by Lisa Kleypas
“Indeed.” Havelock glanced at her covertly, assessing her reaction. A flash of triumph entered his eyes as he saw how pleased she was, and he quickly covered it with another burst of indignation. “If it were left to Winterborne, you would soon be carried to my door in a state of nervous exhaustion and malnourishment. And I already have enough patients to attend to.” He removed the silver covers, and turned the rosebud so that it was shown to its best advantage.
“I am rather hungry,” Mrs. Fernsby said delicately, as if she could hardly summon the strength to lift a fork. “Will you keep me company, Dr. Havelock?”
“I suppose I must,” came his enthusiastic response, “to make certain Winterborne allows you fifteen minutes of peace.”
Rhys tried to sound grudging. “Very well, Fernsby. You can have food. But only because Havelock insists on it.” Before turning away, he exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Fernsby, and her eyes twinkled at him.
Chapter 35
RHYS’S PRIVATE TRAIN CARRIAGE consisted of two long sections with a flexible covered walkway in between. It was magnificently furnished with luxurious chairs upholstered in bronze silk plush, and floors covered with cut-velvet carpeting. There was a parlor with wide observation windows, and a dining room with a mahogany extension table. Rhys and Helen would sleep in the large bedroom en suite in the first section, while Charity—no, Carys, Helen reminded herself—would occupy one of two smaller bedrooms in the second section, along with her nursemaid.
At first Helen had worried that Carys might be uneasy at sleeping apart from her on the train. However, the little girl had immediately taken to Anna Edevane, the younger sister of Rhys’s social secretary. Anna was pretty and vivacious, and she’d had experience helping to raise her four younger brothers and sisters. As soon as they boarded, Anna took Carys to their room, where a collection of new toys and books had been left for her. Dumbfounded by the playthings, including a porcelain doll in a lilac silk dress and a Noah’s ark, Carys didn’t seem to know what to do with them. Sitting on the floor, she touched the carved and painted animals gently, as if she thought they might break.
Now that Carys had been thoroughly bathed—Rhys’s suggestion of foam soap had worked brilliantly—she was clean and sweet smelling. She wore a rose-colored dress with a little skirt made of box plaits, each one headed by a little ribbon rosette.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Helen told Anna. “Carys must go to bed soon—it’s been a long day, and she had only a short nap.”
“I don’t want to,” Carys protested.
“I’ll read her a bedtime story,” Anna said. “I heard she has a favorite one . . . I think it was . . . ‘Little Red Riding Hood’?”
“‘The Three Bears,’” Carys said from the floor.
Anna pretended not to hear. “Maybe it was ‘Rumplestiltskin’ . . .”
Carys stood and hung onto her skirts. “The Three Bears.”
“Three pigs, did you say?” Anna swept the child up in her arms, and fell with her onto the bed.
Carys lay there giggling. “Bears, bears, bears!”
The sound of her laughter, Helen thought, was more beautiful than any music.
The rest of the Winterborne retinue, including the lady’s maid, Quincy, a footman, and a cookmaid, were all lodged farther back on the private train, in handsome carriages provided by Mr. Severin.
“I’m so glad you renewed your friendship with Mr. Severin,” Helen exclaimed as she wandered around their private compartments, pausing to admire a gilded wall lamp. She quoted a popular poem, “Forgiveness! No virtue surer brings its own reward.”
“Aye,” Rhys had replied dryly, “like a free locomotive.”
“That wasn’t the only reason you forgave him.”
He pulled her against him, kissing her neck. “Cariad, are you trying to convince yourself that I’m a man of hidden honor and secret virtues? I’ll be changing your mind about that soon.”
Helen wriggled in protest as his hand stole to the back of her skirts. She was wearing a ready-made traveling dress, which fit nicely after a few minor alterations made by one of Mrs. Allenby’s assistants. It was a simple design of light blue silk and cashmere, with a smart little waist-jacket. There was no bustle, and the skirts had been drawn back snugly to reveal the shape of her body. The skirts descended in a pretty fall of folds and pleats, with a large decorative bow placed high on her posterior. To her vexation, Rhys wouldn’t leave the bow alone. He was positively mesmerized by it. Every time she turned her back to him, she could feel him playing with it.
“Rhys, don’t!”
“I can’t help it. It calls to me.”
“You’ve seen bows on dresses before.”
“But not there. And not on you.” Reluctantly Rhys let go of her and pulled out his pocket watch. “The train should have departed by now. We’re five minutes late.”
“What are you in a rush for?” she asked.
“Bed,” came his succinct reply.
Helen smiled. She stood on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “We have a lifetime of nights together.”
“Aye, and we’ve already missed too many of them.”
Helen turned and bent to pick up her small valise, which had been set on the floor. At the same time, she heard the sound of fabric ripping.
Before Helen had straightened and twisted to look at the back of her skirts, she already knew what had happened. The bow hung limply, at least half of its stitches torn.
Meeting her indignant glance, Rhys looked as sheepish as a schoolboy caught with a stolen apple. “I didn’t know you were going to bend over.”
“What am I going to say to the lady’s maid when she sees this?”
He considered that for a moment. “Alas?” he suggested.
Helen’s lips quivered with unwilling amusement.
A whistle signaled their impending departure with two short bursts, and soon they were underway. The locomotive proceeded at a slower pace than the express trains Helen had ridden to and from Hampshire, and the ride was smoother, with subtle vibrations and sways instead of jolts. As the train moved away from lights and buildings and roads, out into the night, the passengers began to retire after a day that had been unusually long and exhausting for all of them.
Rhys went to another compartment while the lady’s maid came to help Helen prepare for bed.
“The bow in my dress came loose,” Helen said as the maid collected her clothes. “It caught on something.” She didn’t feel the need to explain that the “something” had been a set of inquisitive masculine fingers.
“I’ll stitch it back tomorrow, my lady.”
As Helen stood behind the folding doors of the bedroom compartment, the lady’s maid handed her a new nightgown to wear. Looking at the thin, silky length of fabric in her hands, Helen asked, “Is this all there is of it?”
“Yes, my lady,” came the girl’s voice. “Mrs. Allenby selected it for you. Do you like it?”
“Oh it’s . . . lovely.” Helen held it up in the light of the tiny lamp of the bedroom compartment, realizing that the white silk was semi-transparent. The garment was cut low and open-necked at the front, offering such negligible coverage that it didn’t begin to serve the purpose of a nightgown. Blushing, Helen slipped the gown over her head, her breath catching at the coolness of the silk falling over her body.
“Do you need help, my lady?”
“No, thank you,” Helen said hastily. She was virtually half-naked in the scandalous garment. “I’ll retire now. Good night.”
Climbing into the bed, she slid beneath the weight of the soft linen sheets and quilted blankets, sighing in comfort. She was weary in every limb, and the faint oscillation of the train was soothing. Relaxing, she lay with her eyes half-closed.
The folding door was drawn back, and a dark, lean shape moved across her vision. She rolled to her back, one arm curled loosely above her head.
Rhys stood over her, slowly stripping off his shirt, the soft light
catching hard curves of muscle all along his torso. Gently he pulled the covers back, his gaze smoldering as he took in the sight of her. He reached down to caress her, his spread fingertip trailing over the fragile silk. “My beautiful love,” he said huskily.
The lamp was turned off, and the gown was drawn away from her slowly. There were movements in the darkness, gentle touches on her body . . . the liquid heat of his mouth, the tip of his tongue stroking in places that made her tremble. He played with the curls between her legs, teasing and stroking with his fingers and tongue, breathing against them until she forgot all modesty and spread her legs wider. His gentle laugh fell against her, and he answered the wanton invitation with a swirling lick.
Helen crooned and moaned and sank her hands into his silky hair. His hands played over her, fingertips following sensitive paths along her skin. Catching the bud of a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched it in a rhythm that matched the electrifying tugging of his mouth between her thighs.
When he could wait no longer, he levered his body over hers and entered her, his heavy shaft spreading her deliciously, pushing deep. The sway of the train rocked them exquisitely, the subtle hint of motion teasing her senses. Her inner muscles began to close on him helplessly, and he followed that secret rhythm, sensitive to her every need. Blindly she searched for his mouth, and he gave it to her. He was so deep inside her, his body caressing her within and without, flooding her with pleasure. Her hips jerked up in that ultimate moment, almost lifting his weight. Shivering, she ran a gentle hand down his flexing back. “Now,” she whispered. “Come inside me now.”
Groaning, he obeyed with one strong thrust, pouring his heat into her, holding her as if he would never let her go.
THE ROYAL HOTEL was a stately three-story Georgian structure in Caernarvon. Rhys had wanted to bring Helen to the North Wales coastal town partly because it was close to his birthplace of Llanberis, but mostly because he thought she would enjoy its romantic appeal. Myths and fairy tales came naturally to this place, with its picturesque ruins and deep green vales, and abundant cascades, pools, and lakes. One could always see the jagged peaks of Snowdon, a mountain of which it was said that a man who’d climbed it would come down either a madman or a poet.
Thanks to Mrs. Fernsby’s skillful planning, the trip had gone perfectly so far. Upon Rhys and Helen’s arrival, they were shown to a spacious suite at the Royal Hotel, with a connecting suite for Carys and her nursemaid. The servants had also been shown to elegant rooms, and seemed very pleased.
The pastor of a local church had consented to perform the wedding ceremony at the remains of an ancient chapel on a hill, just a short walk from the hotel. Massive arrangements of white and pink flowers had been carted to the chapel ruins, which were accessible by a footpath and small bridge. From the top of the hill, one had a view of Caernarvon’s castle, the town, the mountain, and the dark blue shimmer of the Irish Sea.
On the morning after their arrival, the sky was clear and cloudless, a rare occurrence for that time of year. As it was planned, the wedding party would gather at the stone terrace at the back of the hotel, walk to the chapel, and return for a lavish breakfast.
Dressed in a morning suit with a cutaway coat and light-colored tie, Rhys waited alone in the ground-floor conservatory of the hotel. He and Helen would meet there before joining the others. Resisting the urge to pull out his pocket watch, he waited with forced patience, thinking he would have paid ten thousand pounds to have the next hour already done with, so that Helen would already be his wife.
A silky rustling sound came from behind him.
He turned, and saw Helen standing there in a white dress made of thin, glimmering layers of silk trimmed with lace. The dress clung to her slender form, the skirts pulled back to outline her hips and cascading gently behind her. She pulled back a filmy white veil sewn with lace and seed pearls, and smiled at him. She was unearthly in her beauty, as light and delicate as a wash of rainbow through morning mist. He held a hand over his hammering heart, as if to keep it from leaping out of his chest.
“I didn’t know they’d found you a wedding dress,” he managed to say.
“Somehow Mrs. Allenby worked a miracle. I’ll have to ask her how she did it when we return.”
“You’re so beautiful, I . . .” His voice drifted away as he stared at her. “Are you really mine?”
She smiled and came to him. “In every sense but the legal.”
“We’ll fix that soon,” he muttered, reaching for her.
Helen shook her head and touched a forefinger lightly to his lips. “Not until after our vows,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I want my next kiss to be with my husband.”
“God help me,” he said feelingly, “no man has ever wanted to have a wedding done with as much as I do.”
Helen’s smile turned rueful. “Have you seen the crowd outside the hotel?”
Rhys shook his head, frowning slightly.
“I’m afraid we’ll have more company than we anticipated. When the guests at the hotel and some of the townspeople found out that Rhys Winterborne himself has come here to be married, they all invited themselves to walk to the chapel with us. I was told that in North Wales, it’s a tradition for all the neighbors to attend the wedding.”
He groaned. “There’ll be no getting rid of them. I’m sorry. Do you mind, cariad?”
“Of course not. I’ll rather enjoy the sight of all those people staring at you with awe.”
“They won’t be staring at me,” he assured her. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a smooth white stone and showed it to her on his palm. Helen smiled.
“The oathing stone?”
“Carys found it yesterday while we were out walking.”
“It’s perfect. Where will we throw it, after we’re wed?”
“I’ll let you decide,” Rhys said, replacing the stone in his pocket. “The Irish Sea is in that direction . . .” He pointed. “The Menai Strait is that way . . . or I can take you to a fair number of good Welsh lakes. I know of one that’s said to be the final location of Excalibur.”
Helen’s eyes brightened at the idea. But in the next moment, a thought occurred to her, and she looked disconcerted.
“I realized this morning that there’s no one to give me away.”
Rhys lowered his face until their foreheads were touching, and he was lost in the moonstone glow of her eyes. “Heart of my heart, you need no man to give you away. Just come to me of your own free will. Love me for who I am . . . just as I love you for who you are . . . and our bond will last until the stars lose their shining.”
“I can do that,” Helen whispered.
Drawing back slowly, Rhys smiled down at her. “Come, then, cariad. We’ve a wedding to take care of. A man can only wait so long for a kiss from his wife.”
Epilogue
Eight months later
“. . . AND PANDORA SAID THAT if her game turns out to be a success, she won’t participate in any of the events of the Season,” Helen said, deftly hand-pollinating vanilla blossoms. “She told Lady Berwick that she has no intention of being herded from ball to ball like a disoriented sheep.”
Rhys smiled and watched her lazily, his back braced against a brick column. He was a handsome sight, his presence incongruously masculine amid the rows and rows of orchids. “How did Lady Berwick react?”
“She was outraged, of course. But before they could start another row, Cousin Devon pointed out that Pandora has only just now filed a patent application, and the Season will probably have begun before we find out if it’s been accepted. Therefore, Pandora may as well go to a few balls and dinners, if for no other reason than to keep Cassandra company.”
“Trenear is right. There’s far more to publishing a board game than applying for a patent and taking the design to the printer. If Pandora is serious about her venture, it will take at least a year before we can stock it on the display tables.”
“Oh, Pandora is quite serious,” Helen
said wryly.
She had just returned with Carys from a morning visit to Ravenel House. They had gone to see Kathleen’s newborn son, William, who was healthy and thriving. Carys had been fascinated by the two-week-old infant and had cooed over him for several minutes, until Pandora had coaxed her away to help test her board game prototype. The little girl had loved the game, titled Shopping Spree, in which players moved their tokens around a circuit of departments, collecting merchandise cards along the way. At Pandora’s insistence, the game taught no moral values or lessons: it was intended only to be amusing.
“Do you know,” Helen said thoughtfully, “I have a feeling that Pandora’s game is going to sell very well. Lady Berwick and Carys had a splendid time playing it this morning. They both seem to love the process of collecting all those beautifully detailed little merchandise cards—the umbrella, the shoe, and so forth.”
“Human nature is acquisitive,” Rhys replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “Aye, the game will sell.”
“How well?” Helen used a toothpick to transfer pollen into the blossom’s stigma.
Rhys laughed gently. “I’m not an oracle, cariad.”
“Yes, you are. You know these things.” Finishing the last vanilla flower, Helen set aside the toothpick and turned to give him an expectant glance.
“She’ll make a fortune,” he said. “It’s an undeveloped market, the product can be mass-produced with lithographic printing, and as you just pointed out, the game has broad appeal.”
Helen smiled, but she was inwardly perturbed. She wanted her younger sister’s hard work and talent to be rewarded. However, she was concerned that in her quest to become self-sufficient and independent, Pandora seemed determined to keep from giving any man the chance to love her. Why was she so hardened against the idea of sharing her life with someone else?
“I hope it will make her happy,” she said.
Rhys unfolded his arms and approached her slowly. Warm September light, the color of ripe lemons, poured through the glasshouse panes and slid over his dark hair. “Speaking from experience,” he said, taking her waist in his hands, “the success will make Pandora very happy at first. But eventually she’ll become lonely, and realize there’s more to life than financial gain.”