Marrying Winterborne by Lisa Kleypas
“He wouldn’t do that to his wife,” Helen protested.
“I agree.” Quincy looked away before adding with difficulty, “But, you’re not his wife yet.”
Stunned, Helen wondered if he was right, if it was truly that dangerous to tell Rhys about her father.
“Mr. Winterborne is not an ordinary man, my lady. He fears nothing, and answers to no one. He’s above scandal, and in some ways he’s even above the law. I daresay he conducts himself better than most would, in his position. But he can be unpredictable. If you want to marry Mr. Winterborne, my lady, you must keep your silence.”
Chapter 17
THE DISTANT CHIMES OF a clock drifted through the house as Helen slipped from her room and navigated the shadows of the upstairs hallway. Rhys had been lodged in a guest room in the east wing, for which she was thankful. They would need privacy for the conversation they were about to have.
She was as afraid as she had ever been about anything. Her heart pounded so hard that it felt as if something were striking her chest from the outside. She didn’t know Rhys well enough to be certain how he would react when she told him. Whatever he might feel for her, it was founded on some ideal of perfection, of an aristocratic wife on a pedestal. The news she was about to tell him wasn’t a step down from the pedestal—it was a leap off a cliff.
The problem was not with something she had done. The problem was with who she was, and there was no solution for that. Would Rhys ever be able to look at her without seeing shades of Albion Vance? She had spent most of her life with people who were supposed to love her, and hadn’t. She couldn’t endure spending the rest of it with a husband who would do the same.
By the time Helen reached the east wing, she was desperately cold despite the wool lining of her dressing gown and the thickness of her embroidered slippers. Shivering, she approached Rhys’s door and knocked tentatively.
Her stomach lurched as she was confronted with Rhys’s huge dark form, silhouetted against the glow of the hearth and a small bedside lamp. He was dressed only in a robe, his chest and feet bare. Reaching an arm around her waist, he drew her past the threshold, closed the door, and locked it decisively.
As Rhys pulled her against him, Helen pressed her cheek against the exposed part of his chest.
Feeling the way she trembled, he cuddled her closer. “You’re nervous, cariad.”
She nodded against his chest.
One of his hands gently cupped the side of her face. “Are you afraid that I’ll hurt you?”
She understood that he was referring to the physical joining that had left her sore after their first time. What she feared, of course, was a far different kind of pain. Licking her dry lips, she forced herself to reply. “Yes. But not in the way you—”
“No, no,” he soothed, “it will be different this time.” He bent his head and hugged her as if he were trying to surround her with himself. “Your pleasure means more to me than anything in life.” One of his hands slid low on her hips to the beginning curve of her bottom. His hand traveled to her front, gently pressing her stomach before sliding to the place between her thighs.
The teasing stroke sent a thrill of sensation through her, and her legs quaked until she could hardly stand. She took a breath to speak, but it stuck in her throat as a half-sob. Swallowing it back, she said unsteadily, “It’s not that, it’s . . . I’m afraid because I think . . . I might lose you.”
“Lose me?” Rhys looked down at her keenly, and her gaze fell from his. After a moment, she heard him ask, “Why would you worry about that?”
Now was the time to tell him. She tried to blurt it out—Albion Vance is my father—but she couldn’t make herself do it. Her mouth refused to shape the words. All she could do was stand there and shiver like a treble wire of a piano, fine vibrations of cowardice singing through her.
“I don’t know,” she finally said.
As she kept her face averted, continuing to tremble, Rhys bent to nudge a kiss against her cheek. “Ah you’ve made yourself upset,” he exclaimed quietly, and scooped her up with an ease that stole her breath away.
He was so strong, the heavy muscles of his chest and arms capable of crushing her. But he was gentle, careful, carrying her to an upholstered chair near the hearth and sitting with her sideways in his lap. Removing one of her slippers, he grasped her ice-cold foot in his big, warm hand and began to knead it slowly. His thumb rubbed into her arch, easing soreness she hadn’t even been aware of. She bit back a quiet moan as he proceeded to massage every vulnerable place on her sole. Gently he squeezed each of her toes between his thumb and forefinger, and made small, firm circles on the ball of her foot. In a while he reached for her other foot, rubbing and pressing patiently until she had relaxed in his lap, her head resting against his heartbeat. Her breathing slowed as a kind of trance came over her, a drowsing-awake feeling.
Outside the windows, the winter wind raced over the close-grazed downs, causing tree limbs and branches to sway like unbolted gates. Creaks and settling noises came from the house’s bones as the night deepened.
Rhys cradled her comfortably while they listened to the crackling of the seasoned oak on the hearth and watched sparks dance and rise. No one had ever held Helen so close, for so long.
“Why do old houses creak so much?” he asked idly, playing with her braid and drawing the silky end across his cheek.
“When all the warmth fades at night, it makes the old boards contract and slip against each other.”
“A bloody massive house, it is. And you were left to your own devices in this place for too long. I didn’t understand before, how alone you were.”
“I had the twins for company. I watched over them.”
“But there was no one to watch over you.”
A sense of uneasiness came over her, as it always did whenever she reflected on her childhood. It had seemed as if her very survival had depended on never complaining or drawing attention to herself. “Oh I—I didn’t need that.”
“All little girls need to feel safe and wanted.” He stroked back the fine loose locks around her face, his fingertips gently following the changing patterns of firelight against her hair. “When you grow up without something, the lack of it is always with you. Even when you finally have it.”
Helen looked up at him in wonder. “Do you ever feel that way?”
His smile turned self-mocking. “My fortune is so large, cariad, that the numbers would frighten any reasonable man. But something inside me always insists that every last shilling could disappear tomorrow.” His hand charted the shape of her hip and followed the line of her thigh. Clasping her knee, he stared into her wide eyes. “When we were in London, you told me that your world was very small. Well, my world is very large. And you’re the most important person in it. You’re safe and wanted now, Helen. In time, you’ll become used to that, and you won’t worry.” As she turned her face against his chest, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “We’re bound to each other,” he whispered, “for as long as the world exists. Remember?”
Helen rubbed her cheek against his velvet robe. “We haven’t made our vows yet.”
“We did that afternoon, when you came to my bed. That’s what it meant.” His fingers slid beneath her chin, coaxing her to look at him. Amusement deepened the faint whisks at the outer corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but there’s no getting rid of me.”
Desperately she stared at the face above hers, all strong, stark angles and shadows, a striking framework for those compelling sable eyes. Rhys hid nothing, letting her see the tenderness that was reserved for her alone. She felt the overwhelming pull between them, like the force of gravity between twin stars.
Rhys adjusted her higher on his chest, his powerful body flexing beneath her. Her breasts felt hot and full, and she turned to press them against him. Dizzy with guilt and longing, she linked her arms around his neck. She wanted more of him, his skin, his taste, his body inside hers.
Tell him, her tortured
Instead, she heard herself whisper, “I want to go to bed now.”
Beneath her weight, where she rested on him intimately, she felt a thickening pressure.
His brows lifted in subtle teasing. “Alone?”
“With you.”
Chapter 18
RHYS DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHY Helen seemed especially vulnerable tonight, at the mercy of some private anxiety she wouldn’t explain. She always held something in reserve, an edge or two of her soul turned inward. The mystery of her, the hint of elusiveness, fascinated him. God help him, he had never wanted to be inside another human being the way he did her.
He carried her to the bed and deposited her on the mattress.
With a decisiveness that caught him off guard, Helen reached for the belt of his robe and untied it. The garment listed open, revealing his aroused body . . . and then her cool fingers settled on him. His mouth went dry, and his flesh throbbed viciously as she explored the shape and texture of his aroused flesh.
Shrugging out of his robe, he stood with his hands suspended in midair, not quite sure where to put them. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that Helen would do such a thing of her own accord. It inflamed him further to see how ladylike she was about it, her pretty hands touching him with the same lightness she used on her piano keys or to hold a porcelain teacup.
Noticing the way he jumped and caught his breath as she reached the head of his erection, Helen asked in an abashed voice, “It’s more sensitive here?”
Unable to muster a coherent word, Rhys nodded with a gruff sound.
Slowly she caressed the shaft with the flat of her palm. He saw the luminous blue glow of the moonstone ring, the symbol of his claim on her, as her fingers glided to the swaying weight of him below. She cupped him so gently, as if she were handling something dangerously volatile. Which she was. His body was nothing but a container brimming with lust, ready to explode. The primitive part of his brain took obscene satisfaction in the lurid sight of her, a fair-haired nymph, sweetly caressing his cock. The contrast of grace and crudeness appealed to him on the most primitive level.
Taking hold of him at the base, she made a delicate cuff of her fingers and slid them upward. Her thumb touched the exposed tip and made a mild circling stroke, and for a few seconds he couldn’t see past the shower of sparks over his vision. A heavy pulse began deep in his pelvis, warning that he was only seconds from climax. With a groan, he tried to push her hands away. “No more . . . no . . . sweetheart . . .”
But she only leaned closer, her breath flowing gently against him. She kissed him, her lips lingering on the moist tip. A shock of response nearly unmanned him. Panting, he pulled away and lowered to the bed on his stomach, feverishly willing the sensation to die down. His chest heaved as he pulled in huge draughts of air.
“Helen,” he muttered, gripping savage handfuls of the bedclothes. “My God, Helen.”
There were movements beside him, her slight weight depressing the mattress. “Did you like that?” she asked cautiously.
His sound of vigorous assent was buried in the sheets.
“Oh good.” She sounded relieved. In a moment, he felt her climbing over him. She had removed her nightgown, and was draping her naked body all along his, catlike. He tensed, smoldering at the enticing weight of her. Silky female skin . . . the curves of her breasts . . . the little fluff of curls teasing his backside . . .
“I talked with Kathleen,” she said, her breath causing the hair at his nape to prickle and lift. “She explained a few things about the marital relationship that she thought I should know.” As he flexed and shivered beneath her, she wriggled to conform more closely to the masculine terrain of his body.
“Helen. Hold still.”
She stopped moving at once. “Is it uncomfortable when I lie on you like this?”
“No, it’s just that I’m trying not to spend.”
“Oh.” Helen pressed her cheek against his nape. “Some men can more than once,” she said helpfully.
In spite of his raging arousal, Rhys found himself burying a grin against the mattress. “You’re so well-informed, cariad.”
“I want to learn everything a mistress would know, so that I can satisfy you.”
Carefully he rolled to his side, letting her slide off his back before he moved over her. His hands clasped her head, her silvery-gold hair spilling between his fingers.
“My own,” he said, “don’t ever worry about that. Everything about you is a delight to me.”
Her gaze turned wary. “I’m sure you’ll discover things you won’t like.”
“I hope so. If you had no flaws, mine would throw us off-balance.”
“I’ll balance yours,” she assured him with a touch of irony he’d never heard from her before.
“If by that you mean your shyness,” Rhys said, “you’ll learn to overcome it.” He nudged his hips against hers. “Just look at the progress you’ve made with me.”
Helen laughed, turning pink up to her hairline. One of her hands drew along his flank and slipped cautiously between their bodies. “What’s the word for this?” she asked, taking hold of him again. “What do you call it?”
“Your sister-in-law didn’t include that in her lecture?”
“She told me some of the English words,” Helen admitted, “but I want to know what it’s called in Welsh.”
“Is this how you mean to begin learning Welsh?” he asked in mock disapproval. “With profanity?”
“Yes.”
Rhys smiled and kissed her. “Mind you, most Welsh love-talk sounds like a farming manual. The word for a man’s part is goesyn. Stalk.”
She repeated the syllables, her fingers gripping and stroking him with maddening gentleness.
“When the man thrusts inside the woman,” he said, breathing with increasing difficulty, “the word is dyrnu. To thresh.” He began to kiss his way down her body, savoring her warm skin with its faint dusting of talcum. After blowing lightly against the protective curls of her sex, he murmured, “This is a ffwrch. A furrow to be plowed.” He leaned close enough for her to feel the tip of his tongue as he drew it along the innocently closed seam. Her thighs trembled on either side of him. “And the word for this”—he paused to search deeper, finding the shy bud still hidden beneath its hood—“is chrib, a bit of honeycomb.” He delved again, tickling the little peak to wakefulness until it was hot and distinct against the tip of his tongue.
Slowly he continued to lick and tease her, while she squirmed beneath him. He was lost in her, aware of nothing outside this room, this bed. How finely made she was, her skin pearly, the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet as soft as a kitten’s paws. She was sensitive everywhere, her toes spreading reflexively as he kissed the arch of her foot, her leg jerking when his tongue slipped behind her knee.
Rising back over her, he braced his weight carefully, settling his shaft against that exquisite channel and letting her feel what he was about to give her. She looked disoriented, flushed, a pulse visible in her neck.
“Do you want me, Helen?”
“Yes. Yes.”
Afraid of hurting her by thrusting too hard, he pinned her writhing hips and whispered that she had to keep still, he needed to enter her slowly. Her flesh was wet but tight, refusing to yield easily. She locked her arms around his neck, gasping, making soft noises as he pushed up inside her, working in short thrusts, sliding deeper each time. He kissed her lips, her throat. His brain flooded with thoughts of the other time they’d been together and how he’d caused her pain, and how much he wanted it to be good for her now.
After he had slid forward the last inch, he paused to stare down at her in wonder. Her skin was misted and gleaming, her eyes shimmering. She was like something wrought of myth and make-believe, some lovely lost angel who had fallen into his arms. He sank deeper into the tender cradle of her hips and thighs, luxuriating in the feel of her trembling body beneath his, the air settl
“When I push against you, cariad,” he said huskily, sliding a hand beneath her bottom, “lift your hips like this.” He pulled her up into his slow thrust. Taking his time, he drew back and drove forward again, and she hitched against him in a bashful movement that sent a rush of white fire through him. He fought to find his breath. “Aye, just like that—my good girl, my—Ah, God, you’ll kill me—”
He felt Helen bracing her feet for leverage, rolling her hips upward as he sank into her. It seemed as if they were doing something other than fucking, this was so new, so unbelievably raw and sweet. He’d never been so hard, so wild with need. He could feel pleasure leaking from him as he rode her steadily, the crisis racing forward with irresistible momentum.
But he didn’t want it to end yet. Gritting his teeth, he managed to stop. She whimpered, writhing beneath him.
“Wait,” Rhys said.
“I can’t—”
“I want you to.”
“Oh please—”
“Now in a minute.” He weighted her so that she couldn’t move.
“That means never,” she protested, and he laughed unsteadily.