TO HELEN’S DISAPPOINTMENT, THERE was little opportunity to see Rhys during their first week in London. After the days he had been absent from his office, work had accumulated and there were many matters that required his attention. When he paid a call to Ravenel House one afternoon, his interaction with Helen was limited to small talk, with the countess and the twins seated nearby. Lady Berwick’s rules about visiting were explicit and unyielding: Calls must be paid during specified hours, and the visitor should stay no longer than fifteen minutes. After a quarter of an hour had passed, the countess glanced meaningfully at the clock.
Rhys’s gaze met Helen’s in a moment of shared impatience and yearning, and the corners of his lips twitched as he stood. “I believe I’ve stayed long enough.”
“We’ve quite enjoyed your visit, Mr. Winterborne,” Lady Berwick said, rising to her feet also. “You are welcome to dine with us the evening after next, if your schedule can accommodate it.”
“Friday?” Rhys frowned in regret. “I would love nothing better, my lady, but I’ve already committed to attending a private dinner with the prime minister.”
“Mr. Disraeli?” Helen asked, her eyes widening. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance. He wants my support for a labor law reform bill, to allow workers the legal right to go on strike.”
“I didn’t realize it was illegal,” Helen said.
Rhys smiled at her interest. “Only a handful of craft societies—carpenters, bricklayers, iron founders—are legally allowed. But many other union members do it nevertheless, and are jailed as a result.”
“Do you want them to have the right to strike?” Helen asked. “Even though you’re a business owner?”
“Aye, the working class should enjoy the same rights as everyone else in society.”
“It is not for women to concern ourselves with such matters,” Lady Berwick said, waving away the matter. “I shall endeavor to find a mutually acceptable date for dinner, Mr. Winterborne.”
“I will see him out, ma’am,” Helen said, striving to tamp down her frustration at not having even a second alone with him.
Lady Berwick shook her head decisively. “My dear, it is improper to accompany a gentleman all the way to the door.”
Helen sent her sisters a pleading glance.
Instantly Pandora nudged her chair with the back of her leg, toppling it over. “Blast,” she exclaimed. “How did that happen?”
The countess turned to face her. “Pandora, that word!”
“What should I say when I knock something over?”
There was a brief silence as Lady Berwick considered the question. “You may say ‘alas.’”
“‘Alas?’ Pandora echoed in distaste. “But that’s such a flabby word.”
“What does it even mean?” Cassandra asked.
While the twins kept Lady Berwick occupied, Helen slipped out into the hallway with Rhys.
Without a word, he slid a hand to the nape of her neck and brought her mouth to his, devouring her with heat and pure male hunger. She inhaled sharply as he pulled her hard against him, his breath striking her cheek in scorching rushes.
“Helen?” The countess’s voice came from the front parlor.
Rhys let go of her instantly. He stared at her, his hands opening and closing as if they itched for the feel of her.
Dazed, Helen tried to steady her wobbly knees. “You should probably leave,” she whispered. With an attempt at humor, she added lamely, “Alas.”
Rhys gave her a sardonic glance before going to fetch his hat and gloves from a demilune table. “I can’t call again during visiting hours, cariad. For the past fifteen minutes, I’ve suffered like a starving man outside a bakery window.”
“When will I see you next?”
He settled the hat on his head and tugged on his gloves. “I’ll make certain she brings you to the store on Monday evening.”
“Will we have any privacy there?” Helen asked doubtfully, following him to the door.
Pausing to look down at her, Rhys stroked her cheek with his forefinger, and she shivered at the caress of smooth black leather. Gently he gripped her jaw and stared at her mouth. “The store is my territory,” he said. “What do you think?”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, the parlor was filled with no less than a dozen women whom Lady Berwick had invited for a special visit. These were the matrons who supervised the most important events of the season. It was their responsibility to shape the next generation of wives and mothers, and the fates of all marriageable young women depended on their good favor.
“Say as little as possible,” Lady Berwick told the girls severely. “Remember that silence is golden.” Glancing at Pandora, she added, “In your case, it’s platinum.”
The three sisters occupied a corner of the parlor, quiet and wide-eyed as the group of matrons chatted and drank tea to the health of the Queen. A genial discussion of the weather led to a consensus that it had been unusually cold, and spring would certainly be late that year.
Helen paid close attention as Lady Berwick sought the general opinion on the dressmaker at Winterborne’s, and was reassured from all sides that the lady in question, Mrs. Allenby, produced fashions of exceptional quality. Now that Mrs. Allenby had become an official court dressmaker, one could not secure an appointment without first being placed on a waiting list.
“One assumes, however,” a dowager remarked with a smile, “that Lady Helen will be able to obtain an appointment without having to wait.”
Helen kept her gaze modestly down.
“Indeed she will,” Lady Berwick answered for her. “Mr. Winterborne has been most accommodating.”
“You’ve made his acquaintance?” one of the ladies asked.
A multitude of chairs creaked in unison as the group leaned forward, ears twitching to catch the countess’s reply.
“He escorted us to London on the train.”
As excited murmurs fluttered among the group, Lady Berwick cast Helen a meaningful glance.
Helen instantly took the cue. “If your ladyship has no objection,” she said demurely, “my sisters and I will withdraw to study our history lessons.”
“Very good, my dear, attend to your education.”
Helen and the twins curtsied to the group, and left the room. As they crossed the threshold, a barrage of questions about Mr. Winterborne filled the parlor.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Helen told the twins uncomfortably as they paused to listen. “Eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves.”
“Yes,” Pandora conceded, “but they hear fascinating things about other people.”
“Hush,” Cassandra urged in a whisper, straining to listen.
“. . . his features are pleasing, although not as delicate as one might wish,” Lady Berwick was saying. She paused, her voice lowering marginally. “He has an abundant crop of hair—jet black—a virile development of beard, a strapping build, and a robust physique.”
“And his temperament?” someone asked.
“As high-spirited as a Barbary stallion,” Lady Berwick replied with relish. “Obviously he is well-adapted for the duties of paternity.”
An excited volley of comments and questions followed.
“I wonder if they ever actually talk about charity events at their meetings,” Cassandra whispered drolly, while Helen tugged her away.
HAVING MANAGED TO survive the ladies’ gathering without committing social suicide, Pandora, Cassandra, and Helen were all excused from the obligation of receiving callers during visiting hours the next day. Pandora cajoled Cassandra into helping with the artwork for her board game, while Helen sat alone with a book in the upstairs parlor.
For several minutes, she stared at the words without reading them, while her mind spun in a weary carousel. Chilled despite the warmth of the room, she set the book aside and wrapped her arms around herself.
“My lady.” The footman, Peter, had come to the threshold of the parlor. “Lady Berwick wishes for you to join her in the receiving room.”
Straightening in her chair, Helen gave him a perplexed glance. “Did she explain why?”
“To help entertain a visitor.”
Helen stood uneasily. “Did she send for the twins as well?”
“No, my lady, only you.”
“Please tell her that I’ll be down directly.”
After smoothing her hair and straightening her skirts, Helen descended the stairs and went to the receiving room. She blinked, her steps slowing, as she saw that Lady Berwick was waiting for her at the threshold.
“Ma’am,” she said with a questioning frown.
The countess kept her back turned to the visitor in the receiving room. Her posture was upright and elegant as always, but something about her reminded Helen of a starling she’d once seen perched on the hand of an itinerant bird seller. The bird’s wings had been pinned to its sides with fetters and a length of packthread . . . but its eyes had been wild and bright with the longing for freedom.
“Unexpectedly,” Lady Berwick said in a soft undertone, “my husband’s heir has come to meet you. You need say very little to him. Straighten your spine.”
With no more preparation than that, Helen found herself pulled into the receiving room.
“Lady Helen,” the countess said evenly, “this is my nephew, Mr. Vance.”