Marrying Winterborne

“No young woman wants to marry after reading Tolstoy. That is why I never allowed either of my daughters to read Russian novels.”

“How are Dolly and Bettina?” Kathleen burst in, trying to change the subject by asking after the countess’s daughters.

Neither Lady Berwick nor Pandora would be sidetracked.

“Tolstoy isn’t the only reason I don’t wish to marry,” Pandora said.

“Whatever your reasons, they are unsound. I will explain to you later why you do wish to marry. Furthermore, you are an unconventional girl, and you must learn to conceal it. There is no happiness for any individual, man or woman, who does not dwell within the broad zone of average.”

Pandora regarded her with baffled interest. “Yes, ma’am.”

Privately Helen suspected that the two women were looking forward to a ripping argument.

Lady Berwick gestured to Helen. “Come hither.”

Helen obeyed, and stood patiently as the countess surveyed her.

“Graceful deportment,” Lady Berwick said, “with a modest downcast eye. Quite lovely. Do not be too shy, however, as that will cause people to accuse you of pride. You must cultivate a proper air of confidence.”

“I will try, ma’am. Thank you.”

The countess surveyed her with an appraising glance. “You are affianced to the mysterious Mr. Winterborne.”

Helen smiled faintly. “Is he mysterious, ma’am?”

“He is to me, as I have not personally encountered him.”

“Mr. Winterborne is a gentleman of business,” Helen replied carefully, “with many obligations that keep him too busy to attend many social events.”

“Nor is he invited to the exclusive ones, as he is of the merchant class. You must be distressed by the prospect of an unequal marriage. He is beneath you, after all.”

Although the words stung, Helen schooled her features into impassiveness, aware that she was being tested. “Mr. Winterborne is in no way beneath me, ma’am. Character is a far more important measure of a man than birth.”

“Well said. Fortunately for Mr. Winterborne, marriage to a Ravenel will elevate him sufficiently that he will be allowed to mix in good society. One hopes he will prove worthy of the privilege.”

“I hope aristocratic society will be worthy of him,” Helen said pointedly.

The gray eyes sharpened. “Is he high-minded? Refined in his tastes? Exquisite in his comportment?”

“He is well-mannered, intelligent, honest, and generous.”

“But not refined?” Lady Berwick pressed.

“Whatever refinements Mr. Winterborne does not possess, he will certainly acquire them if he wishes. But I wouldn’t ask him to change anything about himself, as there is already far too much to admire, and I would be in danger of excessive pride on his behalf.”

Lady Berwick gazed at her steadily, her gray eyes warming. “What an extraordinary girl. ‘Cool as callar air,’ as my Scottish grandfather used to say. You’ll be wasted on a Welshman—I vow, we could have married you to a duke. Still, this sort of union—the alliance of wealth with breeding—is necessary for even the best families nowadays. We must reconcile ourselves to it with grace and forbearance.” She glanced at Kathleen. “Does Mr. Winterborne appreciate his good fortune in acquiring such a wife?”

Kathleen smiled. “You will be able to decide for yourself when you meet him.”

“When will this occur?”

“I expect Mr. Winterborne and Lord Trenear to arrive momentarily. They rode out to the eastern perimeter of the estate, to view the site being prepared for railway tracks and a platform halt. They promised to return and change in time for afternoon tea.”

Before Kathleen had even finished the sentence, Devon had come to the doorway. He smiled at his wife. “And so we have.” A swift conversation took place in their shared gaze—an unvoiced question, concern, reassurance—before he strode in to meet Lady Berwick.

He was followed by Rhys, who was similarly dressed in riding clothes: cord-breeches and boots, and a coat of heavy woolen broadcloth.

Rhys paused beside Helen, smiling down at her. He smelled like the outdoors: cold morning air, wet leaves, and horses. As usual, there was the snap of peppermint on his breath. “Good afternoon,” he said, in the same soft way he’d murmured, “Good morning” upon waking her much earlier that day. Remembering their night together, Helen felt a dreadful blush coming on, the kind only he could inspire, a blaze of color that kept building on itself until it seemed she’d been thrown into a bonfire.

She’d had a restless sleep, tossing and turning, her mind plagued with worries. More than once she’d become aware of Rhys soothing and stroking her back to sleep. When he had finally awakened her at dawn, she had given him an apologetic glance and mumbled, “You’ll never want to share a bed with me again.”

Rhys had laughed quietly, pulling her up against his chest and caressing her naked back. “Then you’ll be surprised when I insist on it again tonight.” After that, he made love to her one last time, disregarding her feeble protests that she had to leave.

Now, trying to control her blush, Helen tore her gaze from his. “Did you have a pleasant ride?” she asked softly, watching as Kathleen introduced Devon to Lady Berwick.

“Which ride are you referring to?” His tone was so bland that at first she didn’t perceive his implication.

Helen shot him a shocked glance. “Don’t be wicked,” she whispered.

Rhys grinned and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. The gentle pressure of his mouth on the backs of her fingers did little to calm the rioting color in her face.