Eight months later
“. . . AND PANDORA SAID THAT if her game turns out to be a success, she won’t participate in any of the events of the Season,” Helen said, deftly hand-pollinating vanilla blossoms. “She told Lady Berwick that she has no intention of being herded from ball to ball like a disoriented sheep.”
Rhys smiled and watched her lazily, his back braced against a brick column. He was a handsome sight, his presence incongruously masculine amid the rows and rows of orchids. “How did Lady Berwick react?”
“She was outraged, of course. But before they could start another row, Cousin Devon pointed out that Pandora has only just now filed a patent application, and the Season will probably have begun before we find out if it’s been accepted. Therefore, Pandora may as well go to a few balls and dinners, if for no other reason than to keep Cassandra company.”
“Trenear is right. There’s far more to publishing a board game than applying for a patent and taking the design to the printer. If Pandora is serious about her venture, it will take at least a year before we can stock it on the display tables.”
“Oh, Pandora is quite serious,” Helen said wryly.
She had just returned with Carys from a morning visit to Ravenel House. They had gone to see Kathleen’s newborn son, William, who was healthy and thriving. Carys had been fascinated by the two-week-old infant and had cooed over him for several minutes, until Pandora had coaxed her away to help test her board game prototype. The little girl had loved the game, titled Shopping Spree, in which players moved their tokens around a circuit of departments, collecting merchandise cards along the way. At Pandora’s insistence, the game taught no moral values or lessons: it was intended only to be amusing.
“Do you know,” Helen said thoughtfully, “I have a feeling that Pandora’s game is going to sell very well. Lady Berwick and Carys had a splendid time playing it this morning. They both seem to love the process of collecting all those beautifully detailed little merchandise cards—the umbrella, the shoe, and so forth.”
“Human nature is acquisitive,” Rhys replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “Aye, the game will sell.”
“How well?” Helen used a toothpick to transfer pollen into the blossom’s stigma.
Rhys laughed gently. “I’m not an oracle, cariad.”
“Yes, you are. You know these things.” Finishing the last vanilla flower, Helen set aside the toothpick and turned to give him an expectant glance.
“She’ll make a fortune,” he said. “It’s an undeveloped market, the product can be mass-produced with lithographic printing, and as you just pointed out, the game has broad appeal.”
Helen smiled, but she was inwardly perturbed. She wanted her younger sister’s hard work and talent to be rewarded. However, she was concerned that in her quest to become self-sufficient and independent, Pandora seemed determined to keep from giving any man the chance to love her. Why was she so hardened against the idea of sharing her life with someone else?
“I hope it will make her happy,” she said.
Rhys unfolded his arms and approached her slowly. Warm September light, the color of ripe lemons, poured through the glasshouse panes and slid over his dark hair. “Speaking from experience,” he said, taking her waist in his hands, “the success will make Pandora very happy at first. But eventually she’ll become lonely, and realize there’s more to life than financial gain.”
Smiling, Helen reached her arms around his neck. “Were you lonely, before you met me?”
Her husband stared down at her, his gaze a simmering dark caress. “Aye, as any man would be, trying to live each day with half his soul missing.” Lowering his head, he brushed his mouth over hers in repeated strokes, settling deeper each time until the kiss had turned deep and yearning. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmured when their lips parted.
Her eyes widened as she felt his hand at her breast. “It’s time for lunch.”
“You’re my lunch.” Rhys bent to kiss her again, and she twisted in his arms with a breathless laugh.
“I can’t . . . no, really . . . I’m going to see Garrett Gibson for tea.”
“You had tea with her the other day,” he said, kissing her neck. “I need you more.”
“It’s not actually for tea. That is, we might have tea, but that’s not the purpose of the visit. You see . . .” Helen paused and blushed as she continued uncertainly. “I have . . . symptoms.”
His head jerked up with startling suddenness. Frowning, he asked, “Are you not well, cariad?”
Touched by his instant concern, Helen stroked his nape soothingly. “I’m quite well.”
His intent gaze raked over her. “Then why—” He broke off as a thought occurred to him, and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he’d forgotten how to speak.
Helen rather enjoyed his dumbfounded reaction. “We won’t know for certain until Dr. Gibson confirms it,” she said, lacing her fingers into his vibrant black hair. “But I think by next spring, we’ll have another addition to the Winterborne family.”
Rhys pulled her close, hunching over her to bury his face against the soft curve of her neck and shoulder. He sounded shaken. “Helen. Helen, my treasure . . . what can I do for you? What do you need? Should you be standing on this hard floor? You’re wearing a corset—won’t it squash the baby?”
“Not this early,” she said, tenderly amused and a bit surprised as she felt a tremor run through him. “There’s no need to be anxious. I’ll manage this new project brilliantly, I promise. The baby and I will both be strong and healthy.”
Rhys drew back until his face was over hers, his breath rushing against her lips with peppermint coolness. “I’ll need your word on that,” he said huskily. “Because you’re my entire world, cariad. My heart only beats as an echo of yours.”
“Don’t doubt it for a moment, my dearest love.” Standing on her toes, Helen touched her lips to his. “After all . . . I am a Winterborne.”