Marrying Winterborne

“Why codfish?”

“It used to refer to the rich merchants who settled the American colonies and made their money in the cod trade. Now it means any successful businessman.”

“Nouveau riche is another term,” Helen said. “It’s never used as a compliment, of course. But it should be. Being self-made is something to be admired.” As she felt his soundless chuckle, she insisted, “It is.”

Rhys turned his head to kiss her. “You’ve no need to flatter my vanity.”

“I’m not flattering you. I think you’re remarkable.”

Whether she really felt that way, or was merely playing the role of loyal spouse, her words smoothed over the rough-hewn, ragged places of his soul like some healing balm. God, he needed this, had always needed it. Her sleek young body pressed against his as she drew her hands over him tentatively. He lay still and let her explore him, satisfying her curiosity.

“Was there ever a woman you thought of marrying?” she asked.

Rhys hesitated, unwilling to have his past probed and exposed. But she was underneath his armor now. “There was a girl I fancied,” he admitted.

“What was her name?”

“Peggy Gilmore. Her father was a furniture-maker who supplied my store.” His mind sifted through unwanted memories, pulling out ghostly images, words, shades of feeling. “A pretty girl with green eyes. I didn’t court her—it never went that far.”

“Why not?”

“I knew that a good friend of mine, Ioan, was in love with her.”

Helen draped herself along his side, a slender leg hitching over one of his. “That’s a Welsh name, isn’t it?”

“Aye. Ioan’s family, the Crewes, lived on High Street, not far from my father’s shop. They made and sold fishing tackle. There was a giant stuffed salmon in the window.” He smiled slightly, remembering his fascination with the shop’s displays of taxidermied fish and reptiles. “Mr. Crewe talked my parents into letting me take penmanship lessons with Ioan two afternoons a week. He convinced them that it would help their business to have someone who could write a good legible hand. Years later, when I began to expand my store, I hired Ioan as the merchandise controller. A fine, honest man, he was, good as gold. I couldn’t blame Peggy for preferring him to me—I’d never have loved her the way he did.”

“Did they marry? Does he still work at the store?”

A dark feeling came over Rhys, as it always did when he thought about Ioan. He regretted having mentioned him, or Peggy—he didn’t want to let the past intrude on his time with Helen. “Let’s talk no more of it, cariad—it’s not a pretty story, and the telling of it brings out the worst in me.”

But Helen was intent on prying the information from him. “Did you have a falling-out?”

Rhys was irritably silent, responding with a single shake of his head. He thought Helen would retreat then. But he felt her lips press against his cheek, while one of her hands slid into his hair and lay lightly against his skull. The silent consolation, so unexpected, undermined him completely.

Baffled by his inability to withhold anything from her, he let out a sigh. “Ioan’s been dead these four years past.”

Helen was still and quiet as she absorbed the information. After a moment she kissed him again, this time on his chest. Over his heart. Damn it, he thought, realizing that he was going to tell her everything. He couldn’t put any distance between them when she did something like that.

“He and Peggy married,” he said. “They were happy for a while. They were well matched, and Ioan had made a fortune with his private shares in the store. Anything Peggy wanted, he provided.” Rhys paused before admitting ruefully, “Except his time. Ioan worked the same hours he always had, staying late at the store each night. He left her alone for too long. I should have put a stop to that. I should have told him to go home and pay attention to his wife.”

“Surely that wasn’t your place.”

“As his friend, I could have said it.” He felt Helen’s head settle on his chest. “It won’t be an issue in our marriage,” he muttered. “I won’t keep bachelor’s hours.”

“Our house is next to the store. If you work too late, I’ll simply come and fetch you.”

Helen’s pragmatic reply nearly made him smile.

“You’ll have no trouble tempting me from my work,” he said, playing with her hair as it streamed over his chest in pale ribbons.

Gently Helen prompted, “Peggy became discontent?”

“Aye, she needed more companionship than Ioan provided. She went to social events without him, and eventually fell prey to the attentions of a man who charmed and seduced her.” Rhys hesitated, conscious of the same choking tightness that had invaded his throat the other spare handful of times he’d related the story. He forced himself to go on, laying out the events as if setting up a game of solitaire. “She came to Ioan, shamed and weeping, and told him that she was with child, and it wasn’t his. He forgave her, and said he’d stand by her. The fault was his, he said, because he’d made her lonely. He promised to claim the babe as his own, and love it as a true father.”

“How honorable of him,” Helen said softly.

“Ioan was a better man than I could ever be. He devoted himself to Peggy. He was with her every possible moment during her confinement, from the quickening until the labor began. But it went wrong. The labor lasted two days, and the pains became so bad that they gave Peggy chloroform. She reacted badly—they’d given it to her too fast—she was dead in five minutes. When he was told, Ioan collapsed from shock and grief. I had to carry him to his room.”