Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,79

of color that kept building on itself until it seemed she’d been thrown into a bonfire.

She’d had a restless sleep, tossing and turning, her mind plagued with worries. More than once she’d become aware of Rhys soothing and stroking her back to sleep. When he had finally awakened her at dawn, she had given him an apologetic glance and mumbled, “You’ll never want to share a bed with me again.”

Rhys had laughed quietly, pulling her up against his chest and caressing her naked back. “Then you’ll be surprised when I insist on it again tonight.” After that, he made love to her one last time, disregarding her feeble protests that she had to leave.

Now, trying to control her blush, Helen tore her gaze from his. “Did you have a pleasant ride?” she asked softly, watching as Kathleen introduced Devon to Lady Berwick.

“Which ride are you referring to?” His tone was so bland that at first she didn’t perceive his implication.

Helen shot him a shocked glance. “Don’t be wicked,” she whispered.

Rhys grinned and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. The gentle pressure of his mouth on the backs of her fingers did little to calm the rioting color in her face.

Lady Berwick’s brittle voice came from several feet away. “Not so cool and composed now, I see. Lady Helen, introduce me to the gentleman who seems to have set you all aflutter.”

Helen went to her with Rhys at her side. “Lady Berwick,” she murmured, “this is Mr. Winterborne.”

A curious change came over the countess’s face as she stared at the big, black-haired Welshman before her. Her steely eyes turned as soft as mist, and a hint of girlish color rose in her cheeks. Instead of giving him a nod, she extended her hand.

Without hesitation, Rhys enclosed the older woman’s jewel-laden fingers in a gentle grip, and bowed over her hand with easy grace. He straightened and smiled at her. “A pleasure.”

Lady Berwick studied him, her gaze wide and almost wondering, although her voice remained coolly assessing. “A young man. I confess, I expected someone of more advanced years, in light of your accomplishments.”

“I was set to learn my father’s trade at an early age, my lady.”

“You have been described to me as a ‘business magnate.’ It is my understanding that the term is used for a man who has amassed wealth so great that it cannot be measured on any ordinary scale.”

“I’ve had a stroke of luck now and then.”

“False modesty is evidence of secret pride, Mr. Winterborne.”

“The subject makes me uncomfortable,” he admitted frankly.

“As well it should—any discussion of money is vulgar. However, at my age, I will ask whatever I like, and let anyone reproach me if they dare.”

Rhys laughed suddenly in that free, attractive way he had, his teeth white against his amber complexion. “Lady Berwick, I would never reproach nor refuse you anything.”

“Well then, I have a question for you. Lady Helen insists that in taking you for a husband, she is not marrying down. Do you agree?”

Rhys glanced at Helen, his eyes warm. “No,” he said. “Every man marries above himself.”

“Do you believe, then, that she should wed a man of noble pedigree?”

Returning his attention to the countess, Rhys hitched his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Lady Helen is so far above all men that none of us deserve her. Therefore, it might as well be me.”

Lady Berwick let out a reluctant cackle, staring at him as if spell-struck. “Charmingly arrogant,” she said. “I almost find myself in agreement with you.”

“Ma’am,” Kathleen said, “Perhaps we should send the gentlemen to refresh themselves and change into more appropriate attire for tea. The housekeeper will have a conniption at the sight of these muddy boots clomping across the carpets.”

Devon grinned. “Whatever a conniption is, I feel certain I don’t want to be the cause of one.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead, in spite of all her previous warnings about Lady Berwick’s dislike of physical demonstrations.

After making polite bows, the men left the receiving room.

Lady Berwick’s mouth twisted wryly. “There is no lack of manly vigor in this household, is there?” Her gaze turned absent as she stared at the empty doorway. As she continued, she seemed almost to be speaking to herself. “When I was a girl, there was a footman-in-waiting at my father’s estate. A handsome rascal from North Wales, with hair black as night, and a knowing gaze . . .”

A distant memory had stirred her, something withheld but tender radiating