Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,10

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.

It occurred to him that his usual vigorous rutting wasn’t going to work at all in this situation. Helen was vulnerable and innocent.

It would have to be lovemaking, not fucking.

He knew nothing about lovemaking.

Bloody buggering hell.

On the rare occasion when he’d enjoyed the favors of an upper-class lady, she had wanted to be taken roughly, as if he were a simple brute who was incapable of gentleness. Rhys had appreciated being spared any pretense of intimacy. He was no Byron, no poetry-spouting connoisseur of seduction. He was a Welshman with stamina. As for techniques and romance—well, obviously that was best left to the French.

But Helen was a virgin. There would be blood. Pain. Likely tears. What if he couldn’t be gentle enough? What if she became overwrought? What if—

“I have two conditions,” Helen ventured. “First, I should like to return home before dinnertime. And second . . .” She turned the color of a beetroot. “I wish to exchange this ring for a different one.”

His gaze dropped to her left hand. The night he had proposed, he had given her a flawless rose-cut diamond the size of a quail egg. The priceless stone had been discovered in the Kimberley mines of South Africa, cut by a famed gemologist in Paris, and set in a platinum filigree mounting by Winterborne’s master jeweler, Paul Sauveterre.

Seeing his confounded expression, Helen explained bashfully, “I don’t like it.”

“You told me you did when I gave it to you.”

“To be precise, I didn’t actually say that. It’s only that I didn’t say I disliked it. But I have resolved to be outspoken with you from now on, to avoid future misunderstandings.”

Rhys was chagrined to realize that Helen had never liked the ring he’d chosen for her. But he understood that she was trying to be straightforward with him now, even though she found the effort excruciating.

In the past, Helen’s opinions had been ignored or trampled by her family. And perhaps, he reflected, by him as well. He might have asked her what kind of stones and settings she preferred, instead of deciding what he’d wanted her to have.

Reaching for her hand, he lifted it for a closer look at the glittering ring. “I’ll buy you a diamond the size of a Christmas pudding.”

“My goodness, no,” Helen said hastily, surprising him yet again. “Just the opposite. This one sits very tall on my finger, you see? It slips from side to side, and makes it difficult to play the piano or write a letter. I would prefer a much smaller stone.” She paused. “Something other than a diamond.”

“Why not a diamond?”

“I’m not fond of them, actually. I suppose I don’t mind the small ones that look like raindrops or little stars. But the large ones are so cold and hard.”

“Aye, because they’re diamonds.” Rhys sent her a sardonic glance. “I’ll have a tray of rings brought up at once.”

A smile illuminated her face. “Thank you.”

“What else would you like?” he asked. “A carriage and team of four?