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“You may be the granddaughter of an earl, but I have a few connections of my own. I wished the occasion of our engagement to be memorable.”
Helen couldn’t stop smiling. “You were that certain of my answer?”
“Hardly that,” he said. “But a wise lady once told me I should not rely on my camel to do all the work.”
EPILOGUE
CAIRO, SIX MONTHS LATER
Rhys’s hand tightened on Helen’s waist as they turned in the waltz, and he relished the feel of her curves beneath his touch. They’d just returned from the gardens, and she stared up at him with the dazed look she often wore after one of their kisses. He barely resisted the urge to press his lips to hers once more, but her father stood not more than twenty feet away, speaking with Professor Tyndale and Mr. Shepheard.
Shepheard had outdone himself this night with a private affair to celebrate the nuptials of Miss Helen Corbyn, daughter of the president of the Royal Astronomical Society, granddaughter of Lord Ashford, to one Mr. Rhys Evelyn. Cascading garlands of flowers draped the ballroom’s doorways and columns, and an extravagance of candles filled the crystal chandeliers.
Outside, paper lanterns poured their soft glow over the gardens, and the moon, not to be outdone, reflected brilliantly on the smooth waters of the Nile. But his wife, with her bright eyes, cinnamon tresses and crisp taffeta, was the loveliest sight of all.
Much had occurred in the past months, and Rhys could hardly believe this life was his.
His investment in the railway was showing promise, with construction set to begin in two months. Owing to his ongoing presence in Egypt, he’d taken on the role of adviser to the English investors, a liaison of sorts between them and the local engineers.
Fiona continued her work at St. George’s but lately, she’d furthered her acquaintance with a traveling couple—the Bracebridges—and their companion, Miss Nightingale. Just the previous week, they’d invited Fiona to join them as they traveled on from Egypt to Greece. To Rhys’s surprise, she’d accepted their invitation.
He couldn’t deny his relief to know his sister would not be alone in Egypt when he and Helen removed to England. As to when that might occur, she’d been eagerly quizzing him on his estate in Surrey, so he thought they might go as soon as her year with Tyndale was up, if his work with the railway permitted it.
He looked up from his wife’s gaze to see her father watched them, a frown pinching his brows. Rhys realized his hand had slid lower on Helen’s hip than was strictly proper. He allowed it to move another half inch lower and chuckled when Harry Corbyn’s jaw tightened. While he respected his new father-in-law, their relationship had not been without its challenges.
Helen had written to her parents six months before to apprise them of her new fiancé and their impending nuptials. Rhys had included his own letter, assuring Harry Corbyn of his intentions, as well as his prospects and ability to care for the man’s daughter. Tyndale had sent a nicely worded recommendation as well. Despite these efforts, her father had written to Helen that while he didn’t withhold his permissionper se, he couldn’t in good conscience provide it, since he knew nothing of her suitor personally.
If Harry Corbyn meant to secure his valuables, Rhys had thought in irritation, then he ought not allow them to sail off to Egypt.
Nevertheless, Rhys had taken one look at his betrothed’s stricken expression and said, “I’ll return to England. I’ll apply to him in person, so he can know the man his daughter means to marry.”
“You’ll do no such thing. He may not know you, but I do, and he knows me. He’ll simply have to trust my judgment.”
That had been a month ago. The weeks had passed with no further correspondence from her family, and his heart had nearly broken to see her anxious over marrying without their blessing. He’d nearly suggested they postpone their nuptials until they could return to England together, but the Corbyns had surprised them both with their arrival in Cairo two days before.
“Helen,” her mother had exclaimed. “We couldn’t allow you to marry without us here to wish you well. Your father and I booked the first passage we could, and you know Edmund and Eloise wouldn’t be left behind,” she said with a wave toward the handsome pair at her side. “Of course, Aster couldn’t make the voyage in her condition, but she extends her well wishes and looks forward to your return.”
Lady Celeste Corbyn was an attractive woman with hair a similar shade to her daughter’s, although it contained the stray bit of silver. She folded Helen into her embrace and eyed Rhys over her daughter’s shoulder.
“And this is your young man, I take it?”
Rhys, who’d just passed his thirty-first birthday, hid a smile. It had been some time since he’d had a parent to make him feel like a lad, and now he would soon gain two.
“Yes, Mama,” Helen said as she performed the introductions.
“A pleasure, Lady Celeste,” Rhys said with a brief bow before turning to Helen’s father. “Mr. Corbyn.”
Helen’s sister Eloise was a younger, quieter version of Helen, with moss-green eyes and a dimple that appeared when she greeted him. He turned next to the brother, who quickly said, “Just Edmund,” before Rhys could address him more formally. “It will be easier that way. I imagine anyone Helly’s managed to trap can’t have much in his brain box.”
Rhys chuckled and shook the other man’s hand, mouthingHelly?at his betrothed. She merely shrugged.
Rhys and Edmund had quickly found common ground due to their shared interest in all things mechanical. Edmund, who’d been experimenting with a sleeker camera design, had exclaimed over Rhys’s pen prototype. Harry Corbyn, however, had been a bit more reserved until Rhys had commented on the future of steam travel.
“It’s a good investment now, but I daresay, once we harness the energy of the sun, we’ll see unprecedented innovations.”
And that, it seemed, had been enough to secure the astronomer’s interest, if not his full approval. Until now, at least, when he spied his new son-in-law’s hand traveling low on his daughter’s hip.
The waltz ended, and Rhys reluctantly left his bride chatting with Mrs. Tyndale as he sought one of the footmen for some of Shepheard’s fine champagne. As he lifted two flutes from the tray, Akeem appeared at his side with his usual, intense gaze.
