Marrying Winterborne
Page 8
As she had once told Kathleen, sometimes one had to love something before it became lovable.
She touched the gilded book bindings with a hesitant fingertip, tracing the edge of a hand-painted flower. “When did you acquire these?” she asked.
Mr. Winterborne’s voice came from close behind her. “After you gave me the potted orchid. I needed to know how to take care of it.”
A few weeks earlier, he had come for dinner at Ravenel House, and Helen had impulsively given one of her orchids to him. A rare Blue Vanda, her most prized and temperamental plant. Although he hadn’t seemed especially enthused about the gift, he had thanked her and taken it dutifully. But the moment their engagement had been broken, he had sent it back.
To Helen’s amazement, she had discovered that the sensitive plant had thrived in his care.
“You looked after it yourself, then,” she said. “I wondered about that.”
“Of course I did. I had no intention of failing your test.”
“It wasn’t a test, it was a gift.”
“If you say so.”
Exasperated, Helen turned to face him. “I fully expected you to kill it, and I intended to marry you regardless.”
His lips twitched. “But I didn’t.”
Helen was silent, trying to balance all her thoughts and feelings before making the most difficult decision of her life. But was it really that complicated? Marriage was always a risk.
One never knew what kind of husband a man might turn into.
For one last time, Helen allowed herself to consider the option of leaving. She imagined walking out of his office, entering the family carriage, and riding back to Ravenel House on South Audley. And it would be well and truly over. Her future would be identical to that of any young woman in her position. She would have a London Season and scores of dances and dinners with civilized suitors, all of it leading to marriage with a man who would never understand her nearly as well as she understood him. She would do her utmost never to look back on this moment and wonder what would have happened, or what she might have become, if she’d said yes.
She thought of the conversation she’d had with the housekeeper, Mrs. Abbott, before leaving this morning. The housekeeper a plump and neat silver-haired woman who had served in the Ravenel’s employ for four decades, had objected strongly upon hearing that Helen intended to go out in the daytime with no companion. “The Master will sack the lot of us,” she had exclaimed.
“I’ll tell Lord Trenear that I slipped away without anyone’s knowledge,” Helen had told her. “And I’ll say that I gave the driver no choice but to take me to Winterborne’s or I threatened to go on foot.”
“My lady, nothing can be worth such a risk!”
However, when Helen had explained that she intended to visit Rhys Winterborne in the hopes of renewing their engagement, it seemed to have given the housekeeper cause for second thought.
“I can’t fault you,” Mrs. Abbot had admitted. “A man such as that . . .”
Helen had stared at her curiously, noticing the way her face had softened with dreamy pensiveness. “You hold Mr. Winterborne in esteem, then?”
“I do, my lady. Oh, I know he’s called an upstart by his social betters. But to the real London—the hundreds of thousands who work every blessed day and scrape by as best we can—Winterborne is a legend. He’s done what most people don’t dare dream of. A shop boy, he was, and now everyone from the queen down to any common beggar knows his name. It gives people reason to hope they might rise above their circumstances.” Smiling slightly, the housekeeper had added, “And none can deny he’s a handsome, well-made chap, for all that he’s as brown as a gypsy. Any woman, highborn or low, would be tempted.”
Helen couldn’t deny that Mr. Winterborne’s personal attractions were high on her list of considerations. A man in his prime, radiating that remarkable energy, a kind of animal vitality that she found both frightening and irresistible.
But there was something else about him . . . a lure more potent than any other. It happened during his rare moments of tenderness with her, when it seemed as if the deep, tightly locked cache of sadness in her heart was about to break open. He was the only person who had ever approached that trapped place, who might someday be able to shatter the loneliness that had always held fast inside her.
If she married Mr. Winterborne, she might come to regret it. But not nearly as much as she would regret it if she didn’t take the chance.
Almost miraculously, everything sorted itself out in her brain. A feeling of calmness settled over her as her path became clear.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him. “Very well,” she said. “I agree to your ultimatum.”
Chapter 4
FOR SEVERAL SECONDS, RHYS couldn’t manage a response. Either Helen hadn’t understood what she was saying, or he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Here and now,” he clarified. “You’ll let me”—he tried to think of a decent word—“take you,” he continued, “as a man takes a wife.”
“Yes,” Helen said calmly, shocking him all over again. Her face was very pale, with red banners of color emblazoned at the crests of her cheeks. But she didn’t look at all uncertain. She meant it.
There had to be a drawback, some pitfall that would be discovered later, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. She had said yes. Within a matter of minutes, she would be in his bed. Naked. The thought set every internal rhythm off-kilter, his heart and lungs battling for room inside his constricted chest.
She touched the gilded book bindings with a hesitant fingertip, tracing the edge of a hand-painted flower. “When did you acquire these?” she asked.
Mr. Winterborne’s voice came from close behind her. “After you gave me the potted orchid. I needed to know how to take care of it.”
A few weeks earlier, he had come for dinner at Ravenel House, and Helen had impulsively given one of her orchids to him. A rare Blue Vanda, her most prized and temperamental plant. Although he hadn’t seemed especially enthused about the gift, he had thanked her and taken it dutifully. But the moment their engagement had been broken, he had sent it back.
To Helen’s amazement, she had discovered that the sensitive plant had thrived in his care.
“You looked after it yourself, then,” she said. “I wondered about that.”
“Of course I did. I had no intention of failing your test.”
“It wasn’t a test, it was a gift.”
“If you say so.”
Exasperated, Helen turned to face him. “I fully expected you to kill it, and I intended to marry you regardless.”
His lips twitched. “But I didn’t.”
Helen was silent, trying to balance all her thoughts and feelings before making the most difficult decision of her life. But was it really that complicated? Marriage was always a risk.
One never knew what kind of husband a man might turn into.
For one last time, Helen allowed herself to consider the option of leaving. She imagined walking out of his office, entering the family carriage, and riding back to Ravenel House on South Audley. And it would be well and truly over. Her future would be identical to that of any young woman in her position. She would have a London Season and scores of dances and dinners with civilized suitors, all of it leading to marriage with a man who would never understand her nearly as well as she understood him. She would do her utmost never to look back on this moment and wonder what would have happened, or what she might have become, if she’d said yes.
She thought of the conversation she’d had with the housekeeper, Mrs. Abbott, before leaving this morning. The housekeeper a plump and neat silver-haired woman who had served in the Ravenel’s employ for four decades, had objected strongly upon hearing that Helen intended to go out in the daytime with no companion. “The Master will sack the lot of us,” she had exclaimed.
“I’ll tell Lord Trenear that I slipped away without anyone’s knowledge,” Helen had told her. “And I’ll say that I gave the driver no choice but to take me to Winterborne’s or I threatened to go on foot.”
“My lady, nothing can be worth such a risk!”
However, when Helen had explained that she intended to visit Rhys Winterborne in the hopes of renewing their engagement, it seemed to have given the housekeeper cause for second thought.
“I can’t fault you,” Mrs. Abbot had admitted. “A man such as that . . .”
Helen had stared at her curiously, noticing the way her face had softened with dreamy pensiveness. “You hold Mr. Winterborne in esteem, then?”
“I do, my lady. Oh, I know he’s called an upstart by his social betters. But to the real London—the hundreds of thousands who work every blessed day and scrape by as best we can—Winterborne is a legend. He’s done what most people don’t dare dream of. A shop boy, he was, and now everyone from the queen down to any common beggar knows his name. It gives people reason to hope they might rise above their circumstances.” Smiling slightly, the housekeeper had added, “And none can deny he’s a handsome, well-made chap, for all that he’s as brown as a gypsy. Any woman, highborn or low, would be tempted.”
Helen couldn’t deny that Mr. Winterborne’s personal attractions were high on her list of considerations. A man in his prime, radiating that remarkable energy, a kind of animal vitality that she found both frightening and irresistible.
But there was something else about him . . . a lure more potent than any other. It happened during his rare moments of tenderness with her, when it seemed as if the deep, tightly locked cache of sadness in her heart was about to break open. He was the only person who had ever approached that trapped place, who might someday be able to shatter the loneliness that had always held fast inside her.
If she married Mr. Winterborne, she might come to regret it. But not nearly as much as she would regret it if she didn’t take the chance.
Almost miraculously, everything sorted itself out in her brain. A feeling of calmness settled over her as her path became clear.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him. “Very well,” she said. “I agree to your ultimatum.”
Chapter 4
FOR SEVERAL SECONDS, RHYS couldn’t manage a response. Either Helen hadn’t understood what she was saying, or he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Here and now,” he clarified. “You’ll let me”—he tried to think of a decent word—“take you,” he continued, “as a man takes a wife.”
“Yes,” Helen said calmly, shocking him all over again. Her face was very pale, with red banners of color emblazoned at the crests of her cheeks. But she didn’t look at all uncertain. She meant it.
There had to be a drawback, some pitfall that would be discovered later, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. She had said yes. Within a matter of minutes, she would be in his bed. Naked. The thought set every internal rhythm off-kilter, his heart and lungs battling for room inside his constricted chest.
