger back into balance.”

“There's no ledger in a marriage.”

“There's always a ledger,” he told her.

He saw from Helen's expression that she didn't agree. But rather than argue, she wandered to the jar of peppermint creams and lifted the lid, sniffing at the cool, bracing fragrance.

“So this is where it comes from,” she said. “I've noticed the scent on your breath before.”

“I've been fond of them ever since I was a boy,” Rhys admitted, “carrying deliveries to the corner sweet shop. The confectioner used to let me have the broken ones.” He hesitated before asking with a touch of uncertainty, “Do you dislike it?”

The line of her cheek curved as she looked down at the jar. “Not at all. It's . . . very pleasant. May I try one?”

“Of course.”

Self-consciously she reached into the jar for a small white sphere, and placed it cautiously in her mouth. The quick dissolve and powerful rush of mint caught her off guard. “Oh. It's”—she coughed and laughed, her winter-blue eyes watering slightly—“strong.”

“Do you need a glass of water?” he asked, amused. “No? Here, then—let me give this to you.” Taking her left hand, he began to slide the moonstone onto her finger, and hesitated. “How did I propose the first time?” He had been nervous, steeling himself for a possible refusal; he could hardly remember a word he'd said.

Amusement tugged at her lips. “You laid out the advantages on both sides, and explained the ways in which our future goals were compatible.”

Rhys absorbed that with chagrin. “No one has ever accused me of being a romantic,” he said ruefully.

“If you were, how would you propose?”

He thought for a moment. “I would begin by teaching you a Welsh word.
Hiraeth
. There's no equivalent in English.”

“
Hiraeth
,” she repeated, trying to pronounce it with a tapped R, as he had.

“Aye. It's a longing for something that was lost, or never existed. You feel it for a person or a place, or a time in your life . . . it's a sadness of the soul.
Hiraeth
calls to a Welshman even when he's closest to happiness, reminding him that he's incomplete.”

Her brow knit with concern. “Do you feel that way?”

“Since the day I was born.” He looked down into her small, lovely face. “But not when I'm with you. That's why I want to marry you.”

Helen smiled. She reached up to curl her hand around the back of his neck, her caress as light as silk gauze being pulled across his skin. Standing on her toes, she drew his head down and kissed him. Her lips were smoother than petals, all clinging silk and tender dampness. He had the curious sensation of surrendering, some terrible soft sweetness invading him and rearranging his insides.

Breaking the kiss, Helen lowered back to her heels. “Your proposals are improving,” she told him, and extended her hand as he fumbled to slide the ring onto her finger.