Marrying Winterborne

“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?”