Marrying Winterborne by Lisa Kleypas
“Why are you so worried about how the house looks?” Cassandra asked. “Lady Berwick has already seen it once before, when you married Theo.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t responsible for anything at the time. Now I’ve been living here for almost a year, and if anything is amiss, she’ll know it’s my fault.”
Pacing in a continuous circle, Kathleen spoke distractedly. “Remember to curtsy when Lady Berwick arrives. And don’t say ‘How do you do’—she doesn’t like that—just tell her ‘Good afternoon.’” She stopped abruptly and cast a wild glance at their surroundings. “Where are the dogs?”
“In the upstairs parlor,” Pandora said. “Do you want them down here?”
“No, dear God, no, Lady Berwick doesn’t allow dogs in the receiving room.” Kathleen stopped in her tracks as an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. “Also, don’t say anything about the pet pig we had living in the house last year.” The pacing resumed. “When she asks a question of you, try to answer simply, and don’t be amusing. She doesn’t like wit.”
“We’ll do our best,” Pandora said. “But she already doesn’t like Cassandra and me. After we met her at the wedding, I heard her telling someone that we behaved like a pair of Bilberry goats.”
Kathleen continued to pace. “I wrote to her that you’d both become accomplished and well-mannered young ladies.”
“You lied?” Pandora asked, her eyes widening.
“We had just begun our etiquette lessons at the time,” Kathleen said defensively. “I assumed our progress would go a bit faster.”
Cassandra looked worried. “I wish I’d paid more attention.”
“I don’t care a pickle if Lady Berwick approves of me or not,” Pandora said.
“But Kathleen does,” Helen pointed out gently. “That’s why we’re going to try our best.”
Pandora heaved a sigh. “I wish I could be perfect like you, Helen.”
“Me?” Helen shook her head with an uncomfortable laugh. “Darling, I’m the least perfect person in the world.”
“Oh, we know you’ve make mistakes,” Cassandra said cheerfully. “What Pandora meant was that you always appear to be perfect, which is all that really matters.”
“Actually,” Kathleen said, “that’s not what really matters.”
“But there’s no difference between being perfect and seeming perfect as long as no one can tell,” Cassandra said. “The result is the same, isn’t it?”
Looking perturbed, Kathleen rubbed her forehead. “I know there’s a good answer for that. But I can’t think of what it is right now.”
In a minute or two, the butler, Sims, brought Lady Berwick to the receiving room.
Eleanor, Lady Berwick, was a woman built on a majestic scale, tall, broad-shouldered, and bosomy, with a way of moving that reminded Helen of the prow of a great sailing ship gliding through calm waters. The effect was enhanced by the complex draperies that formed the skirts of her dark blue dress, rippling in her wake as she proceeded into the room. With her narrow face, paper-thin lips, and large, heavy-lidded eyes, the countess was not a beautiful woman. However, she possessed an air of stunning assurance, a shrewd confidence that she knew the answers to any questions worth asking.
Helen saw the automatic pleasure on Lady Berwick’s face as her gaze fell upon Kathleen, who had rushed forward. Clearly Kathleen’s fondness for her was returned. However, as Kathleen threw her arms around her, Lady Berwick looked nonplussed by the demonstration of affection. “My dear,” she exclaimed with a touch of reproof.
Kathleen didn’t let go. “I was going be dignified.” Her voice was muffled against the older woman’s shoulder. “But as you walked in just now, I felt as if I were five years old again.”
Lady Berwick’s gaze turned distant, one of her long pale hands settling on Kathleen’s back. “Yes,” she eventually said. “It isn’t easy to lose one’s father. And you’ve had to do it twice, haven’t you?” Her voice was like unsweetened tea, crisp with tannins. After a few fond pats, she said, “Let us don our armor of control.”
Kathleen pulled back and cast a bemused glance at the empty doorway. “Where has Cousin West gone?”
“Mr. Ravenel was eager to escape my presence,” Lady Berwick said dryly. “He did not seem to enjoy our conversation in the carriage.” After a meaningful pause, she commented without a smile, “A merry fellow, isn’t he?”
Helen was fairly certain the statement was not intended as a compliment.
“Cousin West may seem a trifle irreverent,” Kathleen began, “but I can assure you—”
“There is no need to explain his character, which is indeed a trifle: nothing but sugar and air.”
“You don’t know him,” one of the twins said beneath her breath.
Hearing the quietly rebellious murmur, Lady Berwick turned sharply to gaze at the three Ravenel sisters.
Kathleen hastened to introduce them, while they each curtsied in turn. “Lady Berwick, my sisters-in-law—Lady Helen, Lady Cassandra, and Lady Pandora.”
The countess’s dispassionate gaze fell on Cassandra first, and she motioned for the girl to approach. “The posture is merely adequate,” she observed, “but that can be corrected. What are your accomplishments, child?”
Having been prepared for the question in advance, Cassandra replied hesitantly. “My lady, I am able to sew, draw, and watercolor. I play no instruments, but I am well-read.”
“Have you studied languages?”
“A little French.”
“Have you any hobbies?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Excellent. Men are afraid of girls with hobbies.” Glancing at Kathleen, Lady Berwick remarked in an aside, “She’s a beauty. With a bit more polish, she’ll be the belle of the season.”
“I have a hobby,” Pandora volunteered, speaking out of turn.
Lady Berwick turned to her with raised brows. “Indeed,” she said frostily. “What is it, my bold miss?”
“I’m making a board game. If it turns out well, I will sell it in stores, and earn money.”
Seeming astonished, Lady Berwick sent Kathleen a questioning glance. “Board game?”
“The kind meant for parlor amusements,” Kathleen explained.
Lady Berwick turned back to Pandora with narrowed eyes. Unfortunately Pandora forgot to keep her gaze lowered, and stared back at her audaciously.
“An excess of vitality,” Lady Berwick said. “The eyes are a pleasing shade of blue, but the gaze is that of a wild stag.”
Helen risked a quick glance at Kathleen, who looked defensive on Pandora’s behalf.
“Ma’am,” Kathleen began, “Pandora is merely—”
But Lady Berwick gestured for her to be silent. “Does it not concern you,” she asked Pandora, “that this hobby, along with the distasteful desire to earn money, will alienate prospective suitors?”
“No, ma’am.”
“It should. Don’t you wish to marry?” At Pandora’s lack of response, she pressed impatiently, “Well?”
Pandora glanced at Kathleen for guidance. “Should I say the conventional thing or the honest thing?”
Lady Berwick replied before Kathleen was able. “Answer honestly, child.”
“In that case,” Pandora said, “No, I don’t wish to marry, ever. I like men quite well—at least the ones I’ve been acquainted with—but I shouldn’t like to have to obey a husband and serve his needs. It wouldn’t make me at all happy to have a dozen children, and stay at home knitting while he goes out romping with his friends. I would rather be independent.”
The room was silent. Lady Berwick’s expression did not change, nor did she blink even once as she stared at Pandora. It seemed as if a wordless battle were being waged between the authoritative older woman and the rebellious girl.
Finally Lady Berwick said, “You must have read Tolstoy.”
Pandora blinked, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected statement. “I have,” she admitted, looking mystified. “How did y
“No young woman wants to marry after reading Tolstoy. That is why I never allowed either of my daughters to read Russian novels.”
“How are Dolly and Bettina?” Kathleen burst in, trying to change the subject by asking after the countess’s daughters.
Neither Lady Berwick nor Pandora would be sidetracked.
“Tolstoy isn’t the only reason I don’t wish to marry,” Pandora said.
“Whatever your reasons, they are unsound. I will explain to you later why you do wish to marry. Furthermore, you are an unconventional girl, and you must learn to conceal it. There is no happiness for any individual, man or woman, who does not dwell within the broad zone of average.”
Pandora regarded her with baffled interest. “Yes, ma’am.”
Privately Helen suspected that the two women were looking forward to a ripping argument.
Lady Berwick gestured to Helen. “Come hither.”
Helen obeyed, and stood patiently as the countess surveyed her.
“Graceful deportment,” Lady Berwick said, “with a modest downcast eye. Quite lovely. Do not be too shy, however, as that will cause people to accuse you of pride. You must cultivate a proper air of confidence.”
“I will try, ma’am. Thank you.”
The countess surveyed her with an appraising glance. “You are affianced to the mysterious Mr. Winterborne.”
Helen smiled faintly. “Is he mysterious, ma’am?”
“He is to me, as I have not personally encountered him.”
“Mr. Winterborne is a gentleman of business,” Helen replied carefully, “with many obligations that keep him too busy to attend many social events.”
“Nor is he invited to the exclusive ones, as he is of the merchant class. You must be distressed by the prospect of an unequal marriage. He is beneath you, after all.”
Although the words stung, Helen schooled her features into impassiveness, aware that she was being tested. “Mr. Winterborne is in no way beneath me, ma’am. Character is a far more important measure of a man than birth.”
“Well said. Fortunately for Mr. Winterborne, marriage to a Ravenel will elevate him sufficiently that he will be allowed to mix in good society. One hopes he will prove worthy of the privilege.”
“I hope aristocratic society will be worthy of him,” Helen said pointedly.
The gray eyes sharpened. “Is he high-minded? Refined in his tastes? Exquisite in his comportment?”
“He is well-mannered, intelligent, honest, and generous.”
“But not refined?” Lady Berwick pressed.
“Whatever refinements Mr. Winterborne does not possess, he will certainly acquire them if he wishes. But I wouldn’t ask him to change anything about himself, as there is already far too much to admire, and I would be in danger of excessive pride on his behalf.”
Lady Berwick gazed at her steadily, her gray eyes warming. “What an extraordinary girl. ‘Cool as callar air,’ as my Scottish grandfather used to say. You’ll be wasted on a Welshman—I vow, we could have married you to a duke. Still, this sort of union—the alliance of wealth with breeding—is necessary for even the best families nowadays. We must reconcile ourselves to it with grace and forbearance.” She glanced at Kathleen. “Does Mr. Winterborne appreciate his good fortune in acquiring such a wife?”
Kathleen smiled. “You will be able to decide for yourself when you meet him.”
“When will this occur?”
“I expect Mr. Winterborne and Lord Trenear to arrive momentarily. They rode out to the eastern perimeter of the estate, to view the site being prepared for railway tracks and a platform halt. They promised to return and change in time for afternoon tea.”
Before Kathleen had even finished the sentence, Devon had come to the doorway. He smiled at his wife. “And so we have.” A swift conversation took place in their shared gaze—an unvoiced question, concern, reassurance—before he strode in to meet Lady Berwick.
He was followed by Rhys, who was similarly dressed in riding clothes: cord-breeches and boots, and a coat of heavy woolen broadcloth.
Rhys paused beside Helen, smiling down at her. He smelled like the outdoors: cold morning air, wet leaves, and horses. As usual, there was the snap of peppermint on his breath. “Good afternoon,” he said, in the same soft way he’d murmured, “Good morning” upon waking her much earlier that day. Remembering their night together, Helen felt a dreadful blush coming on, the kind only he could inspire, a blaze of color that kept building on itself until it seemed she’d been thrown into a bonfire.
She’d had a restless sleep, tossing and turning, her mind plagued with worries. More than once she’d become aware of Rhys soothing and stroking her back to sleep. When he had finally awakened her at dawn, she had given him an apologetic glance and mumbled, “You’ll never want to share a bed with me again.”
Rhys had laughed quietly, pulling her up against his chest and caressing her naked back. “Then you’ll be surprised when I insist on it again tonight.” After that, he made love to her one last time, disregarding her feeble protests that she had to leave.
Now, trying to control her blush, Helen tore her gaze from his. “Did you have a pleasant ride?” she asked softly, watching as Kathleen introduced Devon to Lady Berwick.
“Which ride are you referring to?” His tone was so bland that at first she didn’t perceive his implication.
Helen shot him a shocked glance. “Don’t be wicked,” she whispered.
Rhys grinned and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. The gentle pressure of his mouth on the backs of her fingers did little to calm the rioting color in her face.
Lady Berwick’s brittle voice came from several feet away. “Not so cool and composed now, I see. Lady Helen, introduce me to the gentleman who seems to have set you all aflutter.”
Helen went to her with Rhys at her side. “Lady Berwick,” she murmured, “this is Mr. Winterborne.”
A curious change came over the countess’s face as she stared at the big, black-haired Welshman before her. Her steely eyes turned as soft as mist, and a hint of girlish color rose in her cheeks. Instead of giving him a nod, she extended her hand.
Without hesitation, Rhys enclosed the older woman’s jewel-laden fingers in a gentle grip, and bowed over her hand with easy grace. He straightened and smiled at her. “A pleasure.”
Lady Berwick studied him, her gaze wide and almost wondering, although her voice remained coolly assessing. “A young man. I confess, I expected someone of more advanced years, in light of your accomplishments.”
“I was set to learn my father’s trade at an early age, my lady.”
“You have been described to me as a ‘business magnate.’ It is my understanding that the term is used for a man who has amassed wealth so great that it cannot be measured on any ordinary scale.”
“I’ve had a stroke of luck now and then.”
“False modesty is evidence of secret pride, Mr. Winterborne.”
“The subject makes me uncomfortable,” he admitted frankly.
“As well it should—any discussion of money is vulgar. However, at my age, I will ask whatever I like, and let anyone reproach me if they dare.”
Rhys laughed suddenly in that free, attractive way he had, his teeth white against his amber complexion. “Lady Berwick, I would never reproach nor refuse you anything.”
“Well then, I have a question for you. Lady Helen insists that in taking you for a husband, she is not marrying down. Do you agree?”
Rhys glanced at Helen, his eyes warm. “No,” he said. “Every man marries above himself.”
“Do you believe, then, that she should wed a man of noble pedigree?”
Returning his attention to the countess, Rhys hitched his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Lady Helen is so far above all men that none of us deserve her. Therefore, it might as well be me.”
Lady Berwick let out a reluctant cackle, staring at him as if spell-struck. “Charmingly arrogant,” she said. “I a
“Ma’am,” Kathleen said, “Perhaps we should send the gentlemen to refresh themselves and change into more appropriate attire for tea. The housekeeper will have a conniption at the sight of these muddy boots clomping across the carpets.”
Devon grinned. “Whatever a conniption is, I feel certain I don’t want to be the cause of one.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead, in spite of all her previous warnings about Lady Berwick’s dislike of physical demonstrations.
After making polite bows, the men left the receiving room.
Lady Berwick’s mouth twisted wryly. “There is no lack of manly vigor in this household, is there?” Her gaze turned absent as she stared at the empty doorway. As she continued, she seemed almost to be speaking to herself. “When I was a girl, there was a footman-in-waiting at my father’s estate. A handsome rascal from North Wales, with hair black as night, and a knowing gaze . . .”
A distant memory had stirred her, something withheld but tender radiating through the temporary softening of her expression. “A rascal,” she repeated gently, “but gallant.” Recovering herself, she cast a stern glance at the young women around her. “Mark my words, girls. There is no greater enemy of virtue than a charming Welshman.”
Feeling Pandora’s elbow poking discreetly against her side, Helen reflected with chagrin that she could vouch for that.
Chapter 20
“DO NOT CROSS YOUR legs, Pandora. Occupy your chair entirely. Cassandra, try not to fling the drapery of your skirts all about while sitting down.” Lady Berwick dispensed these and many other instructions to the twins during afternoon tea, with the expertise of a woman who had trained many young ladies in the arts of deportment.
Pandora and Cassandra did their best to follow the countess’s commands, although there would be private bemoaning later about how the older woman could turn the pleasant ritual of teatime into a trial of endurance.
Kathleen and Devon managed to focus most of the conversation on one of Lady Berwick’s favorite subjects: horses. Both Lord and Lady Berwick were keen horse enthusiasts, occupying themselves with the training of thoroughbreds at their Leominster estate. In fact, that was how they had originally become acquainted with Kathleen’s parents, Lord and Lady Carbery, who had owned an Arabian stud farm in Ireland.