FOR SEVERAL SECONDS, RHYS couldn’t manage a response. Either Helen hadn’t understood what she was saying, or he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Here and now,” he clarified. “You’ll let me”—he tried to think of a decent word—“take you,” he continued, “as a man takes a wife.”
“Yes,” Helen said calmly, shocking him all over again. Her face was very pale, with red banners of color emblazoned at the crests of her cheeks. But she didn’t look at all uncertain. She meant it.
There had to be a drawback, some pitfall that would be discovered later, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. She had said yes. Within a matter of minutes, she would be in his bed. Naked. The thought set every internal rhythm off-kilter, his heart and lungs battling for room inside his constricted chest.
It occurred to him that his usual vigorous rutting wasn’t going to work at all in this situation. Helen was vulnerable and innocent.
It would have to be lovemaking, not fucking.
He knew nothing about lovemaking.
Bloody buggering hell.
On the rare occasion when he’d enjoyed the favors of an upper-class lady, she had wanted to be taken roughly, as if he were a simple brute who was incapable of gentleness. Rhys had appreciated being spared any pretense of intimacy. He was no Byron, no poetry-spouting connoisseur of seduction. He was a Welshman with stamina. As for techniques and romance—well, obviously that was best left to the French.
But Helen was a virgin. There would be blood. Pain. Likely tears. What if he couldn’t be gentle enough? What if she became overwrought? What if—
“I have two conditions,” Helen ventured. “First, I should like to return home before dinnertime. And second . . .” She turned the color of a beetroot. “I wish to exchange this ring for a different one.”
His gaze dropped to her left hand. The night he had proposed, he had given her a flawless rose-cut diamond the size of a quail egg. The priceless stone had been discovered in the Kimberley mines of South Africa, cut by a famed gemologist in Paris, and set in a platinum filigree mounting by Winterborne’s master jeweler, Paul Sauveterre.
Seeing his confounded expression, Helen explained bashfully, “I don’t like it.”
“You told me you did when I gave it to you.”
“To be precise, I didn’t actually say that. It’s only that I didn’t say I disliked it. But I have resolved to be outspoken with you from now on, to avoid future misunderstandings.”
Rhys was chagrined to realize that Helen had never liked the ring he’d chosen for her. But he understood that she was trying to be straightforward with him now, even though she found the effort excruciating.
In the past, Helen’s opinions had been ignored or trampled by her family. And perhaps, he reflected, by him as well. He might have asked her what kind of stones and settings she preferred, instead of deciding what he’d wanted her to have.
Reaching for her hand, he lifted it for a closer look at the glittering ring. “I’ll buy you a diamond the size of a Christmas pudding.”
“My goodness, no,” Helen said hastily, surprising him yet again. “Just the opposite. This one sits very tall on my finger, you see? It slips from side to side, and makes it difficult to play the piano or write a letter. I would prefer a much smaller stone.” She paused. “Something other than a diamond.”
“Why not a diamond?”
“I’m not fond of them, actually. I suppose I don’t mind the small ones that look like raindrops or little stars. But the large ones are so cold and hard.”
“Aye, because they’re diamonds.” Rhys sent her a sardonic glance. “I’ll have a tray of rings brought up at once.”
A smile illuminated her face. “Thank you.”
“What else would you like?” he asked. “A carriage and team of four? A necklace? Furs?”
She shook her head.
“There must be something.” He wanted to inundate her with lavish gifts, make her understand what he was prepared to do for her.
“I can’t think of anything.”
“A piano?” As he felt the involuntary tightening of her fingers, he continued, “A Brinsmead grand concert piano, with patented check repeater action and a Chippendale mahogany case.”
She gave a breathless laugh. “What a mind for detail you have. Yes. I would love to have a piano. After we’re married, I’ll play for you whenever you like.”
The idea seized him. He would relax in the evenings and watch her at the piano. Afterward he would take her to his room and undress her slowly, and kiss every inch of her. It didn’t seem possible that this creature of moonlight and music would really be his. He felt himself at the edge of panic, needing to ensure that she wouldn’t be stolen from him.
Carefully he worked the diamond ring from her finger and drew his thumb over the faint indentation left by the gold band. It felt too good to touch her, the awareness of her softness, her sweetness, coursing through him. He made himself let go before he ended up ravishing her there in the office. He had to think. Arrangements had to be made.
“Where is your driver waiting?” he asked.
“At the mews behind the store.”
“An unmarked carriage?”
“No, the family carriage,” came her innocent reply.
So much for discretion, Rhys thought ruefully, and gestured for her to precede him to his desk. “Write a note and I’ll have it taken to him.”
Helen allowed him to seat her. “When shall I have him return?”
“Tell him he won’t be needed for the rest of the day. I’ll see to it that you’re delivered home safely.”
“May I also send a message to my sisters, to keep them from worrying?”
“Aye. Do they know where you’ve gone?”
“Yes, and they were quite pleased. They’re both fond of you.”
“Or at least of my store,” he said.
Helen struggled with a smile as she drew a sheet of writing paper from a silver tray.
At his invitation, the Ravenel family had visited Winterborne’s one evening, after hours. Since they were still in mourning for the late earl, their activities in public were restricted. For the space of two hours, the twins, Cassandra and Pandora, had managed to cover an impressive amount of territory. They had been beside themselves with excitement over the displays of the newest, most fashionable merchandise, the glass cases and counters filled with accessories, cosmetics, and trimmings.
He noticed that Helen was staring in perplexity at the fountain pen on his desk.
“There’s an ink reservoir inside the pen casing,” he said, walking around the desk to her. “Apply light pressure to the tip as you write.”
Picking up the pen cautiously, she made a mark with it, and paused in surprise as the pen created a smooth line across the paper.
“Haven’t you seen one of those before?” he asked.
Helen shook her head. “Lord Trenear prefers an ordinary pen and inkwell. He says this kind is prone to leak.”
“They often do,” he said. “But this is a new design, with a needle to regulate the flow.”
He watched as she experimented with the pen, writing her name in careful script. When she finished, she studied it for a moment, and crossed out the surname. Rhys leaned over her from behind, his hands braced on either side of her as she wrote again. Together they stared down at the paper.
Lady Helen Winterborne
“It’s a lovely name,” he heard Helen murmur.
“Not quite so exalted as Ravenel.”
Helen twisted in the chair to look up at him. “I’ll be honored to take it as mine.”
Rhys was accustomed to being flattered all the time, by a multitude of people who wanted things from him. Usually he could read their motives as easily as if they’d been written in the air above their heads. But Helen’s eyes were clear and guileless, as if she meant it. She knew nothing of the world, or what kind of man she should marry, and she would only realize her mistake when it was too late to rectify it. If he had any decency, he would send her away this very moment.
But his gaze fell to the name she had written . . . Lady Helen Winterborne . . . and that sealed her fate.
“We’ll have a grand wedding,” he said. “So that all of London will know.”
Helen didn’t seem especially taken with the idea, but she offered no objection.
Still staring at the name, he absently stroked her cheek with a gentle fingertip. “Think of our children, cariad. Sturdy Welsh stock with a Ravenel strain. They’ll conquer the world.”
“I rather think you’ll conquer it before they have a chance,” Helen said, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.
After she had written and sealed two notes, Rhys took them to the threshold of the office and called for Mrs. Fernsby.
The secretary answered the summons with unusual haste. Although her manner was professional as usual, the hazel eyes behind her round spectacles were bright with curiosity. Her gaze flickered to the room behind him, but his shoulders blocked her view.
“Yes, Mr. Winterborne?”
He gave her the notes. “Have these taken to the mews and delivered to the driver of the Ravenel carriage. I want them placed directly into his hands.”
The name earned a quick double-blink. “So it is Lady Helen.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not a word to anyone.”
“Certainly not, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Take this to the jeweler.” He dropped the diamond ring into her extended hand.
Mrs. Fernsby gasped at the rich glittering weight in her palm. “Sweet heaven above. I assume you mean the master jeweler, Mr. Sauveterre?”
“Aye, tell him to bring up a tray of rings, in this size, that are suitable for betrothal. I’ll expect him within the half hour.”
“If he isn’t immediately available, shall I ask one of the other—”
“I want Sauveterre,” he repeated, “in my office, within the half hour.”
Mrs. Fernsby responded with a distracted nod, and he could almost see the gears of her sensible brain spinning as she tried to piece together what was happening.
“Also,” Rhys continued, “clear my schedule for the rest of the day.”
The secretary stared at him fixedly. He had never made such a request before, for any reason. “The entire day? How shall I explain it?”
Rhys shrugged impatiently. “Invent something. And tell the household servants that I intend to spend a quiet afternoon at home with a guest. I don’t want a soul in sight unless I ring.” He paused, giving her a hard glance. “Make it clear to the office staff that if I hear so much as a whisper about this, from any quarter, I’ll fire the lot of them without asking a single question.”
“I would dismiss them myself,” she assured him. Having personally supervised the interviewing and hiring of most of the office staff, Mrs. Fernsby took pride in their excellence. “However, their discretion is beyond question.” Closing her fingers over the ring, she regarded him speculatively. “Might I suggest a tea tray? Lady Helen appears rather delicate. Refreshments might be just the thing while she awaits the jeweler.”
Rhys’s brows drew together. “I should have thought of that.”
She couldn’t quite repress a self-satisfied smile. “Not at all, Mr. Winterborne. That is what you employ me for.”
As he watched her depart, Rhys reflected that Mrs. Fernsby could easily be forgiven for a touch of smugness: She was easily the best private secretary in London, performing her job with an efficiency that surpassed any of her male peers.
More than one person had suggested at the time that a male secretary would have been far more suitable for a man of Rhys’s position. But he trusted his instincts in such matters. He could detect the same qualities in others: appetite, determination, vigor, which had driven him on the long, laborious climb from shop-boy to business magnate. It mattered not a whit to him about an employee’s origins, beliefs, culture, or gender. All he cared about was excellence.
Mrs. Fernsby returned soon with a tea tray that had been sent up from the in-store restaurant. Although the secretary tried to remain inconspicuous as she set it on a small round table, Helen spoke to her gently.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fernsby.”
The secretary turned to her with surprised pleasure. “You are quite welcome, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
Helen smiled. “No, this is lovely.”
The secretary lingered in the office, insisting on arranging a plate for Helen as if she were waiting on the Queen. Using a pair of silver tongs, she reached into a small basket adorned with white ribbon, and transferred tiny sandwiches and cakes to the plate.
“Enough fawning, Fernsby,” Rhys said. “You have work to attend to.”
“Of course, Mr. Winterborne.” The secretary sent him a discreet but incinerating glance as she set aside the silver tongs.
Rhys accompanied Mrs. Fernsby to the door, and paused with her just beyond the threshold. They kept their voices low, mindful of being overheard.
“Fair smitten, you are,” Rhys mocked.
The secretary’s expression was utterly devoid of amusement. “Spending a few hours alone with you will destroy her honor. I will have your word, sir, that you intend to redeem it afterward.”
Although Rhys didn’t react outwardly, he was amazed that she would dare make such a demand. Mrs. Fernsby, the most loyal of all his employees, had always turned a blind eye and deaf ear to his past debaucheries. “You’ve never said a bloody word about the women I’ve brought to my house,” he remarked coolly. “Why this sudden fit of scruples?”
“She’s a lady. An innocent. I won’t be party to ruining her.”
Rhys gave her a warning glance. “I’ve asked for a tray of betrothal rings,” he said curtly. “But I can’t redeem her honor unless I ruin it first. Go see to your work.”
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 gesture. “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.