Cold-Hearted Rake

by Lisa Kleypas

  The valet swallowed hard as he considered the proposition. “When shall I begin?” he asked.

  Rhys smiled. “Today.”

  News traveled fast around the Ravenel household: By the time Devon came to visit Rhys later that evening, he was already aware of Quincy’s new position.

  “It appears you’ve begun to hire my servants away from me,” Devon said dryly.

  “Do you object?” Rhys lifted a glass of wine to his lips. He had just finished his dinner tray, and was in an unsettled, edgy mood. Hiring a valet had given him a sense of satisfaction that had lasted only a few minutes. Now he was hungry to make decisions, accomplish things, take the reins in hand once more. It seemed as if he would be stuck in this small bedroom forever.

  “You must be joking,” Devon said. “I have too damned many servants. Hire ten more, and I’ll dance a jig for joy.”

  “At least one of us can dance,” Rhys muttered.

  “You couldn’t dance even before you broke your leg.”

  Rhys grinned reluctantly; Devon was one of a handful of men in the world who had no fear of mocking him.

  “You won’t go wrong with Quincy,” Devon continued. “He’s a solid old fellow.” Settling in the chair by the bed, he stretched out his legs and crossed them.

  “How are you?” Rhys asked, noticing that he was moving with uncharacteristic carefulness.

  “Grateful to be alive.” Devon looked more relaxed and content than Rhys had ever seen him. “Upon reflection, I realized that I can’t expire for at least forty years: There’s too much to do at Eversby Priory.”

  Rhys sighed, his thoughts returning to his department store. “I’ll go mad here, Trenear. I have to return to London as soon as possible.”

  “Dr. Weeks said you could begin to walk on the cast, with the aid of crutches, in three weeks.”

  “I have to do it in two.”

  “I understand,” Devon said.

  “If you have no objections, I want to send for some of my staff, and have them visit for a day. I need to find out what’s been happening in my absence.”

  “Of course. Tell me how I can help.”

  Rhys was grateful to Devon, to an extent he had never felt before. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling: He didn’t like being beholden to any man. “You’ve helped more than enough by saving my neck. Now I want to repay the favor.”

  “We’ll call it even if you’ll continue to advise me on the matter of leasing land to Severin’s railway.”

  “I’ll do more, if you’ll let me look over the estate’s finances and rental income calculations. English agriculture is a bad investment. You need revenue from sources other than farming.”

  “West is making changes that will increase the annual yields by at least half again.”

  “That’s a good start. With skill and luck, you might eventually make the estate pay for itself. But you’ll never make a profit. That will only come with ventures in something other than land, such as manufacturing or urban properties.”

  “Capital is a problem.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  Devon’s gaze turned sharp with interest. Before he could explain further, however, Rhys happened to catch sight of a slim, dark shape walking past the doorway. It was only a fleeting glimpse… but it was enough to send a jolt of awareness through him.

  “You,” he said in a voice that carried out into the hallway. “Whoever just passed by the door. Come here.”

  In the riveting silence, a young woman appeared at the threshold. Her features were delicately angular, her silver-blue eyes round and wide-set. As she stood at the edge of the lamplight, her fair skin and pale blond hair seemed to hold their own radiance, an effect he’d seen in paintings of Old Testament angels.

  “There’s a grain about it,” Rhys’s father had always said when he’d wanted to describe something fine and polished and perfect, something of the highest quality. Oh, there was a grain about this woman. She was only medium height, but her extreme slenderness gave her the illusion of being taller. Her breasts were high and gently rounded beneath the high-necked dress, and for a pleasurable, disorienting moment Rhys remembered resting his head there as she had given him sips of orchid tea.

  “Say something,” he commanded gruffly.

  The shy glow of her smile gilded the air. “I’m glad to see you in better health, Mr. Winterborne.”

  Helen’s voice.

  She was more beautiful than starlight, and just as unattainable. As he stared at her, Rhys was bitterly reminded of the upper-class ladies who had looked at him with contempt when he was a shop boy, holding their skirts back if he passed near them on the street, the way they would seek to avoid a filthy stray dog.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

  Rhys shook his head, still unable to take his gaze from her. “I only wanted a face to go with the voice.”

  “Perhaps later in the week,” Devon suggested to Helen, “you might play the piano for Winterborne, when he’s able to sit in the parlor.”

  She smiled. “Yes, if Mr. Winterborne wouldn’t mind mediocre entertainment.”

  Devon glanced at Rhys. “Don’t be deceived by the show of false modesty,” he said. “Lady Helen is a fearsomely talented pianist.”

  “It’s not false,” Helen protested with a laugh. “In truth, I have little talent. It’s only that I’ve spent so many hours practicing.”

  Rhys glanced at her pale hands, remembering the way she had smoothed salve over his lips with a light fingertip. It had been one of the most erotic moments of his life. For a man who had indulged his carnal appetites without restraint, that was saying something.

  “Hard work often produces better results than talent,” he said in response to her comment.

  Helen blushed a little and lowered her gaze. “Good evening, then. I will leave you to your conversation.”

  Rhys didn’t reply, only lifted his wineglass and drank deeply. But his gaze followed her every second until she left the room.

  Devon leaned back and interlaced his fingers, resting them on his midriff. “Lady Helen is an accomplished young woman. She’s been educated in history, literature, and art, and she’s fluent in French. She also knows how to manage servants and run an upper-class household. After the mourning period is over, I intend to take her to London, along with the twins, for her first season.”

  “No doubt she’ll have many splendid offers,” Rhys said bitterly.

  Devon shook his head. “At best, she’ll have a few adequate ones. None will be splendid, nor even appropriate for a girl of her quality.” In response to Rhys’s perplexed glance, he explained, “The late earl didn’t provide for a dowry.”

  “A pity.” If Devon were going to try to borrow money from him to improve Lady Helen’s chances of marrying a peer, Rhys would tell him to sod off. “What has any of that to do with me?”

  “Nothing, if she doesn’t please you.” Seeing Rhys’s baffled expression, Devon shook his head with an exasperated laugh. “Confound it, Winterborne, don’t be obtuse. I’m trying to point out an opportunity, if you have any interest in Lady Helen.”

  Rhys was silent. Stunned.

  Devon chose his words with obvious care. “On the surface, it’s not the most obvious match.”

  Match? Marriage match? The bastard clearly didn’t understand what he was suggesting. Even so… Rhys felt his soul clutch at the idea.

  “However,” Devon continued, “there are advantages to both sides. Helen would gain a life of security and comfort. She would have her own household. For your part, you would have a well-bred wife whose pedigree would gain you entrance to many of the doors that are closed to you now.” After a brief pause, he added casually, “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 dre
amed 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. There is no occupation fit for a gentlewoman that would afford her a decent living, and she would never lower herself to harlotry. Furthermore, Helen’s conscience won’t allow her to be a burden on someone else, which means that she’ll have to take a husband. Without a dowry, either she’ll be forced to wed some feeble old dotard who can’t work up a cock-stand or someone’s inbred fourth son. Or… she’ll have to marry out of her class.” Devon shrugged and smiled pleasantly. It was the smile of a man who held a good hand of cards. “You’re under no obligation, of course: I could always introduce her to Severin.”

  Rhys was too experienced a negotiator to show any reaction, even though a burst of outrage filled him at the suggestion. Staying outwardly relaxed, he murmured, “Perhaps you should. Severin would take her at once. Whereas I would probably be better off marrying the kind of woman I deserve.” He paused, contemplating his wineglass, turning it so one last tiny red drop rolled across the inside. “However,” he said, “I always want better than I deserve.”

  All his ambition and determination had converged into a single desire… to marry Lady Helen Ravenel. She would bear his children, handsome blue-blooded children. He would see that they were educated and raised in luxury, and he would lay the world at their feet.

  Someday, by God, people would beg to marry Winterbornes.

  Chapter 24

  A

  week after the railway accident, Devon had still not healed sufficiently to go on his customary morning ride. He was accustomed to beginning each day with some form of physical exertion, and a simple walk wasn’t enough. His temper grew short with the enforced inactivity, and to make things worse, he was as randy as a stoat, with no way to relieve either problem. He was still puzzled over Kathleen’s refusal to even consider an affair with him. You’re dangerous to me… The statement had baffled and infuriated him. He would never harm a hair on her head. How could she even think otherwise?

  Her proper upbringing by Lady Berwick had given her an overactive conscience, he decided. Obviously she needed time to adjust to the idea that she was no longer bound by the same rules she had always followed so strictly.

  For his part, Devon knew that he would have to earn her trust.

  Or seduce her.

  Whatever happened first.

  He struck out for the countryside along a footpath that led through the wood and past the remains of a medieval barn. The day was damp, the air bitten with hoarfrost, but the brisk walk kept him pleasantly warm. Noticing a hen harrier flying low to the ground, he paused to watch it hunt. The bird seemed to drift as it searched for prey, its gray and white plumage ghostlike in the morning light. In the distance, a flock of bramblings in flight quivered against the sky.

  Continuing on the footpath, Devon reflected that he’d become attached to the estate. The lifelong responsibility of preserving it, and restoring the house, no longer seemed like a punishment. It called to a deep ancestral instinct.

  If only the past few generations of Ravenels hadn’t been such shortsighted fools. At least two dozen rooms at Eversby Priory had become uninhabitable. Seeping water had assailed the walls with damp and rot, ruining plasterwork and interior furnishings. Restoration work had to be done soon, before the damage worsened beyond repair.

  He needed money, a large sum, without delay. He would have loved to sell Ravenel House in London and immediately pour the profit into Eversby Priory, but that would be seen as a weakness by potential lenders or partners. Perhaps he could risk selling his land in Norfolk? That would attract far less notice. But the proceeds would be unimpressive… and he could already hear the howls of complaint from Kathleen and West if he decided to evict his Norfolk tenants.

  A self-mocking smile curved his lips as he recalled that not too long ago, his problems had consisted of issues such as his cookmaid bringing weak tea, or his horse needing to be reshod.

  Brooding, he headed back to Eversby Priory, its intricate roofline silhouetted against the December sky. As he gazed at the proliferation of openwork parapets, arcade arches, and slender chimneys topped with ornamental finials, he wondered grimly which parts of it were likely to fall to the ground first. He passed by outbuildings and neared the row of chalk paddocks behind the stables. A stable boy stood at the post and rail fencing of the largest enclosure, watching a small, slim rider put a horse through its paces.

  Kathleen and Asad.

  Devon’s pulse quickened with interest. He went to join the boy at the fence, bracing his forearms on the top rail.

  “Milord,” the boy said, hastily grabbing the cap from his head to give him a respectful nod.

  Devon nodded in return, watching intently as Kathleen rode the golden Arabian around the far side of the paddock.

  She was dressed in a severely tailored riding jacket and a small hat with a narrow crown – and on her lower half, she wore trousers and ankle boots. Like the breeches he had seen her in before, the trousers had been designed to wear under a riding skirt, never by themselves. However, Devon had to admit that the somewhat outlandish ensemble gave Kathleen a freedom and athletic ease that heavy draped skirts would never have allowed.

  She guided Asad into a series of half circles, her weight transferring fluidly with each turn, the inside hip pushing forward with a deep knee. Her form was so perfect and easy that the hairs on Devon’s neck lifted as he watched. He’d never seen anyone, man or woman, who could ride with such economy of motion. The Arabian was acutely sensitive to the subtle pressures of her knees and thighs, following her guidance as if he could read her mind. They were a perfect pairing, both of them fine-boned, elegant, quick.

  Noticing Devon’s presence, Kathleen sent him a brilliant grin. Not above showing off, she urged the horse into a supple trot, the knees elevated, the hind legs flexed. After completing a serpentine pattern, Asad trotted in place before executing a perfect turn on his haunches, spinning in a circle to his right, and then a full spin to his left, his golden tail swishing dramatically.

  The damned horse was dancing.

  Devon shook his head slightly, watching them in wonder.

  After taking the horse around the paddock in a rolling, gliding canter, Kathleen slowed him to a trot and then walked him up to the fence. Asad gave a welcoming nicker as he recognized Devon, and nudged his muzzle between the rails.

  “Well done,” Devon said, stroking the horse’s golden hide. He glanced up at Kathleen. “You ride beautifully. Like a goddess.”

  “Asad would make anyone look accomplished.”

  He held her gaze. “No one but you could ride him as if he had wings.”

  Turning pink, Kathleen gl
anced at the stable boy. “Freddie, will you walk Asad on the lead and then take him to the turn out paddock?”

  “Yes, milady!” The boy slipped between the rails, while Kathleen dismounted in an easy motion.

  “I would have helped you down,” Devon said.

  Kathleen climbed through the fence. “I don’t need help,” she told him with a touch of smugness that he found adorable.

  “Are you going into the house now?” he asked.

  “Yes, but first I’ll collect my overskirt in the saddle room.”

  Devon walked with her, stealing a surreptitious glance at her backside and hips. The clear outline of firm, feminine curves caused his pulse to quicken. “I seem to recall a rule regarding breeches,” he said.