Marrying Winterborne Page 7
“I meant to respect your possessions,” he said ruefully.
“You were distracted,” she managed to whisper.
Rhys made a faint sound of amusement. “‘Unhinged’ would be the word.” After using the torn garment to blot the wetness between her thighs, he tossed it aside and shaped his hand over her skull in a brief, comforting gesture. “Sleep, cariad. I’ll wake you now in a minute.”
Now in a minute . . . a Welsh phrase she’d heard him say before. Later, it seemed to mean, with no particular urgency.
Her body quivered with relief as she let herself succumb, sinking into the inviting darkness. And she fell asleep in a man’s arms for the first time in her life.
FOR MORE THAN an hour, Rhys did nothing but hold her. He felt drugged with satisfaction, drunk on it.
No matter how long he stared at Helen, he couldn’t have his fill. Every detail of her struck fresh notes of pleasure in him: the supple lines of her body, the pretty curves of her breasts. The white-blonde hair that spilled and streamed over his forearm, catching light as if it were liquid. And most of all her face, innocent in sleep, bereft of its usual composed mask. The wistful softness of her mouth went straight to his heart. How was it that he could hold her so close and still want more of her?
Helen was not a placid sleeper. At times her lashes trembled and her lips parted with an anxious breath, and her fingers and toes twitched involuntarily. Whenever she became restless, he caressed and cradled her more closely. Without even trying, she pulled something from him, a tenderness he’d never shown to anyone. He had pleasured women, taken them in every conceivable way. But he’d never made love to anyone the way he just had, as if his fingers were drinking sensation from her skin.
Beneath the covers, her slender thigh hitched higher on his leg as she turned more fully on her side. His cock answered vigorously. He wanted her again, now, even before she had healed from the first time, before he’d washed the virgin’s blood and his seed from her. Somehow in yielding to him so completely, she had gained a mysterious advantage, something he couldn’t yet identify.
He had to steel himself from rolling over her and thrusting into her defenseless body. Instead he savored the feel of her tucked against his side.
A log snapped in the hearth, the implosion of flame sending ruddy light through the room. He relished the way it gilded Helen’s skin, a sheen of gold over ivory. Very softly he touched the perfect curve of her shoulder. How strange it was to lie here so utterly contented, when he usually couldn’t abide inactivity. He could lie here for hours, even now at the middle of the day, just holding her.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been abed at this hour, save for those three weeks at Eversby Priory while he’d recovered from the train accident.
Before that experience, he’d never been sick in his life. And the thing he had always feared most was to be at someone else’s mercy. But somewhere in the miasma of heat and pain, he had become aware of a young woman’s cool hands and lulling voice. She had wiped his face and neck with iced cloths, and given him sips of sweetened tea. Everything about her had soothed him: the delicacy of her, the vanilla sweetness of her scent, the gentle way she had spoken to him.
For the most blissful few minutes of Rhys’s life, she had cradled his feverish head and told him stories about mythology and orchids. Until his last day on earth, that memory was the one he would return to most often. It was the first time he hadn’t envied a single man on earth, because for once he had felt something close to happiness. And it hadn’t been something he’d had to hunt down and devour in dog-hungry gulps . . . it had been gently, patiently spooned to him. Kindness that had asked for nothing in return. He had craved it . . . craved her . . . ever since.
A delicate blond tendril dangled over Helen’s nose, fluttering with each soft exhalation. Rhys stroked back the glinting strands and let his thumb trace over a slender dark brow.
He still didn’t understand why Helen had come to him. He had believed that his wealth was the attraction, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Obviously she wasn’t drawn to his scholarly turn of mind or his distinguished lineage, since he possessed neither of those things.
She’d said she wanted adventure. But adventures had a way of becoming tiresome, and then it was time to return to everything that was safe and familiar. What would happen when she wanted to go back and realized her life could never be what it was?
Troubled, he disentangled himself from Helen and arranged the covers snugly around her. Leaving the bed, he dressed in the bracing air of the bedroom. His mind fell back into its customary brisk pace, setting out lists and plans like marbles on a solitaire board.
Hell and damnation, what had he been thinking earlier? A grand wedding to show off his blue-blooded bride . . . why had he thought that mattered? Idiot, he told himself in disgust, feeling as if he were finally thinking clearly after spending days in a fog.
Now that Helen belonged to him, he couldn’t give her back. Not even for a brief interval until the wedding. He needed to keep her close at hand, and he damned well couldn’t risk having her back under Devon’s control. Although Rhys was convinced that Helen genuinely wanted to marry him, she was still too unworldly. Too malleable. Her family might try to send her far from his reach.
Thank God it wasn’t too late to rectify his mistake. Striding from the bedroom suite, he went to his private study and rang for a footman.
By the time the footman had reached the study, Rhys had made a list, sealed it, and addressed it to his private secretary.
“You sent for me, Mr. Winterborne?” The young footman, an enterprising fellow named George, had been well trained and highly recommended by an aristocratic London household. Unfortunately for the upper-class family—but quite fortunately for Rhys—they had recently been forced to economize and reduce the number of servants in their employ. Since many peerage families found themselves in straitened circumstances nowadays, Rhys had the luxury of hiring servants they could no longer afford. He had his pick of any number of competent people in service, usually the young or the very old.
Rhys motioned the footman to approach the desk. “George, take this list to my office and give it to Fernsby. Wait there while she collects the items I’ve requested, and bring it all here within the half-hour.”
“By your leave, sir.” The footman was gone in a flash.
Rhys grinned briefly at the young man’s speed. It was no secret, both in his household and at his store, that he liked his orders to be carried out quickly and with enthusiasm.
By the time the requested items had been brought, all packed in cream-colored boxes, Rhys had drawn a bath for Helen and gathered up her scattered clothes and hair combs.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached down to caress Helen’s cheek.
As he watched her struggle into consciousness, Rhys was caught off guard by a pang of tenderness, almost painful in its intensity. Helen opened her eyes, wondering for a bewildered instant where she was, and why he was there. Remembering, she looked up at him uncertainly. To his delight, one of her shy smiles emerged.
He pulled her up against him, his lips finding hers. As he caressed the naked length of her spine, he felt gooseflesh rise on her skin.
“Would you like a bath?” he whispered.
“Could I?”
“It’s ready for you.” He reached for the dressing-robe he’d laid over the foot of the bed, a kimono style that wrapped across the front. Helen slipped out of bed and allowed him to help her into it, trying to conceal herself in the process. Charmed by her modesty, Rhys tied the belt at her waist and proceeded to roll the sleeves back. His robe was twice her size, the hem pooling on the floor. “You shouldn’t be shy,” he told her. “I’d give my soul for a glimpse of you without your clothes.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“About seeing you naked? I wasn’t joking.”
“Your soul,” Helen said earnestly. “It’s too important.”
Taking her hand, he led her to the bathroom, which was paved with white onyx tile, the upper half of the walls lined with mahogany paneling. The French double-ended tub was tapered at the base, the sides flared to allow the bather to lean back comfortably. Nearby, an inset cabinet with glass doors featured stacks of white toweling.
Gesturing to the small mahogany stand beside the tub, Rhys said, “I had a few things sent over from the store.”
Helen went to investigate the objects on the stand: a rack of hairpins, a set of black combs, an enamel-backed hairbrush, a collection of soaps wrapped in hand-painted paper, and a selection of perfumed oils.
“You usually have a maid to attend you,” Rhys remarked, watching as she twisted up her hair and anchored it in place.
“I can manage.” A touch of pink infused her cheeks as she glanced at the high rib of the tub. “But I may need help to step in and out of the bath.”
“I’m at your service,” Rhys said readily.
Still blushing, she turned away from him and let the robe slip from her shoulders. He pulled it from her, nearly dropping the garment as he saw the slim length of her back and the perfect heart shape of her bottom. His fingers literally trembled with the urge to touch her. Draping the robe over one arm, he extended his free hand. Helen took it as she stepped into the tub, every movement graceful and careful, like a cat finding her way across uneven ground. She settled into the water, wincing as the heat of the bath soothed the intimate aches and stings from their earlier encounter.
“You’re sore,” he said in concern, remembering how delicate she was, how tight.
“Only a little.” Her lashes lifted. “May I have the soap?”
After unwrapping a cake of honey soap, he handed it to her along with a sponge, mesmerized by the pink shimmer of her body beneath the surface of the water. She rubbed the soap over the sponge and began to wash her shoulders and throat.
“I feel relieved,” she commented, “now that our course has been set.”
Rhys went to occupy the mahogany chair next to the inset cabinet. “That leads to something I need to discuss,” he said casually. “While you were sleeping, I reflected on the situation, and I’ve reconsidered our agreement. You see—” He broke off as he saw her face turn bleach-white, her eyes huge and dark. Realizing that she had misunderstood, he went to her in two strides, lowering to his knees beside the tub. “No—no, it’s not that—” He reached for her hastily, heedless of the water soaking his sleeves and waistcoat. “You belong to me, cariad. And I’m yours. I would never—Jesus, don’t look like that.” Pulling her to the side of the tub, he spread kisses over her sweet, wet skin. “I was trying to say that I can’t wait for you. We have to elope. I should have said so at the beginning, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He captured her tense mouth with his, kissing her until he felt her relax.
Drawing back, Helen looked at him in amazement, her cheeks dappled with water, her lashes spiked. “Today?”
“Aye. I’ll take care of the arrangements. There’s nothing you need worry about. I’ll have Fernsby pack a valise for you. We’ll travel to Glasgow by private train carriage. It has a sleeping compartment with a large bed—”
“Rhys.” Her fingers, scented of soap, came to rest on his lips. She took an extra breath to steady herself. “There’s no need to alter our plans. Nothing has changed.”
“Everything’s changed,” he said, a shade too aggressively. Swallowing hard, he moderated his tone. “We’ll leave this afternoon. It’s far more practical this way. It solves more than one potential problem.”
Helen shook her head. “I can’t leave my sisters alone in London.”
“They’re in a household full of servants. And Trenear will return soon.”
“Yes, tomorrow, but even so, the twins can’t be left to their own devices until then. You know how they are!”
Pandora and Cassandra were a pair of little devils, there was no denying it. They were both full of mischief and imagination. After having been brought up on a quiet estate in Hampshire all their lives, they thought of London as a giant playground. Neither of them had any idea of the perils that might befall them in the city.
“We’ll take them with us,” Rhys said reluctantly.
Her brows lifted. “And have Devon and Kathleen return from Hampshire to discover that you’ve kidnapped all three Ravenel sisters?”
“Believe me, I intend to give the twins back at the first opportunity.”
“I don’t understand the need for elopement. No one would deny us a wedding now.”
Steam rose from the water and clung to her fair skin in a glistening veil. Rhys was distracted by a cluster of soap bubbles that slid down the upper slope of her breast in a lazy path, finally coming to rest on the soft shell-pink tip. Unable to resist, he reached out to cup her breast, his thumb brushing away the bit of foam. He circled the nipple gently, watching it tighten into a perfect bud.
“There might be a baby,” he said.
Helen slipped from his grasp, as elusive as a mermaid. “Will there?” she asked, clutching the sponge until water streamed between her fingers.
“We’ll know if you miss your monthly bleeding.”
She applied more soap to the sponge and continued to bathe. “If that happens, it may become necessary to elope. But until then—”
“We’ll do it now,” Rhys said impatiently, “to avoid any hint of scandal if the child is born early.” The soaked waistcoat and shirt had turned clammy and cold. He stood and began to unfasten them. “I don’t want to provide gossip fodder for wagging tongues. Not where my offspring is concerned.”
“An elopement would cause just as much of a scandal as a baby coming early. And it would give my family more cause to disapprove of you.”
Rhys gave her a speaking glance.
“I would rather not antagonize them,” Helen said.
He dropped the waistcoat to the floor, where it landed with a wet smack. “Their feelings don’t matter to me.”
“But mine do . . . don’t they?”
“Aye,” he muttered, working on his wet cuffs.
“I would like to have a wedding. It would give everyone, including me, time to adjust to the situation.”
“I’ve already adjusted.”
There was a suspicious tension at her lips, as if she were trying to hold back a sudden smile. “Most of us don’t live at the same pace as you. Even the Ravenels. Couldn’t you try to be patient?”
“I would if there was a need. But there isn’t.”
“I think there is. I think a large wedding is still something you desire, although you’re not willing to admit it at the moment.”
“I wish I’d bloody well never said it,” Rhys said, exasperated. “I don’t care if we’re married in a church, the office of the Registrar General, or by a shaman wearing antlers in the wilds of North Wales. I want you to be mine as soon as possible.”
Helen’s eyes widened with curiosity. She seemed on the verge of asking more about shamans and antlers, but instead she kept to the subject at hand. “I would prefer to be married at a church.”
Rhys was silent as he opened his collar and began on the front placket of his shirt. The situation was of his own making, he thought, damning himself. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed his pride and ambition to stand in the way of marrying Helen as soon as possible. Now he would have to wait for her, when he could have had her in his bed every night.
Helen watched him solemnly. After a long moment, she said, “It’s important that you keep your promises to me.”
Defeated and fuming, he stripped off his wet shirt. Apparently Helen wasn’t quite as malleable as he’d assumed. “We’ll be married in six weeks. Not a day more.”
“That’s not nearly enough time,” she protested. “Even if I had unlimited resources, it would take much longer than that to make plans and place orders, and have things delivered—”
“I hav
e unlimited resources. Anything you want will be delivered here faster than a rat up a drainpipe.”
“It’s not just that. My brother Theo hasn’t been gone a year. My family and I will be in mourning until the beginning of June. Out of respect for him, I would like to wait until then.”
Rhys stared at her. His brain staggered around the words.
Wait until then. Wait until . . . June?
“That’s five months,” he said blankly.
Helen looked back at him, seeming to believe she had said something rational.
“No,” he said in outrage.
“Why not?”
It had been many years, and tens of millions of pounds ago, since anyone had asked Rhys to justify why he wanted something. The mere fact that he wanted it was always enough.
“It’s what we originally planned,” Helen pointed out, “the first time we became engaged.”
Rhys didn’t know why he’d agreed to that, or how it had even seemed tenable. Probably because he’d been so elated about marrying her that he hadn’t been inclined to quibble over the wedding date. Now, however, it was painfully clear that five days was too long to wait for her. Five weeks would be torment.
Five months didn’t even merit a discussion.
“Your brother won’t know or care if you marry before the mourning period is over,” Rhys said. “He probably would have been glad that you’d found a husband.”
“Theo was my only brother. I would like to honor him with the traditional year of mourning if at all possible.”
“It’s not possible. Not for me.”
She gave him a questioning glance.
Rhys leaned over her, gripping the sides of the tub. “Helen, there are times when a man has to—if his needs aren’t satisfied—” The heat from the water wafted up to his darkening face. “I can’t go without you that long. A man’s natural urges—” He broke off uncomfortably. “Damn it! If he can’t find relief with a woman, he’s driven to self-abuse. Do you understand?”