Marrying Winterborne

“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?”