Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,127

writing. “A nursemaid as well,” she said dazedly.

“Aye, we’ll be bringing a four-year-old girl with us. Also, she’ll need clothes and toys. Put one of the sales clerks in charge of that.”

“I see.”

“And Lady Helen will need some new things to wear. Have Mrs. Allenby take care of it. Tell her I want to see Lady Helen in anything other than black.” Tapping his fingers on the desk, he mused, “I suppose it might be too much to ask for a wedding dress . . .”

“Mr. Winterborne,” Mrs. Fernsby exclaimed, “do you actually expect all this to be accomplished by tonight?”

“Fernsby, you have the greater part of a day, as long as you don’t lollygag over lunch.” As she began to protest, Rhys said, “I’ll handle the arrangements for the special train.”

“What about all the rest of it?” she called after him, as he strode from his office. “What about flowers? A cake? What about—”

“Don’t bother me with details,” he said over his shoulder. “Just make it all happen.”

“SO NOW WE’RE friends again,” Tom Severin said in satisfaction, stretching out his legs and resting them on the large bronze desk in his fifth-floor office.

“Only because I want something,” Rhys said. “Not because I have any liking for you.”

“My friends don’t have to like me,” Severin assured him. “In fact, I prefer it if they don’t.”

Rhys sternly held back a grin. “The friendship is contingent upon whether or not you can actually provide the favor,” he reminded him.

Severin held up a hand in a brief staying gesture. “A moment.” He raised his voice. “Barnaby! The information I requested?”

“Here it is, sir.” Severin’s personal secretary, a stocky fellow with rumpled clothing and hair that sprang in a wild mass of uncombed curls, hurried into the office with a sheaf of papers. He set them carefully on the desk. “Four private stations I’ve found so far, sir. Awaiting confirmation on the fifth.”

As the secretary hastened away, Severin picked up the pages and sorted through them. “What about this one?” he asked, handing a paper to Rhys. “A small bespoke station with a dedicated line connecting to the Great Western route. We can run a special train from there to Caernarvon. The station building is a two-story structure with a drawing room for entertaining prior to departure. No crowd, no tickets, no waiting. My general manager will personally see to it that your private carriages are coupled with our best rolling stock, including a new locomotive and extra passenger carriages with compartments for servants.”

Rhys smiled, glancing briefly over the page before giving it back to him. “There’s no way in hell that any other man in England could provide all this on such short notice.”

“Two other men in England could,” Severin said modestly. “But they wouldn’t give it to you as a wedding present, as I’m doing.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

“Barnaby,” Severin called, and the secretary rushed back in. Severin handed the page to him. “This station. Everything has to be ready by tonight. Make certain Winterborne’s private carriage is stocked with ice and fresh water after it’s delivered.”

“Yes, sir.” Barnaby nodded wildly and ran out.

Severin sent Rhys an inquiring glance. “Do you want to walk to a food shop for lunch? Or at least have a whiskey here?”

Rhys shook his head regretfully. “I have too much to do. Let’s meet after I return from Wales.” It occurred to him that he would be a married man then. Helen, in his bed every night, and sharing breakfast with him every morning . . . for a moment he was lost in a daydream, imagining ordinary life with her, the multitude of small pleasures he would never take for granted.

“Of course.” Severin’s blue-green eyes were friendly and inquisitive. The angle of the light on his face caught his right eye, illuminating the extra green. “This takes a bit of getting used to,” he said. “All this smiling and good spirits. You’ve never been one of those lighthearted fellows.”

“I’m not lighthearted, I’m . . . wholehearted.”

Severin smiled reflectively as they stood to shake hands. “It must be nice,” he mused, “to be any kind of hearted.”

RHYS RETURNED TO Winterborne’s, finding that most of his executive staff was rushing about at a berserk pace that rivaled Barnaby’s. Sales clerks and dressmakers’ assistants carried stacks of white boxes and armloads of garments to his private office, where his social secretary, Miss Edevane, was making detailed packing lists. Things were being accomplished, he observed with satisfaction. He decided to find Fernsby