by Lisa Kleypas
“Yes,” she snapped, “you can throw your brother back into that river.” She strode away before he could respond.
West wandered into the master bedroom. “Back to your usual charming self, I see.”
Devon grinned and let out a ragged breath, willing the raging heat of the past several minutes to retreat. Having Kathleen there, in his bed, had been the most exquisite torture imaginable. His body was a mass of aches, stabs, and cravings.
He’d never felt better in his life.
“Why was she angry?” West asked. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” Picking up the bedside chair with one hand, he turned it around. “You owe me a pair of shoes.” He sat astride the chair and braced his arms on the back of it.
“I owe you more than that.” A few months ago, Devon reflected, it was doubtful that West would have had the physical strength, let alone the presence of mind, to haul him out of the river. “Thank you,” he said simply, holding his brother’s gaze.
“It was wholly self-serving, I assure you. I have no desire to be the Earl of Trenear.”
Devon gave a short laugh. “Nor do I.”
“Oh? Lately the role seems a better fit for you than I would have expected.” West glanced over him speculatively. “How are your ribs?”
“Cracked but not broken.”
“You’ve fared much better than Winterborne.”
“He was seated next to the window.” Remembering the moment when the trains had collided, Devon grimaced. “How is he?”
“Sleeping. Weeks wants to keep him sedated to help with the pain and improve his chances of healing properly. He also advised sending for an oculist from London.”
“Will Winterborne regain his sight?”
“The doctor thinks so, but there’s no way of knowing for certain until he’s tested.”
“And the leg?”
“The break was clean – it will heal well. However, Winterborne will be staying with us for quite a bit longer than we’d planned. At least a month.”
“Good. That will give him more time to become acquainted with Helen.”
West’s face went blank. “You’re back to that idea again? Arranging a match between them? What if Winterborne turns out to be lame and blind?”
“He’ll still be rich.”
Looking sardonic, West said, “Evidently a brush with death hasn’t changed your priorities.”
“Why should it? The marriage would benefit everyone.”
“How exactly would you stand to benefit?”
“I’ll stipulate that Winterborne settle a large dower on Helen, and name me as the trustee of her finances.”
“And then you’ll use the money as you see fit?” West asked incredulously. “Sweet Mother of God, how can you risk your life to save drowning children one day, and plot something so ruthless the next day?”
Annoyed, Devon gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “There’s no need to carry on as if Helen’s going to be dragged to the altar in chains. She’ll have a choice in the matter.”
“The right words can bind someone more effectively than chains. You’ll manipulate her into doing what you want regardless of how she feels.”
“Enjoy the view from your moral pedestal,” Devon said. “Unfortunately I have to keep my feet on the ground.”
West stood and went to the window, scowling at the view. “There’s a flaw in your plan. Winterborne may decide that Helen isn’t to his taste.”
“Oh, he’ll take her,” Devon assured him. “Marrying a daughter of the peerage is the only way for him to climb in society. Consider it, West: Winterborne is one of the richest men in London and half the nobility is in debt to him – and yet the same aristocrats who beg him to extend their credit refuse to welcome him into their drawing rooms. If he marries an earl’s daughter, however, doors that have always been closed to him would instantly open.” Devon paused reflectively. “Helen would do well for him.”
“She may not want him.”
“Would she rather become a penniless spinster?”
“Perhaps,” West replied testily. “How should I know?”
“My question was rhetorical. Of course Helen will agree to the match. Aristocratic marriages are always arranged for the benefit of the family.”
“Yes, but the brides are usually paired with their social equals. What you’re proposing is to lower Helen by selling her to any common lout with deep pockets for your own benefit.”
“Not any common lout,” Devon said. “One of our friends.”
West let out a reluctant laugh and turned back to face him. “Being a friend of ours doesn’t exactly recommend him. I’d rather let him have Pandora or Cassandra – at least they have enough spirit to stand up to him.”
Helen was glad and relieved that the Christmas Eve party and servants’ ball would be held as planned. It had been discussed among the family, with all of them sensitive to the plight of poor Mr. Winterborne in his invalid condition. However, both Devon and West had said flatly that Winterborne would be the last person to want a holiday to be canceled for his sake, when it would mean so much to the servants and tenants who had worked so hard all year. Going on with the celebration as planned would be good for the morale of the entire household, and in Helen’s opinion, it was important to honor the spirit of the holiday. No harm was ever done by encouraging love and goodwill.
The household bustled with renewed excitement as everyone wrapped gifts and made preparations, while rich smells of pastries and joint roasts drifted from the kitchen. Hampers of oranges and apples were set out in the entrance hall, along with baskets containing spinning tops, carved wooden animals, skipping ropes, and cup-and-ball toys.
“I feel sorry for Mr. Winterborne,” Pandora remarked. She and Cassandra were busy wrapping sugared almonds in little twists of paper, while Helen arranged flowers in a large vase. “He’ll be alone in a dark room,” she continued, “while the rest of us are enjoying decorations that he sent to us, and can’t even see!”
“I feel sorry for him too,” Cassandra said. “But his room is far enough from the noise that it shouldn’t bother him. And since the medicine from Dr. Weeks makes him sleep most of the time, he probably won’t even know what’s happening.”
“He’s not sleeping now,” Pandora said. “According to Mrs. Church, he refused to take his afternoon dose. He knocked a cup out of her hand and said something beastly and didn’t even apologize!”
Helen paused in the middle of arranging a large vase of red roses, evergreen branches, white lilies, and chrysanthemums. “He’s in a great deal of pain,” she said, “and probably frightened, as any man in his situation would be. Don’t judge him unfairly, dear.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pandora said. “It would be awfully dull to lie there with no diversions. Not even being able to read! Kathleen said she was going to visit him, and try to coax him to take some broth or tea. I hope she had more luck than Mrs. Church.”
Frowning, Helen trimmed another rose stem and slid it into the arrangement. “I’ll go upstairs,” she said, “and ask if there’s something I can do to help. Cassandra, would you finish these flowers for me?”
“If Mr. Winterborne would like,” Pandora offered, “Cassie and I could read The Pickwick Papers to him. We’ll do all the characters’ voices and make it very amusing.”
“I could bring Josephine to visit him after I finish the flowers,” Cassandra suggested. “She’s much calmer than Napoleon, and it always makes me feel better to have a dog with me when I’m ill.”
“Perhaps he’d like to meet Hamlet,” Pandora exclaimed.
Helen smiled into her younger sisters’ earnest faces. “You are both very kind. No doubt Mr. Winterborne will be grateful for the entertainment after he’s had a bit more rest.”
She left the dining room and crossed through the entrance hall, enjoying the sight of the glittering tree. Beneath the ornamented branches, a housemaid hummed a carol as she swept up fallen needles. She went upstairs and found Ka
thleen and Mrs. Church standing outside Winterborne’s room. Both of them looked concerned and exasperated as they conferred in hushed tones.
“I came to see how our guest was,” Helen said, joining them.
Kathleen answered with a frown. “He has a fever and can’t keep anything down. Not even a sip of water. It’s very worrying.”
Helen glanced through the partially open doorway, into the shadowed room. She heard a quiet sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
“Shall I send for Dr. Weeks?” Mrs. Church asked.
“I suppose so,” Kathleen said, “although he stayed up most of the night watching over Mr. Winterborne, and he desperately needs a few hours of rest. Furthermore, if we can’t persuade our patient to take any medicine or water, I don’t know how Weeks could manage it.”
“May I try?” Helen offered.
“No,” the other women said in unison.
Turning to Helen, Kathleen explained, “So far we’ve heard nothing but profanities from Mr. Winterborne. Fortunately at least half of it is in Welsh, but it’s still too vulgar for your ears. Besides, you’re still unmarried, and he isn’t decently clothed, so it’s out of the question.”
A curse emerged from the depths of the room, followed by a wretched groan.
Helen felt a rush of pity. “The sickroom holds no surprises for me,” she said. “After Mama was gone, I nursed Father through more than one illness.”
“Yes, but Winterborne isn’t a relation.”
“He’s certainly in no condition to compromise anyone… and you and Mrs. Church are already burdened with much to do.” She gave Kathleen a pleading glance. “Let me see to him.”
“Very well,” Kathleen said reluctantly. “But leave the door open.”
Helen nodded and slipped into the room.
The atmosphere was warm and stuffy, the air pungent with sweat, medicine, and plaster. Winterborne’s large, dark form writhed on the bed amid tangled sheets. Although he was dressed in a nightshirt, with one leg encased in a cast from the knee down, Helen had a glimpse of swarthy skin and hairy limbs. The locks on his head were obsidian black and slightly curly. His white teeth clenched with pained effort as he tried to pull the bandages from his eyes. Helen hesitated. Ill though he was, Winterborne seemed like a feral beast. But as she saw the way his hands fumbled and shook, she was filled with compassion.
“No, no…” she said, hurrying to him. She laid a gentle hand on his forehead, which was as dry and hot as a stove plate. “Be at ease. Be still.”
Winterborne had begun to shove her away, but at the feel of her cool fingers, he made a low sound and went motionless. He seemed half delirious with fever. His lips were chapped and cracked at the corners. Bringing his head to her shoulder to steady it, Helen restored the bandage around his eyes, tucking in the loose ends. “Don’t pull at this,” she murmured. “Your eyes must stay covered while they heal.” He stayed against her, breathing in short, sharp bursts. “Will you try some water?” she asked.
“Can’t,” he managed wretchedly.
Helen turned her gaze to the housekeeper, who had remained at the threshold. “Mrs. Church, please open the window.”
“Dr. Weeks said to keep the room warm.”
“He’s feverish,” Helen persisted. “I think it would help to make him more comfortable.”
Mrs. Church went to the window. As she unlatched the casement and pushed it open, a rush of icy air entered the room, whisking away the sickroom odor.
Helen felt the movement of Winterborne’s chest as he drew in a deep breath. The heavy muscles of his back and arms twitched with relief, the ferocious tension draining. His head settled on her shoulder as if he were an exhausted child. Aware of his state of undress, Helen didn’t dare look down.
As she held him, she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand. “Try a few drops of water,” she coaxed. As he felt her press the cup to his lips, he made a faint protesting sound, but he allowed her to wet his lips.
Realizing it was the most he could do, Helen set the cup aside and whispered, “There, that’s better.” She continued to hold him while the housekeeper came forward without a word and began to straighten the bedclothes.
It was scandalous, Helen knew, for her to behave this way with any man, let alone a stranger. There was no question that Kathleen would have been appalled. But Helen had been secluded from society for her entire life, and although she was disposed to follow the rules whenever possible, she was also willing to discard them when necessary. Besides, even though Winterborne was a powerful and influential man in his everyday existence, right now he was suffering and very ill, and she could almost think of him as a child in need of help.
She tried to lower him to the pillows, but he resisted with a grunt. One of his hands clamped around her wrist. Although his grip wasn’t painful, she felt the strength of it. If he wished to, he could have easily snapped her bones. “I’ll go fetch something to make you feel better,” she said gently. “I’ll come back soon.”
Winterborne let her ease him down to the pillows, but he didn’t let go. Perturbed, Helen contemplated his large hand before her gaze traveled to his face. His eyes and forehead were obscured by bandages, but the bone structure beneath his bruised and scratched complexion was austerely angled, the cheekbones paring-knife sharp, the jaw sturdy and emphatic. There were no smile lines around the mouth, no touch of softness anywhere.
“I’ll return within a half hour,” Helen said. “I promise.”
Winterborne didn’t relinquish his grip.
“I promise,” she repeated. With her free hand, she stroked his fingers lightly, coaxing them to loosen.
He tried to dampen his lips with his tongue before speaking. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
“Lady Helen.”
“What time is it?”
Helen sent a questioning glance to Mrs. Church, who went to the mantel clock. “It’s four o’clock,” the housekeeper reported.
He was going to time her, Helen realized. And heaven help her if she was late.
“I’ll return by half past four,” she said. After a moment, she added softly, “Trust me.”
Gradually Winterborne’s hand opened, freeing her.
Chapter 21
T
he first thing Rhys had become aware of after the railway accident was someone – a doctor, perhaps – asking if there was someone he wanted to send for. He had shaken his head immediately. His father was dead, and his elderly mother, a flinty and humorless woman who lived in London, was the last person he wanted to see. Even if he’d asked her for comfort, she wouldn’t have known how to give it.
Rhys had never been seriously injured or ill in his life. Even as a boy he had been big-boned and physically fearless. His Welsh parents had thrashed him with a barrel stave for any misdeed or moment of laziness, and he had taken the worst punishments without flinching. His father had been a grocer, and they had lived on a street of shopkeepers where Rhys had not learned the skills of buying and selling so much as he had absorbed them, as naturally as he breathed air.
After he had built his own business, he never let any personal relationship detract from it. There were women, of course, but only the ones who were willing to have an affair on his terms: purely sexual and devoid of sentiment. Now, as he lay suffocating in an unfamiliar bedroom with pain rioting through him, it occurred to Rhys that perhaps he had been rather too independent. There should be someone he could send for, someone who would care for him in this inexplicable situation of being injured.
In spite of the cool breeze that came from the window, every inch of him felt scorched. The weight of the cast on his leg maddened him almost as much as the unrelenting hurt of the broken bone. The room seemed to revolve and swivel, making him violently nauseous. All he could do was wait, minute by helpless minute, for the woman to return.
Lady Helen… one of the rarefied creatures he had always regarded with private
contempt. One of his betters.
After what seemed an eternity, he was aware of someone entering the room. He heard a quiet rattle, like glass or porcelain against metal. Brusquely he asked, “What time is it?”
“Four twenty-seven.” It was Lady Helen’s voice, luminous with a hint of amusement. “I have three minutes left.”
He listened intently to the rustle of skirts… the sound of something being poured and stirred… the crackle of water and ice. If she intended for him to drink something, she was mistaken: The idea of swallowing sent a shudder of revulsion through him.
She was close now; he sensed her leaning over him. A length of cool, damp flannel began to stroke over his forehead, cheeks and throat, and it felt so good that a wrenching sigh left him. When the cloth was removed momentarily, he reached for it, gasping, “Don’t stop.” He was inwardly furious that he’d been reduced to begging for small mercies.