“You offer those at your store?” the countess asked, clearly weakening.
“Aye. And we have eighty other departments featuring items from all over the world.”
“I am intrigued,” the older woman admitted. “But hobnobbing with the common herd . . . the crowds . . .”
“You could bring the girls after-hours, when the daytime customers have gone,” Rhys said. “I’ll have some of the sales clerks stay to assist you. If you like, my assistant will make a private appointment for Lady Helen to consult with the store’s dressmaker. It’s time to begin designing her trousseau, aye?”
“It’s beyond time,” Kathleen said, sending her husband an inquiring glance.
“Knowing little of these matters,” Devon replied, “I’ll leave it to your judgment.”
“Then if Lady Berwick consents,” Kathleen said, “and Helen wishes it, the dressmaker at Winterborne’s could begin on the trousseau while Lord Trenear and I are away.”
Helen nodded. “That would be lovely.” She looked at Rhys for just an instant, seeing past his relaxed veneer. Judging from the gleam in his eyes, he was coming up with all manner of plans.
“I will give the matter due consideration,” Lady Berwick remarked, frowning as Pandora tapped the fingers of both hands on the table in a burst of excitement. “Child, do not make a tambourine of the tea table.”
HELEN FOUND IT both a pleasure and torture to go through an ordinary day with Rhys there at Eversby Priory. He was within her sight, her reach, but they were always in the company of others. It was exhausting to have to conceal how much she felt, how her heart raced whenever he entered the room. She had never expected how powerful the combination of physical desire and love would be. At some moments she was filled with melancholy, reflecting that her time with him was slipping through her fingers like fine white sand. She had to tell him about her father . . . she just couldn’t make herself do it yet.
The hours before midnight dragged by slowly, while Helen paced and fidgeted and waited in her room until the household had finally settled. She hurried barefoot through the hallways to the east wing in her white nightgown and robe, impatience pumping through her veins.
She arrived at Rhys’s door, and it opened before she even touched it, a strong arm reaching out to pull her inside. The key turned firmly in the lock, and Rhys caught her close with a soft laugh. Helen was electrified by the feel of him all along her, the aggressive pressure of him against her belly. His mouth blotted out every thought as he searched her hungrily, unlocking a flood of desire that she was too inexperienced to control. She responded blindly, desperate for him, her hands sliding into his thick hair to pull his head down harder over hers.
After undressing her where she stood, Rhys carried her to the bed. Stretching her out beneath him, he began to feast on her with deliberate slowness, biting and licking on the pulses in her throat, breasts, wrists. She felt the touch of his hand between her thighs, teasing lightly. He splayed the soft flesh open, his fingers cool and gentle as they stroked on either side of the hot bud. She couldn’t stop twisting, straining, twining her limbs around his at every possible opportunity. He resisted, wanting to play, wanting to indulge in lavish variety when all she wanted was to have him inside her now.
His whisper curled into her ear like smoke. “You’re not wet enough for me, cariad.”
“I am,” she managed to say between labored gasps.
“Show me.”
After the briefest of hesitations, she reached down to clasp his erection. A shallow gasp escaped her as she felt the heavy pulse of his flesh, the shaft thickening until she was unable to close her fingers around it. Guiding him between her thighs, she rubbed the head of his sex over soft feminine layers and pleats, circling the most sensitive part of him against her until it was glossed with moisture and they were both shaking.
Rhys pushed against the swollen opening, stretching her, coaxing her flesh to yield. She arched, helpless and overtaken, aware of nothing but the pleasure of him filling her. He grasped her hips, pushing and pulling her slowly on his hard shaft, and she made sounds she’d never made in her life, moaning and purring at the intense delight of his possession.
When the last shudders had left her, and Helen had regained her breath, Rhys rolled and maneuvered her easily. She found herself straddling his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed. The position felt strange and awkward, and she linked her arms around his neck, fearing she might fall backwards.
Rhys slid a reassuring hand low on her spine. His mouth tugged at hers, his teeth lightly grazing her lower lip. He seemed to be waiting for something. She glanced down in confusion at the rampant erection pressed between them, wondering what he expected of her.
He laughed quietly, the lamplight striking sparks in his midnight eyes. “You look like a dove caught in a snare.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she protested, hot and mortified.
Cupping her bottom with his free hand, Rhys guided her upward and gently brought her closer to his body. “Lower yourself onto me, cariad.”
Her eyes widened as she understood what he intended.
She gripped his shoulders and obeyed, easing downward inch by cautious inch. Unable to take all of him, she stopped in discomfort. His supportive hand lifted her at once, lessening the inner pressure.
The black crescents of his lashes lowered, the space between his brows contracting. A sheen of perspiration had given his face and chest the look of cast bronze. He bit his lip and muttered something in Welsh.
“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Helen whispered.
After taking a raw breath, he let out a rasp of amusement. “Just as well. I paid you a compliment—but a crude one. Hold onto me.” He eased back and supported himself on his elbows, letting her rest partially on his torso. “Is this better?”
Helen nodded with a little gasp of relief. In this position, she was able to control his depth. What an amazing feeling it was to have all that sinewy power beneath her, his robust body braced between her thighs.
There was a flicker of challenge in his eyes, and his hips nudged upward in playful invitation.
Helen moved carefully, rising and lowering, catching her breath at the hot slide of him within her. He was patient, letting her experiment, while his heart beat like a trip-hammer beneath her flattened palms. She found a gliding back-and-forth motion that sent spasms of heat through her. Judging from his ardent groan, he seemed to enjoy it as well. His mouth caught at the tips of her breasts whenever she moved high enough, and she began to delight in teasing him, sometimes letting him have what he wanted, sometimes withholding. The ribbon had come loose from her hair, the curtain of silvery locks tickling his face and chest.
“You like to torment me,” Rhys said, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure.
“Yes.” In fact, it was fun, enormously exciting fun of a kind she’d never imagined.
The hint of a grin crossed his lips and vanished quickly as she plunged harder, filling herself with him. He began to answer her rhythm in earnest, fisting his hands in the bedclothes. She loved the sight of him lost to passion, his head tilted back and his strong throat exposed, the muscles of his chest sharply delineated. A storm of sensation swept through her, and her shuddering body locked on him. He continued to thrust, the movements becoming jerky and forceful, finishing in a powerful shove that arched his hips and most of his back completely off the bed.