Marrying Winterborne
Lady Berwick’s brittle voice came from several feet away. “Not so cool and composed now, I see. Lady Helen, introduce me to the gentleman who seems to have set you all aflutter.”
Helen went to her with Rhys at her side. “Lady Berwick,” she murmured, “this is Mr. Winterborne.”
A curious change came over the countess’s face as she stared at the big, black-haired Welshman before her. Her steely eyes turned as soft as mist, and a hint of girlish color rose in her cheeks. Instead of giving him a nod, she extended her hand.
Without hesitation, Rhys enclosed the older woman’s jewel-laden fingers in a gentle grip, and bowed over her hand with easy grace. He straightened and smiled at her. “A pleasure.”
Lady Berwick studied him, her gaze wide and almost wondering, although her voice remained coolly assessing. “A young man. I confess, I expected someone of more advanced years, in light of your accomplishments.”
“I was set to learn my father’s trade at an early age, my lady.”
“You have been described to me as a ‘business magnate.’ It is my understanding that the term is used for a man who has amassed wealth so great that it cannot be measured on any ordinary scale.”
“I’ve had a stroke of luck now and then.”
“False modesty is evidence of secret pride, Mr. Winterborne.”
“The subject makes me uncomfortable,” he admitted frankly.
“As well it should—any discussion of money is vulgar. However, at my age, I will ask whatever I like, and let anyone reproach me if they dare.”
Rhys laughed suddenly in that free, attractive way he had, his teeth white against his amber complexion. “Lady Berwick, I would never reproach nor refuse you anything.”
“Well then, I have a question for you. Lady Helen insists that in taking you for a husband, she is not marrying down. Do you agree?”
Rhys glanced at Helen, his eyes warm. “No,” he said. “Every man marries above himself.”
“Do you believe, then, that she should wed a man of noble pedigree?”
Returning his attention to the countess, Rhys hitched his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Lady Helen is so far above all men that none of us deserve her. Therefore, it might as well be me.”
Lady Berwick let out a reluctant cackle, staring at him as if spell-struck. “Charmingly arrogant,” she said. “I almost find myself in agreement with you.”
“Ma’am,” Kathleen said, “Perhaps we should send the gentlemen to refresh themselves and change into more appropriate attire for tea. The housekeeper will have a conniption at the sight of these muddy boots clomping across the carpets.”
Devon grinned. “Whatever a conniption is, I feel certain I don’t want to be the cause of one.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead, in spite of all her previous warnings about Lady Berwick’s dislike of physical demonstrations.
After making polite bows, the men left the receiving room.
Lady Berwick’s mouth twisted wryly. “There is no lack of manly vigor in this household, is there?” Her gaze turned absent as she stared at the empty doorway. As she continued, she seemed almost to be speaking to herself. “When I was a girl, there was a footman-in-waiting at my father’s estate. A handsome rascal from North Wales, with hair black as night, and a knowing gaze . . .”
A distant memory had stirred her, something withheld but tender radiating through the temporary softening of her expression. “A rascal,” she repeated gently, “but gallant.” Recovering herself, she cast a stern glance at the young women around her. “Mark my words, girls. There is no greater enemy of virtue than a charming Welshman.”
Feeling Pandora’s elbow poking discreetly against her side, Helen reflected with chagrin that she could vouch for that.
Chapter 20
“DO NOT CROSS YOUR legs, Pandora. Occupy your chair entirely. Cassandra, try not to fling the drapery of your skirts all about while sitting down.” Lady Berwick dispensed these and many other instructions to the twins during afternoon tea, with the expertise of a woman who had trained many young ladies in the arts of deportment.
Pandora and Cassandra did their best to follow the countess’s commands, although there would be private bemoaning later about how the older woman could turn the pleasant ritual of teatime into a trial of endurance.
Kathleen and Devon managed to focus most of the conversation on one of Lady Berwick’s favorite subjects: horses. Both Lord and Lady Berwick were keen horse enthusiasts, occupying themselves with the training of thoroughbreds at their Leominster estate. In fact, that was how they had originally become acquainted with Kathleen’s parents, Lord and Lady Carbery, who had owned an Arabian stud farm in Ireland.
Lady Berwick displayed a lively interest upon learning that Kathleen would inherit at least two dozen horses of purebred Arabian stock, and a parcel of land comprising a riding school, stables, paddocks, and an arena. Even though Lord Carbery’s title and estate lands would be passed on to the nearest male issue, a great-nephew from his father’s side, the stud farm had been built by Kathleen’s parents and had never been entailed.
“We’ll arrange for three or four of the horses to be brought here,” Devon said, “but the rest of the stock will have to be sold.”
“The difficulty will be in finding buyers who understand the nature of Arabians,” Kathleen said with a frown. “They have to be managed differently than other breeds. Placing an Arabian with the wrong kind of owner could lead to many problems.”