Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels 2)

“I would be much obliged,” Devon said.

Wordlessly Rhys picked the black leather Gladstone bag he’d carried inside, and gave it to him.

Lifting his brows, Devon unlatched the end catches, pulled the top apart, and looked inside the bag. A slow grin crossed his face as he beheld two dozen glass jars of salted almonds packed among layers of tissue paper.

“I gather Lady Trenear has a fondness for them?” Rhys asked.

“Cravings,” Devon said, his smile lingering. “Many thanks, Winterborne.” Closing and latching the bag, he said affably, “Come to the library, we’ll have a brandy.”

Rhys hesitated. “Where is everyone?”

“West is at the quarry site and will return soon. The twins are out walking, and my wife is resting upstairs. Helen is most likely still out at the glasshouse with her orchids.”

Knowing that Helen was nearby—alone, in the glasshouse—caused Rhys’s heart to pound out a few extra beats. After a discreet, desperate glance at the mantel clock, he said, “Four o’clock is a bit early for brandy, aye?”

Devon gave him an incredulous look, followed by a low laugh. “My God. What kind of Welshman are you?” Before Rhys could reply, he continued, “Very well. I’m going to deliver this”—he hefted the bag in his hand—“to my wife. As repayment for your generosity, I’ll deny all knowledge of your whereabouts for as long as possible. But if you and Helen are late for tea, it’s on your head.” He paused. “She’s at the first glasshouse past the walled garden.”

Rhys gave him a short nod. He could feel himself bracing inwardly, a knot tightening at the pit of his stomach as he wondered how Helen would react to seeing him.

Devon’s lips twitched. “No need to brood, Heathcliff. She’ll be glad to see you.”

Although the reference escaped Rhys—he was not one for novels—he was annoyed to realize that his rampaging nerves were obvious. Damning himself silently, he couldn’t keep from asking, “Has she mentioned me?”

Devon’s brows flew upward. “Mentioned you? You’re all Helen talks about. She’s been reading Welsh history books and plaguing the family with accounts of Owain Glyndwr and something called the Eistedfodd.” His eyes sparkled with friendly mockery. “Helen was hacking and spitting so much the other day that we thought she was coming down with a cold, until we realized she was practicing the Welsh alphabet.”

Ordinarily Rhys would have made some sarcastic retort, but he’d barely noticed the gibe. His chest had gone tight with pleasure.

“She doesn’t have to do that,” he muttered.

“Helen wants to please you,” Devon said. “It’s her nature. Which leads to something I want to make clear: Helen is like a younger sister to me. And although I’m obviously the last man alive who should lecture anyone about propriety, I expect you to behave like an altar boy with her for the next few days.”

Rhys gave him a surly glance. “I was an altar boy, and I can tell you that reports of their virtue are highly exaggerated.”

With a reluctant grin, Devon turned and headed back toward the main hall.

Rhys went to find Helen. Since it wouldn’t do to alarm her by running and leaping on her like a madman, he forced himself to walk at a measured pace. Exiting the back of the house through the conservatory, he crossed a section of neatly mown lawn.

A sinuous graveled path led past sweeps of winter-flowering shrubs, and ancient stone walls covered with climbing vines that twisted together like lace. The estate gardens were clean and spare, the frosted ground biding its time until spring came to soften it. A breeze scented of peat smoke and sedge reminded him of the vale where he had lived in early childhood until his family had moved to London. Not that Llanberris, with its stony ground and abundant tarns, was anything like these manicured surroundings. But there was a particular smell of a place with lakes and rain, and Hampshire had it.

As he approached the row of four glasshouses, he saw movement in the first one, a slim black-clad shape gliding past frosted panes. His heart jolted, and a flush heated his face despite the biting February air. He didn’t know what he expected, or why he was as nervous as a lad with his first sweetheart. Not long ago, he would have scoffed at the suggestion that an unworldly young woman, a girl, could reduce him to this state.

He used one knuckle to rap gently on a glass pane. Carefully he ascended a stone step, let himself into the building, and closed the door.

Rhys had never been inside the glasshouse before. Helen had described it to him in detail while he had stayed at Eversby Priory, but he’d been encumbered by crutches and a leg cast. He had regretted not being able to walk out to see it, having understood how important it was to her.

The indoor climate was moist, warm, loamy. It seemed a world away from England, a glass palace filled with brilliant color and exotic shapes. He was greeted with the pungency of potting soil and dense greenery, and thin sharp orchid perfumes, and a pervasive smell of vanilla. His wondering gaze traveled over row upon row of tall plants, tables of orchids in pots and jars, orchid vines growing over the walls and curling upward toward a glittering glass firmament.

A slender figure emerged from behind an inflorescence of snow-white blooms. Helen’s crystalline eyes caught the light, and her pretty lips rounded like a tea rose as she said his name in soundless bewilderment. She moved toward him, stumbling a little as she came around the table too fast. The hint of clumsiness, her obvious haste, electrified him. She had missed him. She had wanted him, too.