by Lisa Kleypas
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.
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.”
SHAKEN TO HIS core, Rhys stared down a
t 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.”
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.
“Would you like some as well?�
�� she asked Helen.
“No, thank you, I believe I’ll retire early to bed.” Helen hesitated, gathering her nerves. “May I speak with your ladyship?”
“Of course. Come into the parlor with me.” They entered the room, which was cold despite the fire on the grate. Lady Berwick sat on the chaise and shivered. “Give the fire a stir, if you will.”
Helen went to the hearth, picked up a poker, and prodded the coals until she had built up a cheerful blaze. Holding her hands near the flooding heat, she said sheepishly, “About my disappearance with Mr. Winterborne—”
“There is no need to explain. I approve.”
Helen gave her a stupefied glance. “You—you do?”
“I told you in this very parlor that you must do whatever is necessary to marry Mr. Winterborne. In other circumstances, I would object strenuously, of course. But if allowing him liberties will bind him closer to you and make the marriage more of a certainty, I am willing to look the other way. A wise chaperone accepts that one must occasionally lose the battle to win the war.”
Nonplussed, Helen said, “You are remarkably . . .” ruthless. “. . . practical, my lady.”
“We must use the means we have at our disposal.” Lady Berwick looked resigned. “It’s often said that a woman’s weapon is her tongue . . . but it’s far from our only one.”
Chapter 27
IN THE MORNING, A penny-post letter came for Helen while Lady Berwick was breakfasting in her room and the twins were still abed.
As the butler brought the envelope to her on a silver tray, Helen saw in a glance that it was from Ada Tapley. Her hand trembled as she picked it up. “I would prefer that you not mention this letter to anyone.”
The butler gave her an impassive glance. “Yes, my lady.”
Waiting until he had left the morning room, Helen opened the gummed envelope and took out the letter. Her gaze sped over the crookedly penned lines.