THE DISTANT CHIMES OF a clock drifted through the house as Helen slipped from her room and navigated the shadows of the upstairs hallway. Rhys had been lodged in a guest room in the east wing, for which she was thankful. They would need privacy for the conversation they were about to have.
She was as afraid as she had ever been about anything. Her heart pounded so hard that it felt as if something were striking her chest from the outside. She didn’t know Rhys well enough to be certain how he would react when she told him. Whatever he might feel for her, it was founded on some ideal of perfection, of an aristocratic wife on a pedestal. The news she was about to tell him wasn’t a step down from the pedestal—it was a leap off a cliff.
The problem was not with something she had done. The problem was with who she was, and there was no solution for that. Would Rhys ever be able to look at her without seeing shades of Albion Vance? She had spent most of her life with people who were supposed to love her, and hadn’t. She couldn’t endure spending the rest of it with a husband who would do the same.
By the time Helen reached the east wing, she was desperately cold despite the wool lining of her dressing gown and the thickness of her embroidered slippers. Shivering, she approached Rhys’s door and knocked tentatively.
Her stomach lurched as she was confronted with Rhys’s huge dark form, silhouetted against the glow of the hearth and a small bedside lamp. He was dressed only in a robe, his chest and feet bare. Reaching an arm around her waist, he drew her past the threshold, closed the door, and locked it decisively.
As Rhys pulled her against him, Helen pressed her cheek against the exposed part of his chest.
Feeling the way she trembled, he cuddled her closer. “You’re nervous, cariad.”
She nodded against his chest.
One of his hands gently cupped the side of her face. “Are you afraid that I’ll hurt you?”
She understood that he was referring to the physical joining that had left her sore after their first time. What she feared, of course, was a far different kind of pain. Licking her dry lips, she forced herself to reply. “Yes. But not in the way you—”
“No, no,” he soothed, “it will be different this time.” He bent his head and hugged her as if he were trying to surround her with himself. “Your pleasure means more to me than anything in life.” One of his hands slid low on her hips to the beginning curve of her bottom. His hand traveled to her front, gently pressing her stomach before sliding to the place between her thighs.
The teasing stroke sent a thrill of sensation through her, and her legs quaked until she could hardly stand. She took a breath to speak, but it stuck in her throat as a half-sob. Swallowing it back, she said unsteadily, “It’s not that, it’s . . . I’m afraid because I think . . . I might lose you.”
“Lose me?” Rhys looked down at her keenly, and her gaze fell from his. After a moment, she heard him ask, “Why would you worry about that?”
Now was the time to tell him. She tried to blurt it out—Albion Vance is my father—but she couldn’t make herself do it. Her mouth refused to shape the words. All she could do was stand there and shiver like a treble wire of a piano, fine vibrations of cowardice singing through her.
“I don’t know,” she finally said.
As she kept her face averted, continuing to tremble, Rhys bent to nudge a kiss against her cheek. “Ah you’ve made yourself upset,” he exclaimed quietly, and scooped her up with an ease that stole her breath away.
He was so strong, the heavy muscles of his chest and arms capable of crushing her. But he was gentle, careful, carrying her to an upholstered chair near the hearth and sitting with her sideways in his lap. Removing one of her slippers, he grasped her ice-cold foot in his big, warm hand and began to knead it slowly. His thumb rubbed into her arch, easing soreness she hadn’t even been aware of. She bit back a quiet moan as he proceeded to massage every vulnerable place on her sole. Gently he squeezed each of her toes between his thumb and forefinger, and made small, firm circles on the ball of her foot. In a while he reached for her other foot, rubbing and pressing patiently until she had relaxed in his lap, her head resting against his heartbeat. Her breathing slowed as a kind of trance came over her, a drowsing-awake feeling.
Outside the windows, the winter wind raced over the close-grazed downs, causing tree limbs and branches to sway like unbolted gates. Creaks and settling noises came from the house’s bones as the night deepened.
Rhys cradled her comfortably while they listened to the crackling of the seasoned oak on the hearth and watched sparks dance and rise. No one had ever held Helen so close, for so long.
“Why do old houses creak so much?” he asked idly, playing with her braid and drawing the silky end across his cheek.
“When all the warmth fades at night, it makes the old boards contract and slip against each other.”
“A bloody massive house, it is. And you were left to your own devices in this place for too long. I didn’t understand before, how alone you were.”
“I had the twins for company. I watched over them.”
“But there was no one to watch over you.”
A sense of uneasiness came over her, as it always did whenever she reflected on her childhood. It had seemed as if her very survival had depended on never complaining or drawing attention to herself. “Oh I—I didn’t need that.”
“All little girls need to feel safe and wanted.” He stroked back the fine loose locks around her face, his fingertips gently following the changing patterns of firelight against her hair. “When you grow up without something, the lack of it is always with you. Even when you finally have it.”
Helen looked up at him in wonder. “Do you ever feel that way?”
His smile turned self-mocking. “My fortune is so large, cariad, that the numbers would frighten any reasonable man. But something inside me always insists that every last shilling could disappear tomorrow.” His hand charted the shape of her hip and followed the line of her thigh. Clasping her knee, he stared into her wide eyes. “When we were in London, you told me that your world was very small. Well, my world is very large. And you’re the most important person in it. You’re safe and wanted now, Helen. In time, you’ll become used to that, and you won’t worry.” As she turned her face against his chest, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “We’re bound to each other,” he whispered, “for as long as the world exists. Remember?”
Helen rubbed her cheek against his velvet robe. “We haven’t made our vows yet.”
“We did that afternoon, when you came to my bed. That’s what it meant.” His fingers slid beneath her chin, coaxing her to look at him. Amusement deepened the faint whisks at the outer corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but there’s no getting rid of me.”
Desperately she stared at the face above hers, all strong, stark angles and shadows, a striking framework for those compelling sable eyes. Rhys hid nothing, letting her see the tenderness that was reserved for her alone. She felt the overwhelming pull between them, like the force of gravity between twin stars.
Rhys adjusted her higher on his chest, his powerful body flexing beneath her. Her breasts felt hot and full, and she turned to press them against him. Dizzy with guilt and longing, she linked her arms around his neck. She wanted more of him, his skin, his taste, his body inside hers.
Tell him, her tortured conscience screamed. Tell him!
Instead, she heard herself whisper, “I want to go to bed now.”
Beneath her weight, where she rested on him intimately, she felt a thickening pressure.
His brows lifted in subtle teasing. “Alone?”
“With you.”