“I want to. But first I must tell Mr. Winterborne the truth about who I am.”
Quincy paused, looking troubled. “Mr. Winterborne is a good master. Demanding, but fair and generous. He looks after his people, and treats them with respect, down to the lowest scullery maid. But there are limits. Last week, Mr. Winterborne saw one of his footmen, Peter, cuff a beggar boy that had run up to him on the street. He blistered Peter’s ears with a shaming lecture, and dismissed him on the spot. The poor footman apologized and begged for forgiveness, but Mr. Winterborne wouldn’t relent. Some of the other servants and I tried to approach him on Peter’s behalf, and he threatened to dismiss us if we dared to say another word. He said there were some mistakes he could not forgive.” He was silent for a moment. “With Mr. Winterborne, there is a line never to be crossed. If someone does, he cuts them out completely, and never looks back.”
“He wouldn’t do that to his wife,” Helen protested.
“I agree.” Quincy looked away before adding with difficulty, “But, you’re not his wife yet.”
Stunned, Helen wondered if he was right, if it was truly that dangerous to tell Rhys about her father.
“Mr. Winterborne is not an ordinary man, my lady. He fears nothing, and answers to no one. He’s above scandal, and in some ways he’s even above the law. I daresay he conducts himself better than most would, in his position. But he can be unpredictable. If you want to marry Mr. Winterborne, my lady, you must keep your silence.”
Chapter 17
THE DISTANT CHIMES OF a clock drifted through the house as Helen slipped from her room and navigated the shadows of the upstairs hallway. Rhys had been lodged in a guest room in the east wing, for which she was thankful. They would need privacy for the conversation they were about to have.
She was as afraid as she had ever been about anything. Her heart pounded so hard that it felt as if something were striking her chest from the outside. She didn’t know Rhys well enough to be certain how he would react when she told him. Whatever he might feel for her, it was founded on some ideal of perfection, of an aristocratic wife on a pedestal. The news she was about to tell him wasn’t a step down from the pedestal—it was a leap off a cliff.
The problem was not with something she had done. The problem was with who she was, and there was no solution for that. Would Rhys ever be able to look at her without seeing shades of Albion Vance? She had spent most of her life with people who were supposed to love her, and hadn’t. She couldn’t endure spending the rest of it with a husband who would do the same.
By the time Helen reached the east wing, she was desperately cold despite the wool lining of her dressing gown and the thickness of her embroidered slippers. Shivering, she approached Rhys’s door and knocked tentatively.
Her stomach lurched as she was confronted with Rhys’s huge dark form, silhouetted against the glow of the hearth and a small bedside lamp. He was dressed only in a robe, his chest and feet bare. Reaching an arm around her waist, he drew her past the threshold, closed the door, and locked it decisively.
As Rhys pulled her against him, Helen pressed her cheek against the exposed part of his chest.
Feeling the way she trembled, he cuddled her closer. “You’re nervous, cariad.”
She nodded against his chest.
One of his hands gently cupped the side of her face. “Are you afraid that I’ll hurt you?”
She understood that he was referring to the physical joining that had left her sore after their first time. What she feared, of course, was a far different kind of pain. Licking her dry lips, she forced herself to reply. “Yes. But not in the way you—”
“No, no,” he soothed, “it will be different this time.” He bent his head and hugged her as if he were trying to surround her with himself. “Your pleasure means more to me than anything in life.” One of his hands slid low on her hips to the beginning curve of her bottom. His hand traveled to her front, gently pressing her stomach before sliding to the place between her thighs.
The teasing stroke sent a thrill of sensation through her, and her legs quaked until she could hardly stand. She took a breath to speak, but it stuck in her throat as a half-sob. Swallowing it back, she said unsteadily, “It’s not that, it’s . . . I’m afraid because I think . . . I might lose you.”
“Lose me?” Rhys looked down at her keenly, and her gaze fell from his. After a moment, she heard him ask, “Why would you worry about that?”
Now was the time to tell him. She tried to blurt it out—Albion Vance is my father—but she couldn’t make herself do it. Her mouth refused to shape the words. All she could do was stand there and shiver like a treble wire of a piano, fine vibrations of cowardice singing through her.
“I don’t know,” she finally said.
As she kept her face averted, continuing to tremble, Rhys bent to nudge a kiss against her cheek. “Ah you’ve made yourself upset,” he exclaimed quietly, and scooped her up with an ease that stole her breath away.
He was so strong, the heavy muscles of his chest and arms capable of crushing her. But he was gentle, careful, carrying her to an upholstered chair near the hearth and sitting with her sideways in his lap. Removing one of her slippers, he grasped her ice-cold foot in his big, warm hand and began to knead it slowly. His thumb rubbed into her arch, easing soreness she hadn’t even been aware of. She bit back a quiet moan as he proceeded to massage every vulnerable place on her sole. Gently he squeezed each of her toes between his thumb and forefinger, and made small, firm circles on the ball of her foot. In a while he reached for her other foot, rubbing and pressing patiently until she had relaxed in his lap, her head resting against his heartbeat. Her breathing slowed as a kind of trance came over her, a drowsing-awake feeling.