As soon as he was able, he sank back down and pushed Helen’s hair back with an unsteady hand to look at her face. “Was I too rough with you, cariad?”
“No.” Helen stretched luxuriously over him. “Was I too rough with you?”
He chuckled and relaxed. “Aye, did you not hear me begging for mercy?”
“Is that what you were doing?” She bent to let her mouth hover teasingly above his. “I thought you were urging me on.”
A slow smile crossed his face. “I was doing a bit of both,” he conceded, and drew her down to him.
They talked lazily for a while, while the night drowsed around them and shadows subsided in the corners.
“You charmed Lady Berwick despite herself,” Helen told him, leaning back against his chest as he sat with his shoulders propped on the headboard. “I think she invited you to call on us at Ravenel House before she even realized what she was doing.”
His warm hand coasted along the slender length of her arm. “I’ll visit as often as she’ll allow.”
“I’m certain she’ll want to see Winterborne’s now, after all your talk of gloves. How did you know that would tempt her?”
“Most women her age go first to the glove counter when they enter the store.”
“What counter do women my age first go to?”
“Perfumes and powder.”
Helen was amused. “You know all about women, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, cariad. But I know what they like to spend their money on.”
Turning sideways, Helen laid her head on his shoulder. “I’ll persuade Lady Berwick to invite you for dinner as soon as we’re settled in London.” She sighed. “It will be difficult to see you and behave in a formal manner.”
“Aye, you’ll have to keep your hands to yourself.”
She smiled and kissed his chest. “I’ll try.”
Rhys fell silent for a minute before saying abruptly, “I don’t like the connection between Lady Berwick and Vance. I’ll tell Trenear to make it clear to her that I don’t want Vance to come within a mile of you or the twins.”
Helen fought to remain relaxed, although the remark had chilled her. To meet her real father—the prospect was horrifying—and yet she was curious about him. Was it wrong to be curious? “No, I wouldn’t want that either.” Her heart had begun to beat unpleasantly fast. “Does Mr. Vance have any family?”
“His wife died of pneumonia last year. They had no surviving children—all were stillborn. The rest of his relations live far north and don’t usually come to town.”
“How ironic that he should have an illegitimate daughter by your friend’s wife, but no legitimate children of his own.” A shadow of sadness fell over her. “I wonder if the poor little thing has survived.”
“Better if she hasn’t,” Rhys said flatly. “Any child of his is demon spawn, and would come to no good.”
Helen stiffened, even though she understood why he said it.
Theirs was a culture in which blood meant everything. Society itself was founded on the principle that a person’s bloodline determined his entire life—his morals, temperament, intelligence, status, everything he would ever accomplish. People couldn’t go against the blood of their ancestors—their futures had already been decided by the past. It was why so many blue bloods thought of marrying commoners as a degradation. It was why a successful self-made man with five hundred years of low ancestry would never be respected as much as a peer. It was why people believed that criminals, lunatics, and fools would only beget more of themselves.
Blood will tell.
Feeling the change in her body, Rhys lowered her to the bed and leaned over her, with her head resting in the crook of his elbow. “What’s the matter?”
She was slow to answer. “Nothing, only . . . you sounded rather callous just now.”
Rhys was quiet for a moment. “I don’t like the side of me that Vance brings out, but there’s no help for it. We won’t speak of him again.”
As he settled beside her, Helen closed her eyes and swallowed back the pressure of tears. Miserably she wished she could talk to someone about the situation. Someone besides Quincy, who had made his opinion clear. Helen wished she could confide in Kathleen. But Kathleen already had more than enough worries heaped on her plate, and in her condition, she didn’t need another.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Rhys gathered her against his warm body. “Rest now, sweetheart,” he whispered. “When you wake in the morning, I promise your ill-tempered beast will have turned back into a man again.”
Chapter 21
THE NEXT DAY WAS consumed with a fury of packing as the servants frantically filled trunks, portmanteaus, dressing-cases, valises, and hatboxes for every member of the family except West. As it happened, Kathleen, Devon, Sutton, the valet, and Clara, the lady’s maid, would have to depart for Bristol by train that very evening. They would spend the night at a port hotel, and catch a steamer to Waterford the next morning. At Rhys’s request, the transport office at Winterborne’s had planned their trip with meticulous attention to detail.
A few minutes before departing for Alton Station, Kathleen found Helen in her bedroom, packing a small valise to be carried by hand.
“Darling, why are you doing that?” Kathleen asked breathlessly. “Clara should have taken care of it.”
“I offered to help,” Helen replied. “Clara needs a few more minutes to pack her own belongings.”
“Thank you. Goodness, it’s been a madhouse. Have you and the twins finished packing your things for London?”
“Yes, we leave in the morning with Mr. Winterborne and Lady Berwick.” Helen opened the valise, which sat on the bed, and displayed its contents. “Come have a look—I hope I’ve thought of everything.”
She had packed Kathleen’s favorite shawl of colorful ombré-shaded wool, a jar of salted almonds, a notebook and pencil, a sewing kit with tiny scissors and pincers, a hairbrush, and a rack of pins. She had also included extra handkerchiefs and gloves, a jar of cold cream, a bottle of rosewater, a drinking cup, a tin of lozenges, an extra pair of linen drawers, a little purse jingling with coins, and a three-volume novel.
“The twins tried to persuade me to include a pair of pistols, in case your steamer should be overtaken by pirates,” Helen said. “It fell to me to point out that pirates haven’t sailed the Irish Sea for two and a half centuries.”
“How disappointing. I’m sure I would have made short work of them. Oh, well—in lieu of adventure, at least I’ll have a novel to read.” Picking up one of the volumes, Kathleen read the title and began to laugh. “War and Peace?”
“It’s long and very good,” Helen explained, “and I knew you hadn’t read it yet, since we’ve been keeping it above the sixth shelf in the library. And even if Tolstoy does tend to sour one on marriage, as Lady Berwick claims, you’re already married and it’s too late.”
Still chuckling, Kathleen placed the book back into the valise. “Nothing could sour me on marriage, after the way Devon has been with me. Steady as the polar star, and so very tender. I’ve discovered that I need him even more than I thought.”