Marrying Winterborne

All he could hear were the rasps of their breathing, and the ceaseless rustling of clothes, and the occasional intimate wet sound as he lunged steadily into her. Deep inside she closed on him sweetly, demanding more, and he gripped her hips and made her ride him harder, driving relentlessly, using his body to pleasure her. They struggled together amid the rising sensation, pulling closer, closer, until there was no more friction, only the clamping, writhing, throbbing connection that held them fast to each other. Helen moaned, her arms tightening around his neck, and then she fell silent and began to shudder helplessly. The feel of her ecstasy delivered him, the release so complete that it was like losing consciousness, like dying and being reborn.

Crushing his mouth against the side of her head, Rhys groaned quietly and held her, willing the shaking in his limbs to ease. Helen relaxed against him, her leg sliding away from his hips. But as he reluctantly made to withdraw, she gripped his backside with her hands to keep him close, and it felt so good that his flesh twitched and thickened inside her. His lips moved slowly over her face while they stood together with their bodies still joined, heat pulsing within heat.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. “I didn’t know it could be done that way,” she whispered.

Rhys smiled, and bent to catch at her earlobe with his teeth, and licked the edge of her ear. The delicate salt of her sweat teased him, aroused him like some exotic drug. He would never have enough of her. “You mustn’t encourage me, cariad,” he said huskily. “Someone has to tell me to behave like a gentleman. That’s your job, aye?”

Her palm slid gently over his right buttock. “I’ll never tell you that.”

Rhys continued to hold her. He knew she was keeping secrets, frightened of some nameless thing she wouldn’t confess. But he wouldn’t force the issue. Yet.

Soon, however, they would have a reckoning.

Reluctantly he loosened his arms and reached down to her hip, holding her steady as he withdrew from her. She gasped as his invasion eased from her body, and he soothed her with a quiet murmur. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he tucked the soft folded cloth snugly between the lips of her sex, and straightened her drawers. Although he couldn’t see Helen blush in the darkness, he could feel the heat radiating from her.

“There are still things that need to be said between us,” he warned softly, buttoning his trousers. After pressing a lingering kiss to her temple, he added, “Although I do like your way of distracting me.”

HELEN HAD BEEN in a daze for the rest of the evening, unable to discern how much of it was an aftereffect of the neuralgic powder, and how much was from her interlude with Rhys.

Upon leaving the rooftop glasshouse, Rhys had taken her to a bathroom where she’d done her best to tidy herself and neaten her hair. Afterward, he had escorted her to the dressmaker’s studio on the second floor and introduced her to Mrs. Allenby, a tall, slight woman with a pleasant smile. She sympathized upon learning about Helen’s migraine, and assured her that they had enough time left in the appointment to take her measurements. Helen could return another day when she felt better, and they could begin to plan her trousseau in earnest.

At the conclusion of the appointment, Helen emerged from the studio to find Rhys waiting to escort her to the first floor. Recalling their torrid encounter of just an hour earlier, Helen felt herself turn a deep crimson.

He grinned at her. “Try not to look quite so guilty, cariad. I’ve spent the past quarter of an hour explaining our disappearance to Lady Berwick.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I gave her every excuse I could come up with. Some of it was even true.”

“Does she believe any of it?” Helen asked, mortified.

“She’s pretending to.”

To Helen’s relief, Lady Berwick seemed contented and good-humored during the carriage ride back to Ravenel House. She had purchased no fewer than a dozen pairs of gloves, as well as assorted sundries from other departments in the store. Ruefully, the countess admitted that she intended to return soon for another shopping excursion, even if it meant going to Winterborne’s during regular hours and mingling with the common herd. Pandora and Cassandra regaled Helen with accounts of everything the sales assistants had told them would be à la mode for the coming year. Fancy scarf-pins were becoming all the rage, as well as gold and silver braided trim on dresses and hats, and ladies’ hair would be dressed à la Récamier, an arrangement of small curls like a poodle dog’s.

“Poor Helen,” Pandora said, “we’re going home with a mountain of boxes and bags, and the only thing you’re bringing back is a tin of headache powders.”

“I don’t need anything else,” Helen replied, looking down at the green tin in her lap.

“And while we were having a lovely time shopping,” Cassandra said regretfully, “Helen was taking off her clothes.”

Helen shot her a startled glance, the color draining from her face.

“At the dressmaker’s,” Cassandra explained. “You did say they took measurements, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been very entertaining for you,” Cassandra said.

“No, indeed.” Helen glued her gaze back to the tin of powders, acutely conscious of Lady Berwick’s silence.

The carriage arrived at Ravenel House, and the footman carried a towering stack of ivory boxes into the house with the dexterity of a carnival juggler. While the twins went up to their rooms, Lady Berwick informed the butler that she wanted tea brought to the parlor.