Marrying Winterborne

by Lisa Kleypas

  Within five minutes, Lady’s Berwick’s apprehensions had melted into bemused pleasure as Mrs. Fernsby and the sales assistants devoted themselves to gratifying her every wish. While Lady Berwick was shepherded to the glove counter, Pandora and Cassandra roamed among the first-floor displays.

  Rhys came to Helen’s side. “What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.

  The bright lighting seemed to pierce into her brain. She tried to smile, but the effort was excruciating. “My head is aching,” she confessed.

  With a sympathetic murmur, he turned her toward him. His big hand shaped to her forehead and the side of her face as if testing her temperature. “Have you taken medicine for it?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Come with me.” Rhys drew her arm through his. “We’ll find something at the apothecary counter to make you feel better.”

  Helen doubted that anything would help, now that the migraine had sunk its claws and fangs into her. “Lady Berwick will want me to stay within her sight.”

  “She won’t notice anything. They’re going to keep her busy for at least two hours.”

  Helen was in too much distress to argue as Rhys pulled her away with him. Mercifully, he didn’t ask questions or try to make conversation.

  They reached the apothecary hall, where the flooring changed to polished black-and-white tile. It was much dimmer here, as most of the lighting had been turned down at closing. Both sides of the hall were lined with cabinets, shelves, and tables, with a countertop peninsula extending from one of the walls. Every shelf was crowded with jars of powders, pills, liniments, and creams, as well as bottles and vials of tinctures, syrups, and tonics. Assorted medicated confectionaries had been arranged on tables; herbal cough drops, cayenne lozenges, maple sugar, and gum Arabic. Ordinarily Helen wouldn’t have minded the blend of astringent and earthy scents in the air, but in her current misery, it was nauseating.

  Someone was at the peninsula, sorting through drawers and pausing to make notes. As they drew closer, Helen saw that it was a woman not much older than herself, her slim form dressed in a dark burgundy walking suit, her brown hair topped with a sensible hat.

  Glancing up, the woman smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mr. Winterborne.”

  “Still working?” he asked.

  “No, I’m about to leave for a local orphanage, to visit the infirmary. I’m low on supplies, and Dr. Havelock told me to take them from the store apothecary. Naturally I’ll pay for them tomorrow.”

  “The store will assume the expense,” Rhys said without hesitation. “It’s a worthy cause. Take whatever you need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lady Helen,” Rhys said, “this is Dr. Garrett Gibson, one of our two staff physicians.”

  “Good evening,” Helen murmured with a strained smile, pressing her fingers against her right temple as a searing knot throbbed inside her skull.

  “An honor,” the other woman said automatically, but she regarded Helen with concern. “My lady, you appear to be in discomfort. Is there something I can do?”

  “She needs a headache powder,” Rhys said.

  Dr. Gibson looked at Helen across the counter, her vivid green eyes assessing. “Is the pain all through your head, or is it focused in one area?”

  “My temples.” Helen paused, taking inventory of the various searing pains in her head, as if burning coals had been randomly inserted. “Also behind my right eye.”

  “A migraine, then,” Dr. Gibson said. “How long ago did it start?”

  “Only a few minutes ago, but it’s rushing at me like a locomotive.”

  “I’d recommend a neuralgic powder—it’s far more effective for migraines, as it includes caffeine citrate. Let me fetch a box—I know exactly where they are.”

  “I’m sorry to be a bother,” Helen said weakly, bracing against the counter.

  Rhys settled a reassuring hand low on her back.

  “Migraines are torture,” Dr. Gibson said, striding to a nearby cabinet and rummaging through boxes and tins. “My father is afflicted with them. He’s as tough as hippopotamus hide, but he takes to his bed as soon as they begin.” Pulling out a green-painted tin with a nod of satisfaction, she brought it to the counter. “You may feel a trifle lightheaded after taking one, but I daresay that’s better than splitting pain.”

  Helen liked her manner immensely, capable and friendly, not at all dispassionate as one might expect of a doctor.

  While Dr. Gibson pried off the lid of the tin, Rhys took hold of a sliding wood section of the counter, pushed it back, and reached down to extract a wire stand holding four chilled soda water bottles. “A counter refrigerator,” he said, noticing Helen’s interest. “Like the ones in grocers’ shops.”

  “I’ve never been in a grocer’s shop,” Helen admitted, watching as Rhys took one of the bottles from the stand. The bottles were all egg-shaped with perfectly round bases that couldn’t stay upright on their own.

  Dr. Gibson took a paper packet from the tin of neuralgic powders, and unfolded it to form a vee-shaped channel. “The taste is dreadful,” she said, handing it to Helen. “I suggest pouring it as far back on your tongue as possible.”

  Rhys untwisted the tiny wire cage that affixed the cork to the bottle top, and handed the vessel to Helen. He grinned as she gave it an uncertain glance. “You’ve never drunk directly from a bottle before, have you?” His gaze was caressing as he stroked the edge of her jaw with a single knuckle. “Just don’t tip it up too fast.”

  Helen held the paper up to her mouth, tilted her head back, and let the bitter powder slide to her throat. Cautiously she brought the bottle to her lips, poured a splash into her mouth, and swallowed the cold, effervescent liquid. The tart lime-flavored soda helped to mask the bitter medicine.

  “Have a little more, cariad.” Rhys used his thumb to wipe at a tiny stray drop at the corner of her mouth. “This time, seal your lips around the edge.”

  She took another swallow or two, chasing away the taste of the powder, and gave the bottle back to him. Leaving it uncorked, he set it back on the stand.

  Dr. Gibson spoke quietly, her sympathetic gaze on Helen. “It will begin to take effect in five minutes or so.”

  Helen closed her eyes and lifted her fingers to her temples again, trying to ease the sensation of needles being driven into her skull. She was aware of Rhys’s large form beside her, his presence somehow comforting and distressing at the same time. She thought of what she needed to talk to him about, and how he would react, and her shoulders slumped.

  “Some people find that an ice bag or a mustard plaster helps,” she heard Dr. Gibson say quietly. “Or a massage of the neck muscles.”

  Helen twitched with agitation as she felt Rhys’s hands settle on her exposed nape. “Oh not here—”

  “Shhh.” His fingertips found places of excruciating soreness and began to knead gently. “Rest your forearms on the counter.”

  “If someone should see—”

  “They won’t. Relax.”

  Although the circumstances were hardly what Helen would have considered relaxing, she obeyed weakly.

  Rhys used his thumbs on the back of Helen’s neck, while his fingers pressed into the knotted tightness at the base of her skull. She lowered her head, as her muscles were coaxed and inexorably coerced into releasing their tension. His strong hands worked down her neck to her shoulders with sensitive variations of pressure, finding every tight place. She found herself taking deeper breaths, surrendering to the pleasure of his touch.

  As Rhys continued to knead and probe, he spoke over her head to Dr. Gibson. “This orphan asylum you’re going to—have you been there before?”

  “Yes, I try to go weekly. I visit a workhouse as well. Neither place can afford a doctor’s services, and the infirmaries are always full.”

  “Where are they located?

  “The workhouse is in Clerkenwell. The orphan asylum is a bit farther out, at Bishopsgate.”

  “
Those places aren’t safe for you to go unescorted.”

  “I’m quite familiar with London, sir. I don’t take chances with my safety, and I carry a walking stick for self-defense.”

  “What good is a walking stick?” Rhys asked skeptically.

  “In my hands,” Dr. Gibson assured him, “it’s a dangerous weapon.”

  “Is it weighted?”

  “No, I can deliver three times as many blows with a lighter cane than with a heavier stick. At my fencing-master’s suggestion, I’ve carved notches at strategic points along the shaft to improve grip strength. He has taught me some effective techniques to fell an opponent with a cane.”

  “You fence?” Helen asked, her head still down.

  “I do, my lady. Fencing is an excellent sport for ladies—it develops strength, posture, and proper breathing.”

  Helen liked the woman more and more. “I think you’re fascinating.”

  Dr. Gibson responded with a surprised little laugh. “How nice you are. I’m afraid you’ve disappointed my expectations: I thought you would be snobbish, and instead you’re perfectly lovely.”

  “Aye, she is,” Rhys said softly, his thumbs making circles on Helen’s neck.

  To Helen’s amazement, the burning coals in her head were fading to blessed coolness: She could feel the searing agony retreating by the second. After another minute or two, she flattened her palms on the counter and pushed herself up, blinking.

  “The pain is almost gone,” she said in wondering relief.

  Carefully Rhys turned her to face him, his gaze traveling over her. He stroked back a blond tendril that dangled over her right eye. “Your color is better.”

  “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.