Marrying Winterborne (32 page)

“I can do that,” Helen whispered.

Drawing back slowly, Rhys smiled down at her. “Come, then,
cariad
. We've a wedding to take care of. A man can only wait so long for a kiss from his wife.”

Eight months later

“. . . A
ND
P
ANDORA SAID THAT
if her game turns out to be a success, she won't participate in any of the events of the Season,” Helen said, deftly hand-pollinating vanilla blossoms. “She told Lady Berwick that she has no intention of being herded from ball to ball like a disoriented sheep.”

Rhys smiled and watched her lazily, his back braced against a brick column. He was a handsome sight, his presence incongruously masculine amid the rows and rows of orchids. “How did Lady Berwick react?”

“She was outraged, of course. But before they could start another row, Cousin Devon pointed out that Pandora has only just now filed a patent application, and the Season will probably have begun before we find out if it's been accepted. Therefore, Pandora may as well go to a few balls and dinners, if for no other reason than to keep Cassandra company.”

“Trenear is right. There's far more to publishing a board game than applying for a patent and taking the design to the printer. If Pandora is serious about her venture, it will take at least a year before we can stock it on the display tables.”

“Oh, Pandora is quite serious,” Helen said wryly.

She had just returned with Carys from a morning visit to Ravenel House. They had gone to see Kathleen's newborn son, William, who was healthy and thriving. Carys had been fascinated by the two-week-old infant and had cooed over him for several minutes, until Pandora had coaxed her away to help test her board game prototype. The little girl had loved the game, titled Shopping Spree, in which players moved their tokens around a circuit of departments, collecting merchandise cards along the way. At Pandora's insistence, the game taught no moral values or lessons: it was intended only to be amusing.

“Do you know,” Helen said thoughtfully, “I have a feeling that Pandora's game is going to sell very well. Lady Berwick and Carys had a splendid time playing it this morning. They both seem to love the process of collecting all those beautifully detailed little merchandise cards—the umbrella, the shoe, and so forth.”

“Human nature is acquisitive,” Rhys replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “Aye, the game will sell.”

“How well?” Helen used a toothpick to transfer pollen into the blossom's stigma.

Rhys laughed gently. “I'm not an oracle,
cariad
.”

“Yes, you are. You know these things.” Finishing the last vanilla flower, Helen set aside the toothpick and turned to give him an expectant glance.

“She'll make a fortune,” he said. “It's an undeveloped market, the product can be mass-produced with lithographic printing, and as you just pointed out, the game has broad appeal.”

Helen smiled, but she was inwardly perturbed. She wanted her younger sister's hard work and talent to be rewarded. However, she was concerned that in her quest to become self-sufficient and independent,
Pandora seemed determined to keep from giving any man the chance to love her. Why was she so hardened against the idea of sharing her life with someone else?

“I hope it will make her happy,” she said.

Rhys unfolded his arms and approached her slowly. Warm September light, the color of ripe lemons, poured through the glasshouse panes and slid over his dark hair. “Speaking from experience,” he said, taking her waist in his hands, “the success will make Pandora very happy at first. But eventually she'll become lonely, and realize there's more to life than financial gain.”

Smiling, Helen reached her arms around his neck. “Were you lonely, before you met me?”

Her husband stared down at her, his gaze a simmering dark caress. “Aye, as any man would be, trying to live each day with half his soul missing.” Lowering his head, he brushed his mouth over hers in repeated strokes, settling deeper each time until the kiss had turned deep and yearning. “Let's go to bed,” he murmured when their lips parted.

Her eyes widened as she felt his hand at her breast. “It's time for lunch.”

“You're my lunch.” Rhys bent to kiss her again, and she twisted in his arms with a breathless laugh.

“I can't . . . no, really . . . I'm going to see Garrett Gibson for tea.”

“You had tea with her the other day,” he said, kissing her neck. “I need you more.”

“It's not actually for tea. That is, we might have tea, but that's not the purpose of the visit. You see . . .” Helen paused and blushed as she continued uncertainly. “I have . . . symptoms.”

His head jerked up with startling suddenness. Frowning, he asked, “Are you not well,
cariad
?”

Touched by his instant concern, Helen stroked his nape soothingly. “I'm quite well.”

His intent gaze raked over her. “Then why—” He broke off as a thought occurred to him, and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he'd forgotten how to speak.

Helen rather enjoyed his dumbfounded reaction. “We won't know for certain until Dr. Gibson confirms it,” she said, lacing her fingers into his vibrant black hair. “But I think by next spring, we'll have another addition to the Winterborne family.”

Rhys pulled her close, hunching over her to bury his face against the soft curve of her neck and shoulder. He sounded shaken. “Helen. Helen, my treasure . . . what can I do for you? What do you need? Should you be standing on this hard floor? You're wearing a corset—won't it squash the baby?”

“Not this early,” she said, tenderly amused and a bit surprised as she felt a tremor run through him. “There's no need to be anxious. I'll manage this new project brilliantly, I promise. The baby and I will both be strong and healthy.”

Rhys drew back until his face was over hers, his breath rushing against her lips with peppermint coolness. “I'll need your word on that,” he said huskily. “Because you're my entire world,
cariad
. My heart only beats as an echo of yours.”

“Don't doubt it for a moment, my dearest love.” Standing on her toes, Helen touched her lips to his. “After all . . . I am a Winterborne.”

W
HILE RESEARCHING FASHION
(always one of the most fun parts of writing historical romance) I learned that there were two periods of bustle-dom in the late 1800s. The first version of the bustle, lasting from 1870–1875, consisted of a massive bag stuffed with straw or horsehair. I imagine it felt like wearing a sofa cushion tied around one's backside. For a few years after that, bustles disappeared and a woman's fashion silhouette was as slim and straight as possible, with very narrow skirts. This is referred to as the “natural form” period, which I would dispute in light of the fact that you still needed a corset to achieve it. However, it was probably preferable to the return of the bustle from 1883–1889, in a new and exaggerated shape. Although the bigger bustle was designed to be lighter and collapsible to allow the poor wearer to sit in a chair, it still doesn't sound all that comfortable!

The torpedo shape of soda water bottles (patented by William Hamilton in 1809) ensured they would be stored on their sides, keeping the cork stoppers from drying out. Also, unlike champagne bottles that were usually made of better quality glass, the cheap glass used for soda water bottles was more likely to shatter from the pressure of carbonated liquids. The torpedo structure was stronger than a flat-bottomed one.

I gave Dr. Gibson the first name of Garrett in homage to Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first woman to qualify as a physician and surgeon in England. She joined the British Medical Association in 1873, and was the only female member for 19 years, after the Association voted to exclude any other women from entering their all-male institution. Eventually Dr. Anderson was elected as the mayor of Aldeburgh, making her the first female mayor in England.

Here's a mini glossary of Welsh words and phrases used in the book:

Bychan
: little one

Cariad
: sweetheart, beloved one

Annwyl:
dear

Iesu Mawr:
great Jesus

Hwyl fawr am nawr:
good-bye for now

Diolch i Dduw:
Thank God

Dw i'n dy garu di:
I love you

Owain Glynd
ŵ
r
: a Welsh ruler, a figure of Welsh nationalism, and the last native Welshman to hold the title Prince of Wales. He lived from 1349–1416

Eistedfodd
: a festival of Welsh literature, music, dancing, and acting

A
FTER READING ABOUT THE
beloved Victorian-era sweets, peppermint creams, I couldn't find any available for purchase. Alas! However, my daughter and I tried different recipes and modified one slightly until we came up with the easiest and best version. Most recipes called for real egg whites, but we got better (and safer) results by using meringue powder, which you can find in the grocery store baking section. If you're not a fan of peppermint, you can substitute any flavor you prefer. Vanilla works beautifully!

Ingredients:

1 cup powdered sugar

1 tablespoon meringue powder

1 pinch salt

1 tsp. peppermint extract (or more if you like a lot of flavor)

1 tablespoon milk

Directions:

   
1.
      
Mix the dry ingredients together, then add the peppermint extract and the milk. Stir and mash with a spoon until the mixture has the consistency of Play Doh. You may need to add a tiny bit of milk if the mixture is too dry, but add just a few drops at a time.

   
2.
      
Roll the dough into tiny marble-sized balls, and roll each one in some extra powdered sugar. Put them on waxed paper to dry and set for at least 15 minutes. At this point we like to re-roll them in powdered sugar to give them a nice “floury” appearance, but it's not necessary.

   
3.
      
Make certain to test your Winterborne-fresh breath by kissing someone you love!

If you enjoyed
Marrying Winterborne
,

keep reading for a sneak peek

of the next novel in the Ravenel series

E
VANGELINE, THE
D
UCHESS OF
Kingston, lifted her infant grandson from the nursery tub and wrapped him snugly in a soft white towel. Chortling, the baby braced his sturdy legs and attempted to stand in her lap. He explored her face and hair with grasping wet hands, and Evie laughed at his affectionate mauling. “Be gentle, Stephen.” She winced as he grabbed the double strand of pearls around her neck. “Oh, I knew I shouldn't have worn those at your bath-time. Too much t-temptation.” Evie had always spoken with a stammer, although it was now very slight compared with what it had been in her youth.

“Oh, Your Grace,” the young nursemaid, Ona, exclaimed, hurrying toward her. “I would have lifted Master Stephen out of the tub for you. He's a fair armful, he is. Solid as a brick.”

“He's no trouble at all,” Evie assured her, kissing the baby's rosy cheeks and prying his grip from her pearls.

“Your Grace is very kind to help with the children on Nanny's day off.” Carefully the nursemaid took the baby from Evie's arms. “Any of the housemaids would be glad to do it, since you have more important things to attend to.”

“There's n-nothing more important than my grandchildren. And I quite enjoy spending time in the nursery—it reminds me of when my children were small.”

Ona chuckled as George reached for the white ruffled cap on her head. “I'll powder and dress him now.”

“I'll tidy up the bath things,” Evie said.

“Your Grace, you
mustn't
.” Clearly the nursemaid was trying to strike an effective balance between sternness and pleading. “Not in your fine silk dress—you must sit in the parlor and read a book, or embroider something.” As Evie parted her lips to argue, Ona added meaningfully, “Nanny would have my head if she knew I'd let you help as much as I have.”

Checkmate.

Knowing that Nanny would have
both
their heads, Evie responded with a resigned nod, although she was unable to resist muttering, “I'm wearing an apron.”

The nursemaid left the bathroom with a satisfied smile, carrying Stephen to the nursery.

Still kneeling on the bath rug in front of the tub, Evie reached behind her back for the flannel apron ties. Ruefully she reflected that it was no easy task to satisfy the servants' expectations of how a duchess should behave. They were determined to prevent her from doing anything more strenuous than stirring her tea with a silver spoon. And while she was a grandmother of three, she was still slim and fit—easily able to lift a slippery infant from a washtub, or romp with the children through the orchard. Just last week, she had been lectured by the master gardener for climbing over a stacked stone wall to retrieve a few stray toy arrows.

As she fumbled with the stubborn apron knot, Evie heard a footstep behind her. Although there was no other sound or sign of the visitor's identity, she knew who it was, even before he sank to his knees behind
her. Strong fingers brushed hers away, and the knot was freed in a deft tug.

A low, silken murmur caressed the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. “I see we've hired a new nanny. How delightful.” Clever masculine hands slipped beneath the loosening apron, moving in a supple caress from her waist to her breasts. “What a buxom little wench you are. I predict you'll do well here.”

Evie closed her eyes, leaning back between his spread thighs. A gentle mouth, designed for sin and sensation, wandered lightly over her neck.

“I should probably warn you,” the seductive voice continued, “to keep your distance from the master. He's an infamous lecher.”

A smile came to her lips. “So I've heard. Is he as w-wicked as they say?”

“No. Much worse. Especially when it comes to women with red hair.” He plucked a few pins from her coiffure until a long braid fell over her shoulder. “Poor lass—I'm afraid he won't leave you alone.”

Evie shivered in reflexive pleasure as she felt him kiss his way along the side of her neck. “H-how should I handle him?”

“Frequently,” he said in-between kisses.

A helpless giggle escaped her as she turned to face him.

Even after three decades of marriage, Evie's heart still skipped a beat at the sight of her husband, formerly Lord St. Vincent, now the Duke of Kingston. Sebastian had matured into a magnificent man with a presence that both intimidated and dazzled. Since ascending to the dukedom ten years ago, he had acquired a veneer of dignity that befitted a man of his considerable power.
But no one could look into those remarkable light blue eyes, alive with glints of fire and ice, without recalling that he had once been the most wicked rake in England. He still was—Evie could attest to that.

Time had treated Sebastian lovingly, and always would. He was a beautiful man, lean and elegant, his tawny golden hair now lightly brushed with silver at the temples. A lion in winter, whom no one would cross except at their peril. Maturity had given him a look of cool, incisive authority, the sense of a man who had seen and experienced enough that he could rarely, if ever, be outmaneuvered. But when something amused or touched him, his smile was both incandescent and irresistible.

“Oh, it's you,” Sebastian said in a tone of mild surprise, seeming to ponder how he had ended up kneeling on a bathroom rug with his wife in his arms. “I was prepared to debauch a resisting servant girl, but you're a more difficult case.”

“You can debauch me,” Evie offered cheerfully.

Her husband smiled slightly, his glowing gaze moving gently over her face. He smoothed back a few escaping curls that had lightened from ruby to soft apricot. “My love, I've tried for thirty years. But despite my dedicated efforts . . .” A sweetly erotic kiss brushed her lips. “. . . you still have the innocent eyes of that adorably shy wallflower I eloped with. Can't you try to look at least a little jaded? Disillusioned?” He laughed quietly at her efforts and kissed her again, this time with a teasing, sensuous pressure that caused her pulse to quicken.

“Why did you come to find me?” Evie asked languidly, her head tilting back as his lips slid to her throat.

“I've just received news from town regarding your son.”

“Which one?”

“Gabriel. Unfortunately it's a bit more complicated than his run-of-the-mill vice and depravity.”

“Why is he your son when you're pleased with him, and my son whenever he's done something wicked?” Evie asked as Sebastian removed her apron and began to unfasten the front of her bodice.

“Since I'm the virtuous parent,” he said, “it only stands to reason that his wickedness must come from you.”

“You h-have that exactly backward,” she informed him.

“Do I?” Sebastian fondled her as he considered her words. “
I'm
the wicked one? No, my pet, that can't be right. I'm sure it's you.”

“You,” she said decisively, her breath catching as he kissed the newly revealed hollow at the base of her throat.

“Hmm. This must be sorted out at once. I'm taking you straight to bed.”

“Wait. Tell me more about Gabriel. What has he done?”

Lifting his head, Sebastian looked down at her with a slight frown. He sighed shortly. “There's been a scandal.”

“Another one?”

“It's serious this time. He's managed to compromise an earl's daughter. One of the Ravenels.”

Evie frowned, pondering the name, which sounded somewhat familiar. “Do we know that family?”

“I was acquainted with the old earl, Lord Trenear. His wife was a flighty, shallow sort—you met her once at a garden show and discussed her orchid collection.”

“Yes, I remember.” Unfortunately, Evie hadn't liked the woman. “They had a daughter?”

“Twins. Out for their first Season this year. It seems that your idiot son was caught
in flagrante delicto
with one of them.”

“He takes after his father,” Evie said.

Looking highly insulted, Sebastian rose to his feet in a graceful motion and pulled her up with him. “His father was never caught.”

“Except by me,” Evie said smugly.

Sebastian laughed. “True.”

“What does
in flagrante delicto
mean, exactly?”

“The literal translation? ‘While the crime is blazing.'” Picking her up easily, he said, “I believe a demonstration is in order.”

“But what about the s-scandal? What about Gabriel, and the Ravenel girl, and—”

“The rest of the world can wait,” Sebastian said firmly. “I'm going to debauch you for the ten thousandth time, Evie—and for once, I want you to pay attention.”

“Yes, sir,” she said demurely, and looped her arms around her husband's neck, as he carried her to their bedroom.

For the story of Lady Pandora Ravenel and Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent,

keep an eye out for

Devil in Spring