Rhys glanced at the footman and said brusquely, “A few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” The door closed at once.

Turning in his seat, Rhys leaned over Helen, toying with the folds of her veil. “Go on.”

“I could explain things to Devon before you arrive,” she continued, “and try to pave the way.”

He shook his head. “If he loses his temper, I won’t have you bear the brunt of it. Let me be the one to tell him.”

“But my cousin would never harm me in any way—”

“I know that. All the same, he’ll be picking for a fight. It’s for me to deal with him, not you.” Carefully he adjusted an edge of her collar that had folded over. “I want this settled by tomorrow night, for both our sakes. I can’t bear to wait longer than that. Will you agree to say nothing until then? And let me take care of it?” His tone was not dictatorial, but rather concerned. Protective. He paused before saying with gruff unwillingness, as if the word threatened to choke him, “Please.”

Helen stared into his coffee-black eyes. This was new, this feeling of being looked after and wanted. It seemed to spread inside her like delicate tendrils.

Realizing that he was waiting for an answer, she replied with a touch of impishness, “Aye.”

After a blink of surprise, Rhys hauled her up into his lap. His eyes glinted with amusement. “Mocking my accent, are you?”

“No.” A breathless giggle escaped her. “I like it. Very much.”

“Do you, then?” His tone had deepened. “I’ll have to send you inside, now soon. Give me a kiss, cariad. One to make up for all the kisses I would have had from you tonight.”

She pressed her mouth to his, and his lips parted, letting her explore him with little flirting tastes. Realizing that he was letting her take the lead, she nudged him more fully open, enjoying the firm silken texture of his mouth. Tentatively she changed the angle of the kiss, and the fit was so lush and delicious that she locked her mouth onto his. She wanted to stay like this forever, caught in his lap with the mass of her skirts bunched all around them, her bottom sinking into the space between his muscular thighs. Gripping his shoulders, she hugged herself closer to the hard contours of his body.

His chest moved in a forceful breath or two, like pumps from fireplace bellows, and he broke the kiss with a groan. A shaken laugh escaped him as her mouth continued to seek his. “No—Helen—ah, how you please me—we have to stop.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “Before I take you here in this carriage.”

Befuddled, Helen asked, “It can be done in a carriage?”

His color heightened, and he closed his eyes briefly, as if he’d been pushed to the limit of his endurance. “Aye.”

“But how—”

“Don’t ask me to explain, or I might end up showing you.” Clumsily he set her back on the seat beside him, and leaned forward to rap on the carriage door.

The footman came to help Helen descend, first placing a movable step on the flagstone tiled ground, then extending his gloved hand for her to take. Before Helen reached the French doors, she could already see the twins through the paned glass, their slim forms practically vibrating with eagerness.

“Milady, shall I carry this inside?”

Helen glanced at the cream-colored box he held, approximately the size of a dinner plate, tied with a narrow matching satin ribbon. She realized it was the box containing a selection of stockings from the store. “I’ll take it now,” she said. “Thank you”—she tried to remember what Rhys had called him—“George, isn’t it?”

He smiled at her as he opened the door. “Yes, milady.”

Immediately upon entering the house Helen was beset by the twins, who danced around her in excitement.

She cast one last glance through the glass panes, watching the carriage depart.

“You’re back!” Pandora shouted. “Finally! Whatever took you so long? You’ve been gone for most of the day!”

“It’s almost teatime,” Cassandra chimed in.

Helen smiled, nonplussed by their wildness.

The twins were nineteen, soon to be twenty, but one could be excused for thinking they were younger than their actual age. Raised in an atmosphere largely devoid of authority, they had run free on a country estate with few diversions other than those they created for themselves. Their parents had spent much of their time in London society, leaving their daughters in the care of servants, governesses, and tutors. None of them had been able or willing to take a firm hand with them.

To be certain, Pandora and Cassandra were high-spirited but also affectionate, intelligent, and endearing. And they were as beautiful as a pair of pagan goddesses, both of them long-limbed and glowing with health. Pandora was perpetually disheveled and full of energy, her dark hair falling from its pins as if she’d just been running through the woods. Cassandra, the golden-haired twin, was more compliant and romantic in nature, more willing to abide by rules.

“What happened?” Cassandra demanded. “What did Mr. Winterborne say?”

Helen set aside the cream-colored box. After tugging off a black glove, she held out her left hand.

The twins crowded close, wide-eyed with wonder.

The moonstone seemed illuminated, glowing with shimmers of green, blue, and silver.

“A new ring,” Pandora said.

“A new engagement,” Helen told her.

“But the same fiancé,” Cassandra said with a questioning lilt.

Helen laughed. “One can’t simply go shopping for one of those. Yes, it’s the same fiancé.”