Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,81
shops, where the tradesmen are acquainted with my preferences.”
“My sales clerks would show you the greatest variety of luxury goods you’ve ever seen in one place. Gloves, for example—how many pairs do they bring out for you at a little shop? A dozen? Two dozen? At the glove counter at Winterborne’s, you’ll view ten times that many, made of glacéed kid, calf suede, doeskin, elk, peccary, antelope, even kangaroo.” Seeing her interest, Rhys continued casually, “No fewer than three countries have a part in making our best gloves. Lambskin dressed in Spain, cut in France, and hand-stitched in England. Each glove is so delicate, it can be enclosed in the shell of a walnut.”
“You offer those at your store?” the countess asked, clearly weakening.
“Aye. And we have eighty other departments featuring items from all over the world.”
“I am intrigued,” the older woman admitted. “But hobnobbing with the common herd . . . the crowds . . .”
“You could bring the girls after-hours, when the daytime customers have gone,” Rhys said. “I’ll have some of the sales clerks stay to assist you. If you like, my assistant will make a private appointment for Lady Helen to consult with the store’s dressmaker. It’s time to begin designing her trousseau, aye?”
“It’s beyond time,” Kathleen said, sending her husband an inquiring glance.
“Knowing little of these matters,” Devon replied, “I’ll leave it to your judgment.”
“Then if Lady Berwick consents,” Kathleen said, “and Helen wishes it, the dressmaker at Winterborne’s could begin on the trousseau while Lord Trenear and I are away.”
Helen nodded. “That would be lovely.” She looked at Rhys for just an instant, seeing past his relaxed veneer. Judging from the gleam in his eyes, he was coming up with all manner of plans.
“I will give the matter due consideration,” Lady Berwick remarked, frowning as Pandora tapped the fingers of both hands on the table in a burst of excitement. “Child, do not make a tambourine of the tea table.”
HELEN FOUND IT both a pleasure and torture to go through an ordinary day with Rhys there at Eversby Priory. He was within her sight, her reach, but they were always in the company of others. It was exhausting to have to conceal how much she felt, how her heart raced whenever he entered the room. She had never expected how powerful the combination of physical desire and love would be. At some moments she was filled with melancholy, reflecting that her time with him was slipping through her fingers like fine white sand. She had to tell him about her father . . . she just couldn’t make herself do it yet.
The hours before midnight dragged by slowly, while Helen paced and fidgeted and waited in her room until the household had finally settled. She hurried barefoot through the hallways to the east wing in her white nightgown and robe, impatience pumping through her veins.
She arrived at Rhys’s door, and it opened before she even touched it, a strong arm reaching out to pull her inside. The key turned firmly in the lock, and Rhys caught her close with a soft laugh. Helen was electrified by the feel of him all along her, the aggressive pressure of him against her belly. His mouth blotted out every thought as he searched her hungrily, unlocking a flood of desire that she was too inexperienced to control. She responded blindly, desperate for him, her hands sliding into his thick hair to pull his head down harder over hers.
After undressing her where she stood, Rhys carried her to the bed. Stretching her out beneath him, he began to feast on her with deliberate slowness, biting and licking on the pulses in her throat, breasts, wrists. She felt the touch of his hand between her thighs, teasing lightly. He splayed the soft flesh open, his fingers cool and gentle as they stroked on either side of the hot bud. She couldn’t stop twisting, straining, twining her limbs around his at every possible opportunity. He resisted, wanting to play, wanting to indulge in lavish variety when all she wanted was to have him inside her now.
His whisper curled into her ear like smoke. “You’re not wet enough for me, cariad.”
“I am,” she managed to say between labored gasps.
“Show me.”
After the briefest of hesitations, she reached down to clasp his erection. A shallow gasp escaped her as she felt the heavy pulse of his flesh, the shaft thickening until she was unable to close her fingers around it. Guiding him between