Helen watched him solemnly. After a long moment, she said, “It’s important that you keep your promises to me.”

Defeated and fuming, he stripped off his wet shirt. Apparently Helen wasn’t quite as malleable as he’d assumed. “We’ll be married in six weeks. Not a day more.”

“That’s not nearly enough time,” she protested. “Even if I had unlimited resources, it would take much longer than that to make plans and place orders, and have things delivered—”

“I have unlimited resources. Anything you want will be delivered here faster than a rat up a drainpipe.”

“It’s not just that. My brother Theo hasn’t been gone a year. My family and I will be in mourning until the beginning of June. Out of respect for him, I would like to wait until then.”

Rhys stared at her. His brain staggered around the words.

Wait until then. Wait until . . . June?

“That’s five months,” he said blankly.

Helen looked back at him, seeming to believe she had said something rational.

“No,” he said in outrage.

“Why not?”

It had been many years, and tens of millions of pounds ago, since anyone had asked Rhys to justify why he wanted something. The mere fact that he wanted it was always enough.

“It’s what we originally planned,” Helen pointed out, “the first time we became engaged.”

Rhys didn’t know why he’d agreed to that, or how it had even seemed tenable. Probably because he’d been so elated about marrying her that he hadn’t been inclined to quibble over the wedding date. Now, however, it was painfully clear that five days was too long to wait for her. Five weeks would be torment.

Five months didn’t even merit a discussion.

“Your brother won’t know or care if you marry before the mourning period is over,” Rhys said. “He probably would have been glad that you’d found a husband.”

“Theo was my only brother. I would like to honor him with the traditional year of mourning if at all possible.”

“It’s not possible. Not for me.”

She gave him a questioning glance.

Rhys leaned over her, gripping the sides of the tub. “Helen, there are times when a man has to—if his needs aren’t satisfied—” The heat from the water wafted up to his darkening face. “I can’t go without you that long. A man’s natural urges—” He broke off uncomfortably. “Damn it! If he can’t find relief with a woman, he’s driven to self-abuse. Do you understand?”

She shook her head, mystified.

“Helen,” he said with growing impatience, “I haven’t been chaste since the age of twelve. If I tried now, I would probably end up killing someone before the week was out.”

Perplexity wove across her forehead. “When we were engaged before . . . how were you planning to manage? I suppose . . . you were going to lie with other women until we were married?”

“I hadn’t considered it.” At that point, it might not have been entirely out of the question. But now . . . he was appalled to realize that the thought of trying to substitute someone else for Helen was repellent. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? “It has to be you. We’re bound to each other now.”

Helen’s gaze slid bashfully over his bare torso, and by the time her eyes returned to his face, she looked flushed and a little shaken. With a hot stab in the pit of his stomach, he realized she was aroused by him.

“You’ll need it too,” he said huskily. “You’ll remember the pleasure I gave you, and want more.”

Helen looked away from him as she replied. “I’m sorry. But I would rather not marry while I’m still in mourning.”

Gentle as her tone was, Rhys heard the underlying intractability in it. After a lifetime of bartering and bargaining, he had learned to recognize when the other party had reached the point at which they would not yield.

“I intend to marry you in six weeks,” he said, making his voice hard to mask his desperation, “whatever the cost. Tell me what you want. Tell me, and you’ll have it.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing you can bribe me with.” Looking sincerely apologetic, Helen added, “You already promised me the piano.”

Chapter 6

THE ELEGANT UNMARKED CARRIAGE came to a halt at the porticoed side entrance of Ravenel House. An afternoon rain had descended from the January sky, swept along by brisk icy breezes that whistled through the streets of London. As Helen had peeked through the carriage’s window blinds during the ride from Cork Street to South Audley, she had seen pedestrians clutching wool coats and capes more closely around their bodies, heading to covered shop doorways to stand in tight clusters. The shower of raindrops, heralding worse to come, had imparted a dark shimmer to the pavement.

But warm yellow light poured through the glass-paned doors that opened onto Ravenel House’s spacious double library, filled with mahogany shelves and acres of books, and heavy well-cushioned furniture. A shiver of anticipation went through Helen at the thought of returning to her cozy house.

Rhys slid a hand over both her gloved ones, giving them a slight squeeze. “I’ll call on Trenear tomorrow evening to tell him about the engagement.”

“He may not take the news well,” Helen said.

“He won’t,” Rhys replied flatly. “But I can handle him.”

Helen was still concerned about Devon’s reaction. “Perhaps you should wait to call until the day after tomorrow,” she suggested. “He and Kathleen will be weary from traveling. I think they’ll receive the news more easily if they’ve had a sound night’s rest. And I could—” She paused as a footman began to open the carriage door.