Marrying Winterborne

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.”