“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 almost find myself in agreement with you.”
“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.
Lady Berwick displayed a lively interest upon learning that Kathleen would inherit at least two dozen horses of purebred Arabian stock, and a parcel of land comprising a riding school, stables, paddocks, and an arena. Even though Lord Carbery’s title and estate lands would be passed on to the nearest male issue, a great-nephew from his father’s side, the stud farm had been built by Kathleen’s parents and had never been entailed.
“We’ll arrange for three or four of the horses to be brought here,” Devon said, “but the rest of the stock will have to be sold.”
“The difficulty will be in finding buyers who understand the nature of Arabians,” Kathleen said with a frown. “They have to be managed differently than other breeds. Placing an Arabian with the wrong kind of owner could lead to many problems.”
“What will you do with the farm?” Rhys asked.
“I’d like to sell it to the next Lord Carbery and have done with it,” Devon said. “Unfortunately, according to the farm manager, Carbery has no interest in horses.”
“No interest in horses?” Lady Berwick echoed, seeming aghast.
Kathleen nodded ruefully. “When Lord Trenear and I reach Glengarriff, we’ll be able to take account of all that must be done. I’m afraid we may have to stay a fortnight to resolve everything. Perhaps even a month.”
The countess knit her brows. “I’m afraid it won’t do for me to remain at Eversby Priory so long.”
West, who had seated himself as far away from Lady Berwick as possible, said insincerely, “Oh that’s too bad.”
“My daughter Bettina is in her first confinement,” Lady Berwick continued. “The birth is expected to occur soon, and I must be with her in London when the labor begins.”
“Why don’t you stay at Ravenel House with Helen and the twins?” Devon suggested to the countess. “You could manage them just as easily in London as here.”
Pandora clapped her hands together in enthusiasm. “I would love that, there is so much more to do in town—”
“Oh do say yes, my lady!” Cassandra exclaimed, bouncing in her chair.
The countess gave them both a stern glance. “This display is unseemly.” When the girls had fallen completely silent, she said to Devon, “My lord, that would seem an ideal solution. Yes, we will do that.”
Helen was quiet and still, but her heart quickened at the thought of returning to London, where she would be closer to Rhys. She didn’t dare look in his direction, even when she heard him speak calmly to Lady Berwick.
“I’ll escort you and the girls on the train to London, if that would be agreeable.”
“It would, Mr. Winterborne,” came the decisive reply.
“I’m at your service,” Rhys continued. “It would be a privilege to assist with anything you require while you’re in town.”
“Thank you,” the countess said with great dignity. “Coming from a man of your extensive connections, I realize that is no small offer. We will prevail on you if necessary.” She paused to stir another lump of sugar into her tea. “Perhaps you might call on us at Ravenel House from time to time.”
Rhys smiled. “It would be my pleasure. In return, I would like to invite you to Winterborne’s as my personal guest.”
“A department store?” Lady Berwick sounded disconcerted. “I only frequent small shops, where the tradesmen are acquainted with my preferences.”
“My sales clerks would show you the greatest variety of luxury goods you’ve ever seen in one place. Gloves, for example—how many pairs do they bring out for you at a little shop? A dozen? Two dozen? At the glove counter at Winterborne’s, you’ll view ten times that many, made of glacéed kid, calf suede, doeskin, elk, peccary, antelope, even kangaroo.” Seeing her interest, Rhys continued casually, “No fewer than three countries have a part in making our best gloves. Lambskin dressed in Spain, cut in France, and hand-stitched in England. Each glove is so delicate, it can be enclosed in the shell of a walnut.”