Marrying Winterborne

Helen had gasped as he had cupped her naked bottom in his hands and let his tongue play among the tender curls. “Please,” she had begged. “No, please, I’ll fall. You mustn’t kneel like that . . . your leg is stiff . . .”

Rhys had been tempted to demonstrate a far more critical stiffness than the one in his leg. However, he had relented and released her. He had continued to dress her, helping her into a pair of drawers sewn of silk so fine that they could have been pulled through the band of a wedding ring, and a matching chemise trimmed with handmade lace as delicate as cobwebs. There had been a new long-line corset as well, but Helen had declined it, explaining that she had to wear the old-fashioned shaped corset and bustle, or her dress wouldn’t fit properly.

Garment by garment, Rhys had reluctantly covered her back up in heavy black mourning layers. But it had filled him with satisfaction to know that she was wearing something from him against her skin.

Stretching and rolling to his back, Rhys toyed absently with the purloined cotton stocking, rubbing the little mended places against the pad of his thumb. He inserted a finger into the top of the stocking, and then another, stretching the soft fabric.

He frowned as he recalled Helen’s insistence about having the wedding in five months. He was tempted to kidnap her, and ravish her all the way up to Scotland in a private train carriage.

But that probably wasn’t the best way to begin a marriage.

Tucking all four fingers inside the stocking, he brought it to his nose and mouth, hunting for any scent of Helen.

Tonight he would go to Ravenel House and ask for Devon’s consent to the marriage. It was certain that Devon would refuse, and Rhys would have no choice but to reveal that he had dishonored Helen.

And then Devon would attack him like a feral wolverine. Rhys had no doubt in his ability to defend himself. Still, brawling with a Ravenel in a rage was something any rational man would try to avoid if at all possible.

His thoughts strayed to the subject of Devon’s recent good fortune, which, according to Helen, had something to do with mineral rights on his twenty-thousand-acre estate. The portion of land in question had just been leased to a mutual friend, Tom Severin, a railway magnate who intended to build tracks across it.

After his morning rounds today, Rhys decided, he would visit Severin to learn more about the situation.

Keeping the stocking against his lips, he blew a soft breath through the fabric. His eyes half-closed as he thought of Helen’s lips parting for his kisses, the lightspun locks of her hair wound around his fists. The feel of her intimate flesh, tightening as if it were greedy for every inch of him.

Kidnapping, he decided in a haze of lust, was still a possibility.

AFTER RHYS MET with Severin at his office, the two men walked to a local fried fish shop for lunch, a place they both visited often. Neither of them was fond of having a long, leisurely meal during the middle of a workday, preferring the light refreshment shops that were to be found in every quarter of London. Well-heeled gentlemen and common workingmen alike frequented such establishments, where one could buy a plate of ham or beef, dressed crabs or lobster salad, and be done with the meal in a half-hour. Food stalls along the street offered fare such as boiled eggs, a ham sandwich, a batter pudding or a cup of hot green peas, but that was a dodgy proposition, since one could never be certain how the food had been adulterated.

After sitting at a corner table and ordering plates of fried fish and mugs of ale, Rhys considered how to broach the subject of Devon Ravenel’s land.

“Hematite ore,” Severin said, before Rhys had uttered a syllable. He smiled easily at Rhys’s questioning glance. “I assume you were going to ask, since everyone else in London is trying to find out.”

The phrase “too smart for his own good” was far too often applied to people who weren’t in the least deserving of it. In Rhys’s opinion, Tom Severin was the only person he’d ever met who actually was too smart for his own good. Severin often appeared relaxed and inattentive during a conversation or meeting, but later could recall every detail with almost perfect accuracy. He was bright, articulate, confident in his razor-edged intellect, and frequently self-mocking.

Rhys, who had been raised by stern and joyless parents, had always liked people with Severin’s quality of irreverence. They were of the same generation, with the same humble beginnings, the same appetite for success. The main difference between them was that Severin was highly educated. However, Rhys had never envied him for that. In business, instinct was equally as valuable as intelligence, sometimes even more so. Whereas Severin could sometimes talk himself into the wrong side of an issue, Rhys trusted the promptings of his own nature.

“Trenear found hematite ore on his land?” Rhys asked. “What’s the significance? It’s a common mineral, isn’t it?”

Severin loved nothing better than explaining things. “This grade of hematite ore is of unusually high quality—rich in iron, low in silica. It doesn’t even need to be smelted. There’s no deposit like it south of Cumbria.” An ironic grin twisted his lips. “Even more conveniently for Trenear, I’ve already planned to run rail tracks through the area. All he has to do is quarry the stuff, load it onto a hopper, and transport it to a rolling mill. With the demand for steel so high, he has a fortune on his hands. Or more accurately, beneath his feet. According to the surveyors I sent, rock-boring machines were pulling up samples of high-grade ore across at least twenty acres. Trenear could garner a half-million pounds or more.”

Rhys was glad for Devon, who deserved a stroke of good luck. During the past few months, the former carefree rake had learned to shoulder a burden of responsibilities that he’d never wanted nor expected.