Marrying Winterborne

“I’ll stitch it back tomorrow, my lady.”

As Helen stood behind the folding doors of the bedroom compartment, the lady’s maid handed her a new nightgown to wear. Looking at the thin, silky length of fabric in her hands, Helen asked, “Is this all there is of it?”

“Yes, my lady,” came the girl’s voice. “Mrs. Allenby selected it for you. Do you like it?”

“Oh it’s . . . lovely.” Helen held it up in the light of the tiny lamp of the bedroom compartment, realizing that the white silk was semi-transparent. The garment was cut low and open-necked at the front, offering such negligible coverage that it didn’t begin to serve the purpose of a nightgown. Blushing, Helen slipped the gown over her head, her breath catching at the coolness of the silk falling over her body.

“Do you need help, my lady?”

“No, thank you,” Helen said hastily. She was virtually half-naked in the scandalous garment. “I’ll retire now. Good night.”

Climbing into the bed, she slid beneath the weight of the soft linen sheets and quilted blankets, sighing in comfort. She was weary in every limb, and the faint oscillation of the train was soothing. Relaxing, she lay with her eyes half-closed.

The folding door was drawn back, and a dark, lean shape moved across her vision. She rolled to her back, one arm curled loosely above her head.

Rhys stood over her, slowly stripping off his shirt, the soft light catching hard curves of muscle all along his torso. Gently he pulled the covers back, his gaze smoldering as he took in the sight of her. He reached down to caress her, his spread fingertip trailing over the fragile silk. “My beautiful love,” he said huskily.

The lamp was turned off, and the gown was drawn away from her slowly. There were movements in the darkness, gentle touches on her body . . . the liquid heat of his mouth, the tip of his tongue stroking in places that made her tremble. He played with the curls between her legs, teasing and stroking with his fingers and tongue, breathing against them until she forgot all modesty and spread her legs wider. His gentle laugh fell against her, and he answered the wanton invitation with a swirling lick.

Helen crooned and moaned and sank her hands into his silky hair. His hands played over her, fingertips following sensitive paths along her skin. Catching the bud of a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched it in a rhythm that matched the electrifying tugging of his mouth between her thighs.

When he could wait no longer, he levered his body over hers and entered her, his heavy shaft spreading her deliciously, pushing deep. The sway of the train rocked them exquisitely, the subtle hint of motion teasing her senses. Her inner muscles began to close on him helplessly, and he followed that secret rhythm, sensitive to her every need. Blindly she searched for his mouth, and he gave it to her. He was so deep inside her, his body caressing her within and without, flooding her with pleasure. Her hips jerked up in that ultimate moment, almost lifting his weight. Shivering, she ran a gentle hand down his flexing back. “Now,” she whispered. “Come inside me now.”

Groaning, he obeyed with one strong thrust, pouring his heat into her, holding her as if he would never let her go.

THE ROYAL HOTEL was a stately three-story Georgian structure in Caernarvon. Rhys had wanted to bring Helen to the North Wales coastal town partly because it was close to his birthplace of Llanberis, but mostly because he thought she would enjoy its romantic appeal. Myths and fairy tales came naturally to this place, with its picturesque ruins and deep green vales, and abundant cascades, pools, and lakes. One could always see the jagged peaks of Snowdon, a mountain of which it was said that a man who’d climbed it would come down either a madman or a poet.

Thanks to Mrs. Fernsby’s skillful planning, the trip had gone perfectly so far. Upon Rhys and Helen’s arrival, they were shown to a spacious suite at the Royal Hotel, with a connecting suite for Carys and her nursemaid. The servants had also been shown to elegant rooms, and seemed very pleased.

The pastor of a local church had consented to perform the wedding ceremony at the remains of an ancient chapel on a hill, just a short walk from the hotel. Massive arrangements of white and pink flowers had been carted to the chapel ruins, which were accessible by a footpath and small bridge. From the top of the hill, one had a view of Caernarvon’s castle, the town, the mountain, and the dark blue shimmer of the Irish Sea.

On the morning after their arrival, the sky was clear and cloudless, a rare occurrence for that time of year. As it was planned, the wedding party would gather at the stone terrace at the back of the hotel, walk to the chapel, and return for a lavish breakfast.

Dressed in a morning suit with a cutaway coat and light-colored tie, Rhys waited alone in the ground-floor conservatory of the hotel. He and Helen would meet there before joining the others. Resisting the urge to pull out his pocket watch, he waited with forced patience, thinking he would have paid ten thousand pounds to have the next hour already done with, so that Helen would already be his wife.

A silky rustling sound came from behind him.

He turned, and saw Helen standing there in a white dress made of thin, glimmering layers of silk trimmed with lace. The dress clung to her slender form, the skirts pulled back to outline her hips and cascading gently behind her. She pulled back a filmy white veil sewn with lace and seed pearls, and smiled at him. She was unearthly in her beauty, as light and delicate as a wash of rainbow through morning mist. He held a hand over his hammering heart, as if to keep it from leaping out of his chest.

“I didn’t know they’d found you a wedding dress,” he managed to say.