“
As the daughter of an earl, she would keep her title, even after she became your wife. Lady Helen Winterborne.”
Devon was wily enough to understand how the sound of that would affect him. Lady Helen Winterborne…yes, Rhys bloody-fucking-well loved that. He had never dreamed of marrying a respectable woman, much less a daughter of the peerage.
But he wasn’t fit for her. He was a Welshman with a rough accent and a foul mouth, and vulgar origins. A merchant. No matter how he dressed or improved his manners, his nature would always be coarse and competitive. People would whisper, seeing the two of them together…They would agree that marrying him had debased her. Helen would be the object of pity and perhaps contempt.
She would secretly hate him for it.
Rhys didn’t give a damn.
He had no illusions of course, that Devon was offering him Lady Helen’s hand without conditions. There would be a hefty price: The Ravenels’ need for money was dire. But Helen was worth whatever he would have to pay. His fortune was even vaster than people suspected; he could have purchased a small country if he so desired.
“Have you discussed it with Lady Helen yet?” Rhys asked. “Is that why she played Florence Nightingale while I had fever? To soften me in preparation for bargaining?”
“Hardly,” Devon said with a snort. “Helen is above that sort of manipulation. She helped you because she’s naturally compassionate. No, she has no inkling that I’ve considered arranging a match for her.”
Rhys decided to be blunt. “What makes you think she would be willing to marry the likes of me?”
Devon answered frankly. “She has few options at present.
”
”