Marrying Winterborne
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.
Chapter 5
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.