RHYS KEPT HELEN’S HAND in his as he led her along an enclosed passageway, a kind of gallery with windows that went from a door in his office to one of the upper floors of his house.
Not for the first time that day, a feeling of unreality crept through her. She was more than a little amazed by what she was doing. Step by step, she was departing her old life with no possibility of return. This was nothing like the madcap exploits of the twins, it was a serious decision with unalterable consequences.
Rhys’s shoulders seemed to take up the entire breadth of the passageway as he led her to an enclosed stairwell. They proceeded to a small landing with a handsome door painted glossy black. After he unlocked the door, they entered a vast, quiet house, five floors arranged around a central hall and principal staircase. There wasn’t a servant in sight. The house was very clean and smelled of newness—fresh paint, varnish, wood polish—but it was bare and sparsely furnished. A place of hard surfaces.
Helen couldn’t help contrasting it with Eversby Priory’s comfortable shabbiness, the profusion of fresh flowers and artwork, the floors covered with worn patterned carpeting. At home the tables were piled with books, the sideboards were heavy with crystal and porcelain and silver, and a pair of black spaniels named Napoleon and Josephine roamed freely in rooms lit by lamps with fringed shades. There was always afternoon teatime, with hot breads and pots of jam and honey. In the evenings, there was music and games, and sweets and mulled wine, and long conversations in deep cozy chairs. She had never lived any place other than Hampshire, a landscape of sun and rivers and meadows.
It would be very different living in the center of London. Glancing at her sterile, silent surroundings, Helen tried to imagine the house as a blank canvas waiting to be filled with color. Her gaze followed a row of tall sparkling windows up to the high ceiling.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“It needs softening,” Rhys replied frankly. “But I spend most of my time at the store.”
He led her along a long hallway until they reached a suite of rooms. They passed through an unfurnished antechamber into a large, square bedroom with lofty ceilings and cream-painted walls. Helen’s pulse raced until she began to feel slightly dizzy.
Here at least was a room that seemed lived-in, the air spiced faintly with candle wax and cedar and firewood ash. One wall was occupied by a long, low dressing-bureau topped with a carved wooden box and a tray containing various objects: a pocket watch, a flat brush and a comb. The floor was covered with a Turkish rug woven in shades of yellow and red. A massive mahogany bed with carved posts had been centered against the far wall.
Helen wandered to the fireplace, investigating the objects on the mantel: a clock, a pair of candlesticks, and a green glass vase of wood spills, used to light candles from the fire. The hearth had been lit. Had Rhys sent advance notice to his servants? Certainly the household was aware of his presence, there in the middle of the day. And his secretary, Mrs. Fernsby, knew exactly what was happening.
The recklessness of what she was about to do was nearly enough to make Helen’s legs buckle.
But she had made her choice; she wouldn’t turn back now, nor did she want to. And if one viewed the situation pragmatically—which she was trying very hard to do—she would have to submit to this sooner or later, as every bride did.
Rhys drew the curtains over the windows, casting the room into shadow.
Staring at the crackling, dancing flames, Helen spoke, trying to sound composed. “I must rely on you to tell me what . . . what I must do.” Reaching up with trembling hands, she extracted the long pin, tugged the hat from her head, and wound the veil loosely about the small brim.
She was aware of Rhys coming up behind her. His hands came to her shoulders and slid to her elbows. Up and down again, in calming strokes. Tentatively Helen leaned back against his chest.
“We’ve shared a bed before,” she heard him murmur. “Remember?”
Helen was momentarily confused. “You must mean when you were ill, at Eversby Priory?” Blushing, she said, “But that wasn’t sharing a bed.”
“I remember that I was burning with fever. And there was a killing pain from my leg. Then I heard your voice, and felt your cool hand on my head. And you gave me something sweet to drink.”
“Orchid tea.” She had learned a great deal about the medicinal properties of the plants by poring over an extensive set of journals her mother had kept.
“And then you let me rest my head here.” His free hand slid around her front, high on her chest.
Helen took an uneasy breath. “I didn’t think you would remember. You were so very ill.”
“I’ll remember it to my last hour of life.” His palm coasted gently over the curve of her breast, lingering until the tip tightened. The hat dropped from Helen’s nerveless fingers. Shocked, she stayed motionless while he whispered, “I’ve never fought sleep as fiercely as I did at that moment, trying to stay awake in your arms. No dream could have given me more pleasure.” His head bent, and he kissed the side of her neck. “Why did no one stop you?”
She quivered at the feel of his mouth on her skin, the erotic graze of warmth. “From taking care of you?” she asked dazedly.
“Aye, a rough-mannered stranger, common-born, and half-clothed in the bargain. I could have harmed you before anyone realized what was happening.”
“You weren’t a stranger, you were a family friend. And you were in no condition to harm anyone.”
“You should have kept your distance from me,” he insisted.
“Someone had to help you,” Helen said pragmatically. “And you had already frightened the rest of the household.”
“So you dared to walk into the lion’s den.”
She smiled up into his intent dark eyes. “As it turned out, there was no danger.”
“No?” His voice held a gently mocking note. “Look where it’s led. You’re in my bedroom with your dress undone.”
“My dress isn’t—” Helen broke off as she felt her entire bodice come loose, the fabric sagging downward from the weight of her overskirts. “Oh.” Anxiety whipped through her as she realized that he had unbuttoned her gown while they had been talking. She clutched at the garment to halt its descent, all her nerves simultaneously burning and chilled.
“First we’ll talk about what’s going to happen.” His mouth caressed her cheek. “But it’s better if we’re both comfortable.”
“I’m already comfortable,” she said, her insides as tight as an overwound watch mechanism.
Rhys pulled her against him, one of his palms sliding over her corseted back. “In this contraption?” he asked, tracing the ribbed channels of whalebone. “Or this?” His hand settled briefly on the small horsehair pad of her bustle. “I doubt any woman could feel at ease in so much rigging.” He proceeded to untie the cords. “Besides, fashionable ladies no longer wear bustles.”
“H-How do you know that?” Helen asked, flinching as the contraption thudded on the floor.
Lowering his mouth to her ear, he whispered as if imparting a great secret. “Undergarments and hosiery, second floor, department twenty-three. According to the manager’s latest report, we’re no longer stocking them.”
Helen couldn’t decide if she was more shocked by the fact that they were discussing undergarments, or by the fact that his hands were roaming freely beneath her dress. Soon her petticoats and corset cover landed on the floor with the bustle.
“I’ve never bought clothing from a department store,” she managed to say. “It seems odd to wear something made by strangers.”
“The sewing is done by women who support themselves and their families.” He tugged the dress sleeves from her arms, and the gown sank to the floor in a shadowy heap.
Helen rubbed the gooseflesh on her bare arms. “Do the seamstresses work at your store?”
“No, at a factory I’m negotiating to purchase.”
“Why—” She stopped, shrinking away as he unhooked the lowest fastening on the front of her corset. “Oh please don’t.”
Rhys paused, his gaze searching her tense face. “You’re aware this is done without clothing?” he asked gently.
“May I keep my chemise on at least?”
“Aye, if that would make it easier.”
As he proceeded to unfasten the corset with efficient tugs, Helen waited tensely, trying to focus on something other than what was happening. Finding that impossible, she brought herself to look up at him. “You’re very accomplished at this,” she said. “Do you undress women often? That is . . . I suppose you’ve had many mistresses.”
He smiled slightly. “Never more than one at a time. How do you know about mistresses?”
“My brother Theo had one. My sisters eavesdropped on an argument between him and our father, and they told me about it afterward. Apparently my father said Theo’s mistress was too expensive.”
“Mistresses generally are.”
“More expensive than wives?”
Rhys glanced at her left hand, which had come to rest tentatively on his shirtfront. The moonstone seemed to glow with its own inner light. “More than mine, it seems,” he said wryly. Reaching up to her chignon, he eased the jet combs from her hair, letting the fine locks tumble over her shoulders and back. Feeling her shiver, he drew a calming hand along her spine. “I’ll be gentle with you, cariad. I promise to cause you as little pain as possible.”
“Pain?” Helen pulled back from him. “What pain?”
“Virgin’s pain.” He gave her an alert glance. “You don’t know about that?”
She shook her head tensely.
Rhys looked perturbed. “It’s said to be trifling. It’s . . . Damn it, don’t women talk about these things? No? What about when you began your monthly bleeding? How was that explained to you?”
“My mother never mentioned anything. I didn’t expect it at all. It was . . . disconcerting.”
“Disconcerting?” he repeated dryly. “It probably frightened the wits out of you.” To her astonishment, he pulled her toward him slowly, until she was cuddled against his hard chest, her head on his shoulder. Unused to being handled so familiarly, she remained tense in his embrace. “What did you do when it happened?” she heard him ask.
“Oh—I can’t discuss that with you.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be decent.”
“Helen,” he said after a moment, “I’m well acquainted with the realities of life, including the basic workings of a woman’s body. No doubt a gentleman wouldn’t ask. But we both know that’s not an issue where I’m concerned.” He tucked a kiss into the soft space just beneath her ear. “Tell me what happened.”
Realizing that he wasn’t going to relent, she forced herself to answer. “I awakened one morning with . . . with stains on my nightgown and the sheets. My tummy hurt dreadfully. When I realized the bleeding wasn’t going to stop, I was very frightened. I thought I was going to die. I went to hide in a corner of the reading room. Theo found me. Usually he was away at boarding school, but he had come home on holiday. He asked why I was crying, and I told him.” Helen paused, remembering her late brother with a mixture of fondness and grief. “Most of the time Theo was distant with me. But he was very kind that day. He gave me a folded handkerchief to . . . to put where I needed. He found a lap blanket to wrap around my waist, and helped me back to my room. After that, he sent a housemaid to explain what was happening, and how to use—” She broke off in embarrassment.
“Sanitary towels?” he prompted.
Her humiliated voice was muffled against the shoulder of his waistcoat. “How do you know about those?”
She felt a smile nudge against her ear. “They’re sold in the store’s apothecary department. What else did the housemaid tell you?”
Despite her nerves, Helen felt herself relaxing into his embrace. It was impossible not to. He was very large and warm, and there was such a nice smell about him, a mixture of peppermint and shaving soap and a pleasant resinous dryness like freshly cut wood. A thoroughly masculine fragrance that was somehow exciting and comforting at the same time.
“She said that one day, after I was married and shared a bed with my husband, the bleeding would stop for a time, and a baby would grow.”
“But she mentioned nothing about how babies are made in the first place?”
Helen shook her head. “Only that they’re not found underneath a gooseberry bush, as the nanny always said.”
Rhys looked down at her with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Are all young women of high rank kept so ignorant about such matters?”
“Most,” she admitted. “It’s for the husband to decide what his bride should know, and instruct her on the wedding night.”
“My God. I can’t decide which of them to pity more.”
“The bride,” she said without hesitation.
For some reason that made him chuckle. Feeling her stiffen, he hugged her more tightly. “No, my treasure, I’m not laughing at you. It’s only that I’ve never explained the sexual act to anyone before . . . and I’m damned if I can think of a way to make it sound appealing.”
“Oh dear,” Helen whispered.
“It won’t be terrible. I promise. You might even like some of it.” He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, and spoke with cajoling softness. “It might be best if I explain as we go along, aye?” He waited patiently until he felt her incremental nod. “Come to bed, then.”
Willing but reluctant, Helen accompanied him to the bed, discovering that her legs had turned to jelly. She tried to climb beneath the covers quickly.
“Wait.” Rhys caught one of her ankles and tugged her back toward him deftly, while he remained standing at the side of the bed.
Helen turned a fearful shade of red. All that kept her from complete nakedness was a pair of stockings, a cambric chemise, and drawers with an open crotch seam.
Holding her stocking-clad ankle, Rhys ran one hand slowly over her shin. A frown notched between his brows as he saw that the knit cotton had been darned in several places. “A rough, poor stocking it is,” he murmured, “for such a pretty leg.” His hand traveled up to the garter cinched around her thigh. Since the stockinet bands had lost their elasticity, it was necessary to buckle the garter so tightly around her leg that it usually left a red ridge by the end of the day.
After unfastening the buckle, Rhys found a ring of chafed skin around her thigh. His frown deepened, and he let out a disapproving breath. “Wfft.”
Helen had heard him make the Welsh sound on previous occasions, when something had displeased him. After unrolling the stocking and casting it aside with distaste, he began on the other leg.
“I’ll need those stockings later,” Helen said, disconcerted to see her belongings handled so cavalierly.
“I’ll replace them with new ones. And decent garters to go with them.”
“My own stockings and garters are perfectly serviceable.”
“They’ve left marks on your legs.” After deftly knotting the second stocking into a ball, he turned and cast it toward the open grate. It landed perfectly into the fire and flared into a bright yellow blaze.
“Why did you burn it?” Helen asked in dawning outrage.
“It wasn’t good enough for you.”
“It was mine!”
To her vexation, Rhys seemed not all repentant. “Before you leave, I’ll give you a dozen pair. Will that satisfy you?”
“No.” She looked away with a frown.
“It was a worthless cotton stocking,” he said derisively, “mended in a dozen places. I’ll wager the scullery maid in my kitchen wears better.”
Having learned forbearance over the years, from her role as the peacemaker in the Ravenel family, Helen held her tongue and counted to ten—twice—before she trusted herself to reply. “I have very few stockings,” she told him. “Instead of buying new ones, I chose to mend them and use my pin money for books. Perhaps that scrap of cloth had no value to you, but it did to me.”
Rhys was silent, his brows drawing together. Helen assumed that he was preparing for further argument. She was more than a little surprised when he said quietly, “I’m sorry, Helen. I didn’t stop to think. I had no right to destroy something that belonged to you.”
Knowing that he was not a man often given to apologizing, or humbling himself, Helen felt her annoyance fade. “You’re forgiven.”
“From now on I’ll treat your possessions with respect.”
She smiled wryly. “I won’t come to you with many possessions, other than two hundred potted orchids.”
His hands came to her shoulders, toying with the straps of her chemise. “Will you want all of them brought from Hampshire?”
“I don’t think there’s room for all of them.”
“I’ll find a way for you to keep them here.”
Her eyes widened. “Would you?”
“Of course.” His fingertips traced the curves of her shoulders with beguiling lightness. “I intend for you to have everything you need to be happy. Orchids . . . books . . . a silk mill dedicated to looming stockings only for you.”
A laugh caught in her throat, her pulse quickening at his leisurely caresses. “Please don’t buy a silk mill for me.”
“I already own one, actually. In Whitchurch.” He bent to kiss the pale curve of her shoulder, the brush of his mouth as warm and weightless as sunlight. “I’ll take you there someday, if you like. A grand sight, it is: a row of huge machines throwing raw silk into threads even finer than strands of your hair.”
“I would like to see that,” she exclaimed, and he smiled at her interest.
“Then you shall.” His fingers sifted through the loose blonde locks. “I’ll keep you well supplied in ribbons and stockings, cariad.” Easing her down to the bed, he began to reach beneath the chemise for the waist of her drawers.
Helen tensed, her hands catching at his. “I’m very shy,” she whispered.
His lips wandered gently up to her ear. “How do shy women prefer their drawers to be removed? Fast, or slow?”
“Fast . . . I think.”
Between one breath and the next, her drawers were tugged down and efficiently whisked away. Gooseflesh rose on her naked thighs.
Rhys stood and began to unknot his tie. Comprehending that he intended to undress right in front of her, she slid beneath the sheets and the eiderdown quilt, and yanked them up to her collarbone. The bed was soft and clean, scented with the dry tang of washing soda, a comforting smell because it reminded her of Eversby Priory. She stared fixedly at the fireplace, aware of Rhys’s movements at the periphery of her vision. He worked on his collar and cuffs, and soon discarded his waistcoat and shirt.
“Have a look if you like,” she heard him say casually. “Unlike you, I’m not shy.”
Clutching the sheets higher against her neck, Helen risked a timid glance at him . . . and then she couldn’t look away.
Rhys was a magnificent sight, dressed only in trousers with braces hanging loosely along his lean hips. The flesh of his torso looked remarkably solid, as if it had been stitched to his bones with steel thread. Seeming comfortable in his half-naked state, he sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes. His back was layered with muscle upon muscle, the contours so defined that his sun-colored skin gleamed as if polished. As he stood and turned to face her, Helen blinked with surprise at the discovery that there was no hair at all on the broad expanse of his chest.
Often when her brother Theo had nonchalantly walked about Eversby Priory in his dressing-robe, a scruff of coarse curls had been visible on the upper portion of his chest. And when Devon’s younger brother West had been put to bed after suffering an extreme chill, Helen had noticed that he was hairy as well. She had assumed all men were made that way.
“You’re . . . smooth,” she said, her face heating.
He smiled slightly. “A Winterborne trait. My father and uncles were the same.” He began to unfasten his trousers, and Helen looked away hastily. “It was a curse in my teen years,” he continued ruefully, “having a chest as bare as a young lad’s, while the others my age were all growing a fair carpet. My friends baited and teased me near to death, of course. For a while they took to calling me ‘badger.’”
“Badger?” Helen echoed, puzzled.
“Ever hear the expression ‘bald as a badger’s arse’? No? The long bristles on a shaving brush come from the area around the badger’s tail. There’s a joke that most of the badgers in England have had their backsides plucked bare.”
“That was very unkind of them,” Helen said indignantly.
Rhys chuckled. “It’s the way of boys. Believe me, I behaved no better. After I grew big enough to thrash the lot of them, they didn’t dare say a word.”
The mattress sank beneath his weight as he climbed into bed with her. Oh, God. It was happening now. Helen wrapped her arms tightly around her midriff. Her toes curled like lambs’ wool. She had never been so at the mercy of another human being.
“Easy,” came his soothing voice. “Don’t be afraid. Here, let me hold you.” The tense bundle of her body was turned and gathered close against a wealth of muscle and hot skin. Her icy feet brushed against the wiry hair on his legs. His hand came to her back, nestling her closer, while firelight danced over them both. Steeping in the warmth of his body, she began to relax by degrees.
She felt his hand settle over the chemise, cupping her breast until the tip rose into the heat of his palm. His breathing changed, roughening, and he took her mouth in a gently biting kiss, playing with her, rubbing and nudging with his lips. She responded uncertainly, trying to catch the half-open kisses with her own mouth, the tender strokes and tugs exciting her. He reached for the drawstring that tied the gathered neck of her chemise, pulling decisively, and the garment fell loose and open.
“Oh,” Helen said in dismay. She reached for the drooping fabric, and he trapped her hand in his firm, warm grip. “Oh please . . .”
But he wouldn’t let go, only nuzzled across the freshly revealed skin, the white curve, the shell-pink aureole. A ragged sigh escaped him. He let the tip of his tongue trail across the roseate peak, painting it with heat before taking it into his mouth and flicking until it ached and tensed even more, and then he moved to her other breast. Dazed by the wicked pleasure, lost in him and what he was doing, Helen inched closer, needing more closeness, more . . . something . . . but then through the thin layer of her chemise, she felt an unexpected protrusion, a kind of swollen ridge. Startled, she wrenched backward.
Rhys lifted his head. Embered light from the hearth played across the damp surface of his lower lip. “No, don’t pull away,” he said huskily. His hand slid over her bottom and gently eased her back to him. “This is”—he took an uneven breath as her hips settled tentatively against his—“what happens to me when I want you. There, where it’s hard . . . that’s the part that goes inside you.” As if to demonstrate, he nudged against the cradle of her pelvis. “Understand?”
Helen froze.
Dear Lord.
No wonder the sexual act was such a secret. If women knew, they would never consent to it.
Although she tried not to look as aghast as she felt, some of it must have shown in her expression, because he gave her a glance of mingled chagrin and amusement.
“It’s better than it sounds,” he offered apologetically.
Although Helen dreaded the answer, she worked up the courage to ask timidly, “Inside where?”
For answer, he moved over her, spreading her beneath him. His hand coasted over her shrinking body, caressing the insides of her thighs and stroking them apart. She could scarcely breathe as he reached beneath the hem of the chemise. There was a light touch between her legs, his fingertips delving into the patch of intimate curls.
She went rigid at the peculiar feeling, the circling pressure that found a hollow place and began to push inward. And then, unbelievably, her body gave way to the silky-wet wriggle and glide of his finger as he . . . No, it was impossible.
“Inside here,” he said quietly, watching her from beneath a sweep of ink-black lashes.
Moaning in confusion, she twisted to escape the invasion, but he held her firmly.
“When I enter you”—his finger sank to the last joint, retreated an inch, slipped in again—“you’ll feel pain at first.” He was stroking places she had never known existed, his touch clever and gentle. “But it won’t hurt after the first time, ever again.”
Helen closed her eyes, distracted by the curious sensation that had awakened inside her. Ephemeral, elusive, like a hint of perfume lingering in a quiet room.
“I’ll move like this”—the subtle caresses acquired a rhythm, his finger nudging in, and in, her inner flesh becoming silkier and more slippery with each sinuous penetration—“until I spend inside you.”
“Spend?” she asked through dry lips.
“A release . . . a moment when your heart begins to pound, and you struggle in every limb for something you can’t quite reach. It’s torture, but you’d rather die than stop.” His mouth lowered to her scarlet ear, while he continued to tease her relentlessly. “You follow the rhythm and hold on tight,” he whispered, “because you know the world is about to end. And then it does.”
“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she managed to say, brimming with a strange, squirmy, guilty heat.
A dark tendril of laughter curled inside her ear. “Comfortable, no. But an unholy pleasure, it is.”
His finger withdrew, and she felt him stroke along the delicately closed seam of her sex. Parting the soft crevice, he began to toy with the pink folds and frills, grazing a place so exquisitely tender that her entire body jerked.
“Does this hurt, cariad?”
“No, but . . .” There seemed no way to make him understand an upbringing in which certain areas of the body were too shameful to be acknowledged, let alone touched, except for purposes of washing. One of many rules instilled by a stout nanny who had been fond of smacking naughty children’s palms with a ruler until they were red and sore. Such lessons could never be entirely unlearned. “That’s . . . a shameful place,” she finally said breathlessly.
His reply was immediate. “No, it isn’t.”
“It is.” When he shook his head, she insisted, “I was taught that it most definitely is.”
Rhys looked sardonic. “By the same person who told you that babies are found under gooseberry bushes?”
Forced to concede the point, Helen fell into a dignified silence. Or at least as dignified as she could manage in the circumstances.
“Many people are ashamed of their own desires,” he said. “I’m not one of them. Nor do I want you to be.” Lightly resting his palm on the center of her chest, he drew it slowly down her body. “You were made for pleasure, cariad. No part of you is shameful.” He seemed not to notice the way she stiffened as his hand drifted down between her thighs. “Especially not this sweet place . . . ah, you’re so pretty here. Like one of your orchids.”
“What?” she asked faintly, wondering if he were mocking her. “No.”
“You’re shaped like petals.” One of his fingertips traced her outer folds. Resisting her desperate tugs at his wrist, he spread her open. Gently he took a rosy inner flange between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed with the softest possible pressure. “And these. Sepals . . . aye?”
It was then that Helen understood what he meant, the accuracy of the comparison. She went crimson all over. If it were possible to faint from embarrassment, she would have.
A smile flickered across his lips. “How can you not have noticed?”
“I’ve never looked down there before!”
Absorbed in every minute variation of her expression, he swirled his fingertip up to the crest of her sex. Gently his thumb pressed the hood back, while he tickled around the little bud. “Tell me the word for this. The tip inside the blossom.”
Writhing in his hold, she gasped, “Anther.” Something was happening to her. Fire was creeping up the backs of her legs and gathering in her stomach, every sensation feeding into a pool of heat.
His finger slipped inside her again, where it had become deep and liquid. What was it? What—her body closed on the invasion, pulling at him in a way she couldn’t control. He brushed silken kisses over her mouth, catching at her lips as if he were sipping from a fragile cup. The tip of his thumb found the sensitive peak. Electric tension spread through her in widening ripples, an alarming wave of feeling approaching . . . too strong . . . almost like pain. Sliding out from beneath him with a low cry, she rolled to her stomach, suffocating on her own heartbeat.
Instantly she felt Rhys at her back, his soothing hands running over her trembling limbs.
His voice was at her ear, velvety with amused chiding. “Cariad, you’re not supposed to pull away. It won’t hurt. I promise. Turn over.”
Helen didn’t move, stunned by the anguished rush of pleasure that had begun to overwhelm her. It had nearly stopped her heart.
Pushing aside the tangled disorder of her hair, Rhys kissed the nape of her neck. “Is this the kind of wife you’ll be? It’s too soon for you to begin disobeying me.”
Her lips felt swollen as she managed to reply. “We’re not married yet.”
“No, and we won’t be until I manage to compromise you properly.” His hand went to her bare bottom, kneading gently. “Turn over, Helen.”
An approving sound, very nearly a purr, left his throat as she obeyed. He looked down at her with eyes as bright as the reflection of stars in a midnight ocean. So brutally handsome, like one of the volatile gods of mythology, wreaking havoc on hapless mortal maidens at a whim.
And he was hers.
“I want to know what you feel like,” she surprised herself by whispering.
His breath caught, his lashes lowering as she reached down the sleek muscled terrain of his body. Her trembling hand curved around the thick, erect length of him. The skin beneath her fingers was thin and astonishingly satiny, slipping easily over the hard shaft. She gripped him lightly, discovering fever-hot flesh, dense in texture, full of mysterious pulses. Daring to caress him lower down, she trundled the loose, cool weights in the cup of her palm, and he responded with an inarticulate sound. He wasn’t breathing well. For once he seemed as overwhelmed by her as she had always been by him.
In the next moment, she found herself dominated by a large expanse of amorous naked male. He covered her chest and shoulders with voracious kisses, his hands cupping her breasts high while he fastened his mouth over the tips. With a quiet grunt, he grasped a handful of her chemise and tugged until the hem was around her waist. He settled over her, and she felt the stunning texture of naked flesh, hardness pressing against soft, furry, shivery heat.
He kissed her, ravishing her mouth, moving to her breasts, then lower. The tangled chemise was in his way, and he gripped it in both hands, rending it in half as if it were made of paper lace. With a savage flick of his arm, the ruined chemise sailed through the air in a ghostlike arc. He slid downward and she felt him lick across her navel. The slithery tickle drew a protracted groan from her. Indecent kisses wandered to the edge of damp curls and into the hollows of her inner thighs.
His arms slid beneath her legs, pushing upward until her knees hooked over his shoulders. The tip of his tongue separated the furled petals and traced an erotic pattern around the tender bud, and she whimpered in confusion. Turning ruthless, he sucked the full center of her into his mouth and licked at every throb and pulse, teasing and teasing until she felt a low, hot pressure inside. A loss of control was approaching, something powerful and frightening. The more she tried to contain it, hold it back, the stronger it grew, until finally she was wracked with violent spasms of pleasure. She stiffened, every muscle tightening and releasing, quivers running out to her fingers and toes. Eventually the sensations quieted until she was limp with exhaustion. Her sex had become so sensitive that even the gentlest stroke was painful.
With an incoherent protest, Helen pushed at his head, his shoulders, but he was rock-solid, impossible to budge. His tongue trailed lower, searching wetly until it pushed into the trembling entrance of her body. Opening her eyes, she stared at the dark shape of his head silhouetted against dancing firelight.
“Please,” she faltered, although she wasn’t quite certain what she was asking for.
Both of his hands went to her sex, spreading it softly, his thumbs caressing over the little bud with alternating flicks. To her shame and astonishment, her body squeezed intimately at every inward surge of his tongue, as if to capture and hold it there.
Before she had even realized it, another tide of release rolled up to her. She dug her heels into the mattress, her hips lifting high and tight as wave after wave of heat went through her. He drew out the feeling, shaping it with delicate whisks and cat licks, feeding on her pleasure.
Panting and disoriented, Helen collapsed back onto the bed. She made no move to resist as Rhys rose over her. Something smooth and stiff nudged into the wetness between her thighs. He reached down, circling the head of his sex against her, pushing harder. It began to burn, and she recoiled instinctively, but the pressure was steady and insistent. A weak moan escaped her as her flesh stretched and pulsed around him in jabs of fire. More of him, impossibly more, until finally his hips met hers, and she was utterly filled. There was too much of him inside her, and no way to escape the piercing ache.
Taking her head in his hands, Rhys stared down at her, his gaze not quite focused. “I’m sorry to cause you pain, little dove.” His voice was uneven. “Try to open to me.”
She lay still, willing herself to relax. As Rhys continued to hold her, his lips pressing to her shoulder, then drifting to her throat, she felt the stabbing discomfort ease a little.
“Aye,” he whispered. “That’s the way.”
A flash of embarrassment assailed her as she realized he had felt the slight loosening of those small, private muscles. She lifted her arms, her hands coming to rest on the powerful surface of his back. To her surprise, his muscles turned to steel. Intrigued by his reaction to the light touch, she trailed her fingers gently from his shoulders down to his waist, letting the oval tips of her nails scratch delicately at the small of his back.
He groaned and lost control, quaking violently just as she had, and she realized that he was experiencing his own release. Feeling curiously protective of him, she tightened her arms across his back. After a long moment, Rhys withdrew with a groan and eased to his side to keep from crushing her.
As the invasion slid away, there was a hot, disconcerting trickle between her thighs. Her flesh was sore and smarting, closing oddly on emptiness. But she felt sated, her body agreeably tumbled and lazy, and it was exquisite to feel the roughness and strength and smoothness of him all around her. With the last of her strength, she turned to her side and nestled into the crook of his shoulder.
Her thoughts were dissolving before she could fully grasp them. It was daytime, even though it felt like deepest night. Soon she would have to dress herself, and go out into the bright, cold light, when all she wanted was to stay in this safe warm darkness and sleep, and sleep.
Rhys sought to arrange the covers, pausing to tug at something caught half-beneath her. A remnant of her chemise. Helen knew she ought to feel concerned—how could she return home without a chemise?—but in her exhaustion, it didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as it should have.
“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.”
Rhys smiled and stole another kiss from her.
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 have 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?”
She shook her head, mystified.
“Helen,” he said with growing impatience, “I haven’t been chaste since the age of twelve. If I tried now, I would probably end up killing someone before the week was out.”
Perplexity wove across her forehead. “When we were engaged before . . . how were you planning to manage? I suppose . . . you were going to lie with other women until we were married?”
“I hadn’t considered it.” At that point, it might not have been entirely out of the question. But now . . . he was appalled to realize that the thought of trying to substitute someone else for Helen was repellent. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? “It has to be you. We’re bound to each other now.”
Helen’s gaze slid bashfully over his bare torso, and by the time her eyes returned to his face, she looked flushed and a little shaken. With a hot stab in the pit of his stomach, he realized she was aroused by him.
“You’ll need it too,” he said huskily. “You’ll remember the pleasure I gave you, and want more.”
Helen looked away from him as she replied. “I’m sorry. But I would rather not marry while I’m still in mourning.”
Gentle as her tone was, Rhys heard the underlying intractability in it. After a lifetime of bartering and bargaining, he had learned to recognize when the other party had reached the point at which they would not yield.
“I intend to marry you in six weeks,” he said, making his voice hard to mask his desperation, “whatever the cost. Tell me what you want. Tell me, and you’ll have it.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing you can bribe me with.” Looking sincerely apologetic, Helen added, “You already promised me the piano.”