Marrying Winterborne

“Tolerable.”

“Only tolerable?”

“We visited the zoological galleries, and I don’t enjoy those nearly as much as the art galleries. All those poor animals and their stiff limbs and glass eyes . . .” She told him about Pandora and the giraffes, and how Lady Berwick had darted forward to have a quick feel when she’d thought no one was looking.

Rhys laughed quietly, seeming to relish the story. “Did anything else happen while you were there?”

He sounded relaxed, but Helen’s nerves twitched in unease. “Nothing I can think of.” She hated lying to him. She felt guilty and unsettled, and nervous at being alone with him, the man she loved. And that made her want to cry.

Rhys stopped with her at the third-floor landing. “Would you like to sit somewhere for a moment, cariad?”

The question was gentle and concerned, but for an instant, as she glanced up at him, there was a look in his eyes she’d never seen before. A cat-and-mouse look. It was gone so quickly that she thought she might have imagined it.

Instead, she forced a smile. “No, I’m quite well.”

His gaze searched her face for a few extra seconds. As he led her away from the staircase, Helen asked, “Didn’t you say there would be four flights?”

“Aye, the rest of the stairs are in this direction.”

Mystified, Helen accompanied him past towering racks of French, Persian, and Indian carpets, and tables piled with samples of oilcloth, matting, and hardwood. The air was tinctured with the odors of cedar and benzene, used to ward away moths.

Rhys guided her to an unassuming four-panel door that had been tucked in a setback near a corner.

“Where does this lead?” Helen asked, watching as Rhys took a key from his pocket.

“To the stairwell that connects to our house.”

Perturbed, Helen asked, “Why are we going there?”

With an unfathomable expression, Rhys opened the door and returned the key to his pocket. “Don’t worry. It won’t take long.”

Apprehensively Helen crossed the threshold and entered the enclosed stairwell she remembered from before. Instead of going into the house, however, Rhys guided her up the steps to another landing with a door. “This opens to one of the roof terraces of our house,” he said. “It’s a Mansard style—the top is flat, with railing all around it.”

Did he intend to show her a view of London? Expose her to the elements from the perilous height of the roof? “It will be cold outside,” she said anxiously.

Rhys bent to kiss her forehead. “Trust me.” Keeping her hand in his, he opened the door and brought her past the threshold.

Chapter 26

HELEN WAS BEWILDERED TO find herself surrounded by air as warm as the breath of summer. Slowly she walked into a large gallery, constructed of thousands of flashing, glittering glass panes in a network of wrought-iron ribs.

It was a glasshouse, she realized in bewilderment. On a rooftop. The ethereal construction, as pretty as a wedding cake, had been built on a sturdy brickwork base, with iron pillars and girders welded to vertical struts and diagonal tiers.

“This is for my orchids,” she said faintly.

Rhys came up behind her, his hands settling at her waist. He nuzzled gently at her ear. “I told you I’d find a place for them.”

A glass palace in the sky. It was magical, an inspired stroke of romantic imagination, and he had built it for her. Dazzled, she took in the view of London at sunset, a red glow westering across the leaden sky. The clouds were torn in places, gold light spilling through the fire-colored fleece. Four stories below, the city spread out before them, ancient streets, dark shapes, and stone pinnacles arranged around the sinuous curve of the river. Distant points of brightness came to life as street lamps were lit.

Rhys began to explain that the floor was heated with hot water pipes, and there would be an earthenware sink with a faucet, and something about how the iron girders had been tested by a hydraulic press. Helen nodded as if she were listening, a crooked smile coming to her lips. Only a man would bring up practical details at a time like this. She leaned back against him, wanting to stay in this moment forever, pin it to the firmament with a handful of brilliant-needled stars.

When he began to describe the prefabricated panels that had enabled the structure to be built so quickly, Helen turned in his arms and interrupted him with her mouth. He went still with surprise, but in the next half-second he responded with wholehearted enthusiasm. Filled with love and gratitude and desperation, Helen kissed him a little too wildly. Her heart broke as she realized she would never be able to fill this beautiful place with her orchids. Although she had thought she’d managed to blink back a blur of tears, she felt an errant drop slip from the corner of her eye, sliding down and flavoring their kiss with salt.

Rhys looked down at her, his face shadowed. His hand shaped to her cheek, his thumb smudging away the faint wet trail.

“It’s only that I’m so happy,” Helen whispered.

Undeceived, Rhys gave her a skeptical glance and cradled her against his chest. His voice was low and soft against her ear. “Heart of my heart . . . I can’t help if you won’t tell me what it is.”

Helen froze.

Now was the time to tell him. But it would ruin this moment, it would end everything. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet. She would never be ready, but if she could steal just a little more time with him, a few more days, she would live off that for the rest of her life.

“It’s nothing,” she said hastily, and tried to distract him with more kisses.