Marrying Winterborne

Troubled, he disentangled himself from Helen and arranged the covers snugly around her. Leaving the bed, he dressed in the bracing air of the bedroom. His mind fell back into its customary brisk pace, setting out lists and plans like marbles on a solitaire board.

Hell and damnation, what had he been thinking earlier? A grand wedding to show off his blue-blooded bride . . . why had he thought that mattered? Idiot, he told himself in disgust, feeling as if he were finally thinking clearly after spending days in a fog.

Now that Helen belonged to him, he couldn’t give her back. Not even for a brief interval until the wedding. He needed to keep her close at hand, and he damned well couldn’t risk having her back under Devon’s control. Although Rhys was convinced that Helen genuinely wanted to marry him, she was still too unworldly. Too malleable. Her family might try to send her far from his reach.

Thank God it wasn’t too late to rectify his mistake. Striding from the bedroom suite, he went to his private study and rang for a footman.

By the time the footman had reached the study, Rhys had made a list, sealed it, and addressed it to his private secretary.

“You sent for me, Mr. Winterborne?” The young footman, an enterprising fellow named George, had been well trained and highly recommended by an aristocratic London household. Unfortunately for the upper-class family—but quite fortunately for Rhys—they had recently been forced to economize and reduce the number of servants in their employ. Since many peerage families found themselves in straitened circumstances nowadays, Rhys had the luxury of hiring servants they could no longer afford. He had his pick of any number of competent people in service, usually the young or the very old.

Rhys motioned the footman to approach the desk. “George, take this list to my office and give it to Fernsby. Wait there while she collects the items I’ve requested, and bring it all here within the half-hour.”

“By your leave, sir.” The footman was gone in a flash.

Rhys grinned briefly at the young man’s speed. It was no secret, both in his household and at his store, that he liked his orders to be carried out quickly and with enthusiasm.

By the time the requested items had been brought, all packed in cream-colored boxes, Rhys had drawn a bath for Helen and gathered up her scattered clothes and hair combs.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached down to caress Helen’s cheek.

As he watched her struggle into consciousness, Rhys was caught off guard by a pang of tenderness, almost painful in its intensity. Helen opened her eyes, wondering for a bewildered instant where she was, and why he was there. Remembering, she looked up at him uncertainly. To his delight, one of her shy smiles emerged.

He pulled her up against him, his lips finding hers. As he caressed the naked length of her spine, he felt gooseflesh rise on her skin.

“Would you like a bath?” he whispered.

“Could I?”

“It’s ready for you.” He reached for the dressing-robe he’d laid over the foot of the bed, a kimono style that wrapped across the front. Helen slipped out of bed and allowed him to help her into it, trying to conceal herself in the process. Charmed by her modesty, Rhys tied the belt at her waist and proceeded to roll the sleeves back. His robe was twice her size, the hem pooling on the floor. “You shouldn’t be shy,” he told her. “I’d give my soul for a glimpse of you without your clothes.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

“About seeing you naked? I wasn’t joking.”

“Your soul,” Helen said earnestly. “It’s too important.”

Rhys smiled and stole another kiss from her.

Taking her hand, he led her to the bathroom, which was paved with white onyx tile, the upper half of the walls lined with mahogany paneling. The French double-ended tub was tapered at the base, the sides flared to allow the bather to lean back comfortably. Nearby, an inset cabinet with glass doors featured stacks of white toweling.

Gesturing to the small mahogany stand beside the tub, Rhys said, “I had a few things sent over from the store.”

Helen went to investigate the objects on the stand: a rack of hairpins, a set of black combs, an enamel-backed hairbrush, a collection of soaps wrapped in hand-painted paper, and a selection of perfumed oils.

“You usually have a maid to attend you,” Rhys remarked, watching as she twisted up her hair and anchored it in place.

“I can manage.” A touch of pink infused her cheeks as she glanced at the high rib of the tub. “But I may need help to step in and out of the bath.”

“I’m at your service,” Rhys said readily.

Still blushing, she turned away from him and let the robe slip from her shoulders. He pulled it from her, nearly dropping the garment as he saw the slim length of her back and the perfect heart shape of her bottom. His fingers literally trembled with the urge to touch her. Draping the robe over one arm, he extended his free hand. Helen took it as she stepped into the tub, every movement graceful and careful, like a cat finding her way across uneven ground. She settled into the water, wincing as the heat of the bath soothed the intimate aches and stings from their earlier encounter.

“You’re sore,” he said in concern, remembering how delicate she was, how tight.

“Only a little.” Her lashes lifted. “May I have the soap?”

After unwrapping a cake of honey soap, he handed it to her along with a sponge, mesmerized by the pink shimmer of her body beneath the surface of the water. She rubbed the soap over the sponge and began to wash her shoulders and throat.

“I feel relieved,” she commented, “now that our course has been set.”