Read Online Marrying Winterborne by Lisa Kleypas - Free Book Online Page A

deepened, and he let out a disapproving breath. “Wfft.”
    Helen had heard him make the Welsh sound on previous occasions, when something had displeased him. After unrolling the stocking and casting it aside with distaste, he began on the other leg.
    â€œI’ll need those stockings later,” Helen said, disconcerted to see her belongings handled so cavalierly.
    â€œI’ll replace them with new ones. And decent garters to go with them.”
    â€œMy own stockings and garters are perfectly serviceable.”
    â€œThey’ve left marks on your legs.” After deftly knotting the second stocking into a ball, he turned and cast it toward the open grate. It landed perfectly into the fire and flared into a bright yellow blaze.
    â€œWhy did you burn it?” Helen asked in dawning outrage.
    â€œIt wasn’t good enough for you.”
    â€œIt was mine!”
    To her vexation, Rhys seemed not all repentant. “Before you leave, I’ll give you a dozen pair. Will that satisfy you?”
    â€œNo.” She looked away with a frown.
    â€œIt was a worthless cotton stocking,” he said derisively, “mended in a dozen places. I’ll wager the scullery maid in my kitchen wears better.”
    Having learned forbearance over the years, from herrole as the peacemaker in the Ravenel family, Helen held her tongue and counted to ten—twice—before she trusted herself to reply. “I have very few stockings,” she told him. “Instead of buying new ones, I chose to mend them and use my pin money for books. Perhaps that scrap of cloth had no value to you, but it did to me.”
    Rhys was silent, his brows drawing together. Helen assumed that he was preparing for further argument. She was more than a little surprised when he said quietly, “I’m sorry, Helen. I didn’t stop to think. I had no right to destroy something that belonged to you.”
    Knowing that he was not a man often given to apologizing, or humbling himself, Helen felt her annoyance fade. “You’re forgiven.”
    â€œFrom now on I’ll treat your possessions with respect.”
    She smiled wryly. “I won’t come to you with many possessions, other than two hundred potted orchids.”
    His hands came to her shoulders, toying with the straps of her chemise. “Will you want all of them brought from Hampshire?”
    â€œI don’t think there’s room for all of them.”
    â€œI’ll find a way for you to keep them here.”
    Her eyes widened. “Would you?”
    â€œOf course.” His fingertips traced the curves of her shoulders with beguiling lightness. “I intend for you to have everything you need to be happy. Orchids . . . books . . . a silk mill dedicated to looming stockings only for you.”
    A laugh caught in her throat, her pulse quickening at his leisurely caresses. “Please don’t buy a silk mill for me.”
    â€œI already own one, actually. In Whitchurch.” He bent to kiss the pale curve of her shoulder, the brush of his mouth as warm and weightless as sunlight. “I’lltake you there someday, if you like. A grand sight, it is: a row of huge machines throwing raw silk into threads even finer than strands of your hair.”
    â€œI would like to see that,” she exclaimed, and he smiled at her interest.
    â€œThen you shall.” His fingers sifted through the loose blonde locks. “I’ll keep you well supplied in ribbons and stockings, cariad .” Easing her down to the bed, he began to reach beneath the chemise for the waist of her drawers.
    Helen tensed, her hands catching at his. “I’m very shy,” she whispered.
    His lips wandered gently up to her ear. “How do shy women prefer their drawers to be removed? Fast, or slow?”
    â€œFast . . . I think.”
    Between one breath and the next, her drawers were tugged down and efficiently whisked away. Gooseflesh rose on