Marrying Winterborne (24 page)

“It's extraordinary,” Helen said. “I felt so ghastly just a few minutes ago, and now . . .” A euphoric feeling had spread from head to toe, not only chasing away her former worries but also making it impossible for her to recapture them. How odd it was to know exactly what she should be anxious and unhappy about, but somehow not be able to feel anxious and unhappy. It was the effect of the medicine, of course. It wouldn't last. For now, however, she was grateful for a reprieve.

She swayed slightly as she turned back to the other woman, and Rhys instantly slid a supportive arm around her. “Thank you, Dr. Gibson,” she said fervently. “I thought I was done for.”

“I assure you, it was no trouble,” Dr. Gibson said, her green eyes crinkling. She pushed the tin of neuralgic powders across the counter. “Take another of these in twelve hours if necessary. Never more than twice a day.”

Rhys picked up the tin and scrutinized it before tucking it into his coat pocket.

“From now on,” Helen told Dr. Gibson, “I will send for you whenever I need a doctor”—she paused and gestured to the curved-handle walking stick hooked over the edge of the counter—“or a bodyguard.”

The other woman laughed. “Please don't hesitate. At the risk of being presumptuous, you're welcome to send for me if you need a friend, for any reason.”

“I will,” Helen exclaimed cheerfully. “Yes, you are my friend. Let's meet at a teashop—I've always wanted to do that. Without my sisters, I mean. Goodness, my mouth is dry.” Although she wasn't aware of moving,
she found her arms around Rhys's neck, her body listing heavily against his. Warm flushes kept rising through her like sunlight. “May I have some more lime water?” she asked him. “I like the way it sparkles in my mouth. Like fairies dancing on my tongue.”

“Aye, sweetheart.” His voice was reassuring and pleasant, even as he sent Dr. Gibson a narrow-eyed glance. “What else was in that powder?”

“She'll be much steadier in a few minutes,” the other woman assured him. “There's usually an initial sensation of giddiness as the medication enters the bloodstream.”

“I can see that.” Keeping one arm around Helen, Rhys took the open bottle from the stand and gave it to Helen. “Easy now,
cariad.
”

“I like drinking out of bottles.” Helen took a long, satisfying draught of lime water. “I'm good at it now. Watch this.” She drank again to show him, and his hand closed around the bottle, gently taking it from her.

“Not so fast,” he murmured, his eyes lit with tender amusement, “or all those bubbles will bring on the hiccups.”

“Don't worry about that,” Helen told him, gesturing extravagantly to the woman across the counter. “Dr. Gibson can cure
anything
.”

“Regrettably,” the doctor said with a smile, picking up her walking stick by its curved handle, “the cure for hiccups has so far eluded me.”

After Rhys had replaced the bottle in the stand, Helen slid her arms around his waist, which she knew distantly was a rather shocking thing to do, but it seemed the only way to keep herself upright. “Have you ever noticed,” she asked him earnestly, “that hiccups rhymes with snickups?”

Carefully Rhys eased her head to his chest. “Dr. Gibson,” he said, “as you leave, please find one of the sales assistants and discreetly tell her to run up to the dressmaker and reschedule Lady Helen's appointment for another day.”

“She'll really be quite fine in another few minutes—” the doctor began.

“I don't want her to begin planning her wedding dress like this. God knows what she would end up with.”

“A rainbow dress,” Helen said dreamily against his coat. “And unicorn shoes.”

Rhys gave the doctor a speaking glance.

“Right,” Dr. Gibson said briskly. “Good evening to the both of you.”

Helen tilted her head back to look up at Rhys. “I was joking about the unicorn shoes.”

Rhys was holding her with both arms now, the corners of his mouth deepening. Oh, he was wonderfully large and sturdy. And so very handsome. “Were you?” he asked gently. “Because I'll catch a unicorn for you. There's sure to be enough of him for a matching valise.”

“No, don't make him into luggage, let him go free.”

“All right,
cariad
.”

She reached up to trace the firm, tempting curve of his lips with her fingertip. “I'm back to myself now,” she told him. “I'm not going to be silly anymore.”

As Rhys glanced down at her quizzically, she tried to look solemn, but she couldn't help breaking into giggles. “I'm s-serious,” she insisted.

He didn't argue, only began to kiss her nose and cheeks and throat.

Helen squirmed, more giggles slipping out. “That tickles.” Her fingers slid into his beautiful hair, the locks
thick and vibrant, like heavy black satin. His lips lingered at a tender place beneath her jaw until the nerves thrummed with excitement. Clumsily she guided his head, maneuvering his mouth to hers, and he obliged her with lazy, sensuous patience. She relaxed, moving easily with him as he turned to set his back against the counter, his arms wrapped safely around her.

His head moved over hers, one of his hands coming up to support the back of her neck, massaging even though there was no more pain or tension, and she arched against him, purring in her enjoyment. It was heavenly to be clasped in the embrace of her magnificent lover . . . who didn't know that he would soon stop loving her.

That last thought made everything seem just a little less magical.

Sensing the change in her, Rhys lifted his mouth.

Helen kept her eyes closed. Her lips felt swollen, craving more friction and silky pressure. “Do other men kiss the way you do?” she whispered.

Rhys made a sound of amusement, his peppermint-laced breath wafting against her nostrils. “I don't know, my treasure. And you'll never find out.” He took a quick taste of her, a flirting tug. “Open your eyes.”

Helen looked at him while he appraised her condition.

“How do you feel now?” he asked, cautiously letting her stand on her own.

“Steadier,” she said, turning in a small circle to test her balance. She was no longer giddy. The migraine was leashed and held firmly at bay. “And quite energetic. Dr. Gibson was right: I
am
well enough to go to the dressmaker.”

“We'll see. If you're still feeling up to it in a half-
hour, I'll take you to her. In the meantime, I want to show you something. Do you think you could manage stairs?”

“I could run up a thousand of them.”

“Four flights will be sufficient.”

A small inner voice warned Helen that being alone with him wasn't a good idea—she would make a mistake and say something she shouldn't. But she took his arm anyway, accompanying him to a wide staircase of travertine marble.

“I didn't think of asking the elevator operator to stay late,” Rhys said apologetically as they ascended the steps. “I know the basics of how to operate it, but I wouldn't want to try it for the first time with you in the car.”

“I don't ever want to ride an elevator,” Helen said. “If the cable snaps—” she broke off and shuddered. Although the store's elevator was of modern hydraulic design, reputedly safer than steam-powered models, the idea of being hoisted up and down in a tiny closed room was terrifying.

“There's no danger. It has three extra safety cables, as well as an automatic mechanism under the car that grips the side rails in case all the cables broke.”

“I would still rather climb stairs.”

Rhys smiled and kept her hand in his. As they finished the first flight and began on the second, he asked casually, “What have you done for the past few days?”

Trying to sound offhand, Helen said, “We went to the British Museum on Friday. And Lady Berwick has been receiving social visits from her friends.”

“How was the museum?”

“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.

H
ELEN 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.

She could feel the reluctance in his response. He wanted to make her tell him what was wrong. Reaching around his neck, she tugged him down and kissed him until their tongues slid together and the intoxicating fresh taste of him filled her senses. All his awareness homed in on her, and he pulled her up against him until she was on her toes. His head angled over hers as he searched the inner silk of her mouth more deeply. Sliding her hands into his coat, Helen followed the slope of his solid, hard torso as it tapered to his lean waist.

Rhys lifted his head with a quiet curse, his lungs working hard, a shiver running through him as she kissed his neck. “Helen, you're playing with fire.”

Yes. She could feel the latent power of him, ready to be unleashed. “Take me to your bedroom,” she said recklessly, knowing it was one of the worst ideas she'd ever had. She didn't care. It was worth anything, any scandal or sacrifice, to be with him one more time. “Just for a few minutes. It's not far.”

Rhys shook his head without even pausing to consider it. “That bloody headache powder,” he said darkly. “It's loosened your virtue.”

The quaint phrase, coming from him, forced Helen to bury her face against his chest to muffle a laugh. “You took care of my virtue long before now.”

Rhys didn't seem to share her amusement. “You haven't been yourself tonight,
cariad
. What upset you badly enough to cause a migraine?”

That sobered her quickly. “Nothing.”

Rhys grasped her chin and compelled her to look at him. “Tell me.”

Seeing the heated exasperation in his gaze, Helen
tried to think of something that would satisfy him. “I miss you,” she said, which was true. “I didn't expect it would be so difficult to stay here in London, knowing you're so near, and still never having you.”

“You can have me whenever you want.”

One corner of her mouth hitched upward. “I want you now.” Her hand stole to the front of his trousers.

“Damn it, Helen, you'll drive me mad.” But he sucked in a sharp breath as she gripped the huge straining shape of him. His face changed, his dark eyes shot with glints of hellfire. She loved how easily he responded to her nearness, this very physical man, she loved the soul and substance of him.

One last brick-colored wash of light passed over them and melted into shadow, while the winter moon mantled itself with clouds in a distant corner of the sky. It was only the two of them, now, in this high, dark place, while the city stirred far below, its distant noises unable to reach them.

Helen settled her hands on either side of his face, delighting in the masculine texture of his shaven cheeks. How vital he was, how earthy and real. He stood motionless, captured by her light touch, while his body stirred with insatiate hunger, and she sensed how close to the edge of control he was. Desire filled her in showers of sparks, at the tips of her fingers and toes, and the insides of her knees and elbows . . . everywhere. She couldn't keep from touching him, any more than she could stop herself from telling him something she had no right to say.

“I love you.”

S
HAKEN TO HIS
core, Rhys stared down at Helen. The moonstone eyes were luminous and haunted, and so
beautiful that he wanted to sink to his knees before her.

“
Dw i'n dy garu di
,”
he whispered when he had the breath, a phrase he'd never said to anyone, and he kissed her roughly.

The world sank down to the two of them in this glittering sphere, where there was only darkness, flesh, and feeling. He found himself nudging her backward, crowding her into the corner against a flat-fronted iron support post. She clung to him, writhing as if she were trying to climb up his body. He needed to feel her skin, the natural shape of her, and as always, there were too damned many clothes in the way.

Inflamed, he gripped the front of her skirt and hauled it up in handfuls, and reached into the long seam-split of her drawers. His knee worked between her legs, and she spread them willingly, gasping as he caressed the insides of her thighs where the skin was thin and hot. Helen leaned against the post, moaning into his kisses. The patch of fluff at her groin was warm and dry, but as he shaped his hand to her, cupping gently, he felt humid, intimate heat against his fingers. How delicate she was, how soft. It didn't seem possible that she could take all of him in this sweet, small place.

Gently he pinched each of the plump outer lips, kneading tenderly and splaying them open. She went wet against his fingertips as he circled her entrance and the silky petals around it. Her hips writhed, following the tender stroking. He let one teasing fingertip rest on the little pearl of her clitoris, feeling her fluttering response like the wings of a tiny wintering bird. Her head tilted back, and she gripped the front of his braces with knotted fists.

The whiteness of her exposed throat gleamed in the warm darkness, and he bent to it hungrily, using
his tongue on her skin, caressing with his parted lips. Blindly he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers to free his stiff length. Reaching down, he grasped one of Helen's knees and guided her leg around his waist. They both gasped as the head of his shaft pushed against the smoldering wet heat of her. Hunting for the right angle, he bent his knees and drove up to the hilt in a sure, strong thrust. Helen let out a cry, and he hesitated, terrified that he had hurt her. But he felt her body working on his with deep quivers that drew a ragged sound of lust from him. Letting her weight settle more fully onto his shaft, he reached down with his thumb and forefinger to spread her sex open. She whimpered as he pressed against her and rocked upward, lifting her slightly with each thrust.

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.”

H
ELEN 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?”