Marrying Winterborne
Page 11
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Mrs. Fernsby returned soon with a tea tray that had been sent up from the in-store restaurant. Although the secretary tried to remain inconspicuous as she set it on a small round table, Helen spoke to her gently.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fernsby.”
The secretary turned to her with surprised pleasure. “You are quite welcome, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
Helen smiled. “No, this is lovely.”
The secretary lingered in the office, insisting on arranging a plate for Helen as if she were waiting on the Queen. Using a pair of silver tongs, she reached into a small basket adorned with white ribbon, and transferred tiny sandwiches and cakes to the plate.
“Enough fawning, Fernsby,” Rhys said. “You have work to attend to.”
“Of course, Mr. Winterborne.” The secretary sent him a discreet but incinerating glance as she set aside the silver tongs.
Rhys accompanied Mrs. Fernsby to the door, and paused with her just beyond the threshold. They kept their voices low, mindful of being overheard.
“Fair smitten, you are,” Rhys mocked.
The secretary’s expression was utterly devoid of amusement. “Spending a few hours alone with you will destroy her honor. I will have your word, sir, that you intend to redeem it afterward.”
Although Rhys didn’t react outwardly, he was amazed that she would dare make such a demand. Mrs. Fernsby, the most loyal of all his employees, had always turned a blind eye and deaf ear to his past debaucheries. “You’ve never said a bloody word about the women I’ve brought to my house,” he remarked coolly. “Why this sudden fit of scruples?”
“She’s a lady. An innocent. I won’t be party to ruining her.”
Rhys gave her a warning glance. “I’ve asked for a tray of betrothal rings,” he said curtly. “But I can’t redeem her honor unless I ruin it first. Go see to your work.”
Mrs. Fernsby straightened her neck and spine like a belligerent hen, continuing to view him with patent suspicion. “Yes, sir.”
After closing the door, Rhys returned to Helen, who was pouring tea. She was poised on the edge of the chair, her back as straight as a lightning rod.
“Will you take some?” she asked.
He shook his head, watching her intently. Mrs. Fernsby had been right: Helen appeared delicate, more so than he had remembered. Her cameo-pale wrist was so slender, it scarcely seemed able to bear the weight of the teapot. Perhaps she didn’t want to be treated like a hothouse flower, but she hardly seemed to have more substance than one.
Christ, how would she handle the demands he would make of her?
But then her steady gaze met his, and the impression of fragility faded. Whatever Helen might feel for him, it wasn’t fear. She had come to him, sought him out, in an act of will and unexpected boldness.
He knew the ultimatum he’d given her was indecent, a contradiction of everything he aspired to, but he didn’t give a damn. It was the only way he could be sure of her. Otherwise, she might back out of the engagement. He didn’t want to think about what losing her again would turn him into.
Helen stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “How long has Mrs. Fernsby been in your employ?”
“Five years, since she was widowed. Her husband succumbed to a wasting disease.”
Sorrow and concern shadowed her sensitive face. “Poor woman. How did she come to work for you?”
Although Rhys was usually disinclined to talk about his employees’ personal lives, Helen’s interest encouraged him to continue. “She had helped to manage and run her husband’s hosiery and glove shop, which gave her a solid understanding of the retail business. After her husband passed away, she applied for a position at Winterborne’s. She applied as a secretary to the manager of the advertising department, but the manager refused to interview her, as he felt only a man could handle such responsibility.”
Helen’s expression showed not a hint of surprise or disagreement. Like most women, she had been raised to accept the notion of male superiority in the world of business.
“However,” Rhys said, “Fernsby outraged the hiring supervisor by asking to speak to me directly. She was turned away immediately. When I was told of it the next day, I sent for Fernsby, and interviewed her personally. I liked her pluck and ambition, and hired her on the spot as my private secretary.” He grinned as he added, “She’s lorded over the advertising department ever since.”
Helen appeared to mull over the story as she proceeded to consume a tea sandwich, a sliver of Sally Lunn bun, and a tart so small it could encompass only one glazed cherry. “I’m not accustomed to the idea of a woman holding a position among men at a place of business,” she admitted. “My father always said that the female brain was insufficient to the demands of professional work.”
“You disapprove of Fernsby’s actions, then?”
“I approve wholeheartedly,” she said without hesitation. “A woman should have choices other than to marry or live with her family.”
Although she probably hadn’t meant that to sting, it did. Rhys gave her a dark glance. “Perhaps instead of proposing, I should have offered you a position alongside the secretaries in the front office.”
Pausing with the teacup near her lips, Helen said, “I would rather marry you. It will be an adventure.”
Somewhat mollified, Rhys picked up a light chair with one hand and moved it close to her. “I wouldn’t count on much adventuring if I were you. I’m going to look after you and keep you safe.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fernsby.”
The secretary turned to her with surprised pleasure. “You are quite welcome, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
Helen smiled. “No, this is lovely.”
The secretary lingered in the office, insisting on arranging a plate for Helen as if she were waiting on the Queen. Using a pair of silver tongs, she reached into a small basket adorned with white ribbon, and transferred tiny sandwiches and cakes to the plate.
“Enough fawning, Fernsby,” Rhys said. “You have work to attend to.”
“Of course, Mr. Winterborne.” The secretary sent him a discreet but incinerating glance as she set aside the silver tongs.
Rhys accompanied Mrs. Fernsby to the door, and paused with her just beyond the threshold. They kept their voices low, mindful of being overheard.
“Fair smitten, you are,” Rhys mocked.
The secretary’s expression was utterly devoid of amusement. “Spending a few hours alone with you will destroy her honor. I will have your word, sir, that you intend to redeem it afterward.”
Although Rhys didn’t react outwardly, he was amazed that she would dare make such a demand. Mrs. Fernsby, the most loyal of all his employees, had always turned a blind eye and deaf ear to his past debaucheries. “You’ve never said a bloody word about the women I’ve brought to my house,” he remarked coolly. “Why this sudden fit of scruples?”
“She’s a lady. An innocent. I won’t be party to ruining her.”
Rhys gave her a warning glance. “I’ve asked for a tray of betrothal rings,” he said curtly. “But I can’t redeem her honor unless I ruin it first. Go see to your work.”
Mrs. Fernsby straightened her neck and spine like a belligerent hen, continuing to view him with patent suspicion. “Yes, sir.”
After closing the door, Rhys returned to Helen, who was pouring tea. She was poised on the edge of the chair, her back as straight as a lightning rod.
“Will you take some?” she asked.
He shook his head, watching her intently. Mrs. Fernsby had been right: Helen appeared delicate, more so than he had remembered. Her cameo-pale wrist was so slender, it scarcely seemed able to bear the weight of the teapot. Perhaps she didn’t want to be treated like a hothouse flower, but she hardly seemed to have more substance than one.
Christ, how would she handle the demands he would make of her?
But then her steady gaze met his, and the impression of fragility faded. Whatever Helen might feel for him, it wasn’t fear. She had come to him, sought him out, in an act of will and unexpected boldness.
He knew the ultimatum he’d given her was indecent, a contradiction of everything he aspired to, but he didn’t give a damn. It was the only way he could be sure of her. Otherwise, she might back out of the engagement. He didn’t want to think about what losing her again would turn him into.
Helen stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “How long has Mrs. Fernsby been in your employ?”
“Five years, since she was widowed. Her husband succumbed to a wasting disease.”
Sorrow and concern shadowed her sensitive face. “Poor woman. How did she come to work for you?”
Although Rhys was usually disinclined to talk about his employees’ personal lives, Helen’s interest encouraged him to continue. “She had helped to manage and run her husband’s hosiery and glove shop, which gave her a solid understanding of the retail business. After her husband passed away, she applied for a position at Winterborne’s. She applied as a secretary to the manager of the advertising department, but the manager refused to interview her, as he felt only a man could handle such responsibility.”
Helen’s expression showed not a hint of surprise or disagreement. Like most women, she had been raised to accept the notion of male superiority in the world of business.
“However,” Rhys said, “Fernsby outraged the hiring supervisor by asking to speak to me directly. She was turned away immediately. When I was told of it the next day, I sent for Fernsby, and interviewed her personally. I liked her pluck and ambition, and hired her on the spot as my private secretary.” He grinned as he added, “She’s lorded over the advertising department ever since.”
Helen appeared to mull over the story as she proceeded to consume a tea sandwich, a sliver of Sally Lunn bun, and a tart so small it could encompass only one glazed cherry. “I’m not accustomed to the idea of a woman holding a position among men at a place of business,” she admitted. “My father always said that the female brain was insufficient to the demands of professional work.”
“You disapprove of Fernsby’s actions, then?”
“I approve wholeheartedly,” she said without hesitation. “A woman should have choices other than to marry or live with her family.”
Although she probably hadn’t meant that to sting, it did. Rhys gave her a dark glance. “Perhaps instead of proposing, I should have offered you a position alongside the secretaries in the front office.”
Pausing with the teacup near her lips, Helen said, “I would rather marry you. It will be an adventure.”
Somewhat mollified, Rhys picked up a light chair with one hand and moved it close to her. “I wouldn’t count on much adventuring if I were you. I’m going to look after you and keep you safe.”
