Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,103

that need to be said between us,” he warned softly, buttoning his trousers. After pressing a lingering kiss to her temple, he added, “Although I do like your way of distracting me.”

HELEN HAD BEEN in a daze for the rest of the evening, unable to discern how much of it was an aftereffect of the neuralgic powder, and how much was from her interlude with Rhys.

Upon leaving the rooftop glasshouse, Rhys had taken her to a bathroom where she’d done her best to tidy herself and neaten her hair. Afterward, he had escorted her to the dressmaker’s studio on the second floor and introduced her to Mrs. Allenby, a tall, slight woman with a pleasant smile. She sympathized upon learning about Helen’s migraine, and assured her that they had enough time left in the appointment to take her measurements. Helen could return another day when she felt better, and they could begin to plan her trousseau in earnest.

At the conclusion of the appointment, Helen emerged from the studio to find Rhys waiting to escort her to the first floor. Recalling their torrid encounter of just an hour earlier, Helen felt herself turn a deep crimson.

He grinned at her. “Try not to look quite so guilty, cariad. I’ve spent the past quarter of an hour explaining our disappearance to Lady Berwick.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I gave her every excuse I could come up with. Some of it was even true.”

“Does she believe any of it?” Helen asked, mortified.

“She’s pretending to.”

To Helen’s relief, Lady Berwick seemed contented and good-humored during the carriage ride back to Ravenel House. She had purchased no fewer than a dozen pairs of gloves, as well as assorted sundries from other departments in the store. Ruefully, the countess admitted that she intended to return soon for another shopping excursion, even if it meant going to Winterborne’s during regular hours and mingling with the common herd. Pandora and Cassandra regaled Helen with accounts of everything the sales assistants had told them would be à la mode for the coming year. Fancy scarf-pins were becoming all the rage, as well as gold and silver braided trim on dresses and hats, and ladies’ hair would be dressed à la Récamier, an arrangement of small curls like a poodle dog’s.

“Poor Helen,” Pandora said, “we’re going home with a mountain of boxes and bags, and the only thing you’re bringing back is a tin of headache powders.”

“I don’t need anything else,” Helen replied, looking down at the green tin in her lap.

“And while we were having a lovely time shopping,” Cassandra said regretfully, “Helen was taking off her clothes.”

Helen shot her a startled glance, the color draining from her face.

“At the dressmaker’s,” Cassandra explained. “You did say they took measurements, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been very entertaining for you,” Cassandra said.

“No, indeed.” Helen glued her gaze back to the tin of powders, acutely conscious of Lady Berwick’s silence.

The carriage arrived at Ravenel House, and the footman carried a towering stack of ivory boxes into the house with the dexterity of a carnival juggler. While the twins went up to their rooms, Lady Berwick informed the butler that she wanted tea brought to the parlor.

“Would you like some as well?” she asked Helen.

“No, thank you, I believe I’ll retire early to bed.” Helen hesitated, gathering her nerves. “May I speak with your ladyship?”

“Of course. Come into the parlor with me.” They entered the room, which was cold despite the fire on the grate. Lady Berwick sat on the chaise and shivered. “Give the fire a stir, if you will.”

Helen went to the hearth, picked up a poker, and prodded the coals until she had built up a cheerful blaze. Holding her hands near the flooding heat, she said sheepishly, “About my disappearance with Mr. Winterborne—”

“There is no need to explain. I approve.”

Helen gave her a stupefied glance. “You—you do?”

“I told you in this very parlor that you must do whatever is necessary to marry Mr. Winterborne. In other circumstances, I would object strenuously, of course. But if allowing him liberties will bind him closer to you and make the marriage more of a certainty, I am willing to look the other way. A wise chaperone accepts that one must occasionally lose the battle to win the war.”

Nonplussed, Helen said, “You are remarkably . . .” ruthless. “. . . practical, my lady.”

“We must use the means we have at our disposal.” Lady Berwick looked resigned. “It’s often said that a woman’s weapon