Cold-Hearted Rake Read online

  Chapter 27

  A

  s the days of January trudged by, Kathleen remained steadfast in her refusal to allow Devon a place in her bed. In one fell swoop, she had assumed control of their relationship. As a result, Devon was perpetually filled with a mixture of outrage, lust, and genuine bewilderment, in varying proportions.

  It would have been easier had she either given in to him completely or denied him absolutely, but instead she had made the situation stupefyingly unclear.

  How like a woman.

  “When we both desire it,” she had said – as if she didn’t know that he always desired it.

  If it was a strategy on her part, to make him insane with wanting her and never knowing when he could have her, it was working brilliantly. But he knew her well enough to be certain that it wasn’t a deliberate manipulation. Somehow it made the situation even worse to know that she was trying to protect herself from him. He understood her reasons – he thought he might even agree with them in principle – but nevertheless, it was driving him mad.

  He couldn’t change his nature, and by God, he didn’t want to. He would never be able to surrender his heart, or his freedom. However, he hadn’t realized until now that it was almost impossible to have an affair with a woman who was equally determined to keep her heart, and her freedom.

  For her part, Kathleen was the same as she had always been, talkative, earnest, amusing, ready to argue when she disagreed with him.

  He was the one who was different. He had become obsessed with Kathleen, so fascinated by everything she thought and did that he couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Half the time he wanted to do everything possible to fill her with happiness, while the rest of the time he was tempted to throttle her. He had never known such agonizing frustration, wanting her, wanting far more than she was willing to give.

  He was reduced to pursuing her, trying to catch her in corners like some lecherous lord playing a game of slap-and-tickle with a housemaid. Fondling and kissing her in the library, sliding his hand beneath her skirts on the back stairs. One morning, after having gone out on an early ride with her, he pulled her into a dark corner of the harness room, coaxing and caressing until he’d finally had his way with her against the wall. And even then, in the disorienting seconds after a magnificent release, he wanted more of her. Every second of the day.

  The rest of the household had to have noticed how preoccupied he’d become with Kathleen, but so far no one had dared utter a word. However, West eventually asked why Devon had changed his mind about returning to London in the middle of the month.

  “You’re supposed to leave with Winterborne tomorrow,” West said. “Why aren’t you going with him? You should be in London, preparing for the land lease negotiations. The last I heard, they were set to begin on the first of February.”

  “The lawyers and accountants can prepare without me,” Devon replied. “I can stay here where I’m needed for at least another week.”

  “Needed for what?” West asked with a snort.

  Devon’s eyes narrowed. “Between the house renovations, the drainage ditches, hedge planting, and corn threshing, I believe I can find something to do.”

  They were walking back to the house from an outbuilding near the stables, where a newly arrived mechanical steam thresher had just been stored. Although the equipment had been purchased secondhand, it appeared to be in excellent condition. West had devised a plan by which the machine would be used and shared in rotation by several families.

  “I can manage the estate,” West argued. “You would be of more use in London, working on our financial problems. We need money, particularly now that we’ve agreed to give rent remissions and reductions to the tenants.”

  Devon sighed tautly. “I told you we should have waited before doing that.”

  “Those families can’t wait. And unlike you, I can’t pluck crusts of bread from the mouths of hungry children.”

  “You sound like Kathleen,” Devon muttered. “I’ll come to an agreement with Severin as quickly as possible. It would be easier if he left negotiations to his director, but for some reason he’s decided to handle it himself.”

  “As we both know, Severin loves nothing more than to argue with his friends.”

  “Which explains why he doesn’t have more of them.” Pausing before the entrance of the house, Devon slid his hands in his pockets and looked up at the second-floor parlor window. Helen was playing the pianoforte, an exquisite melody rippling from the house with such delicacy that one could almost overlook the fact that the instrument was out of tune.

  Holy hell, he was tired of things that needed to be repaired.

  West followed his gaze. “Did you speak to Winterborne about Helen?”

  “Yes. He wants to court her.”

  “Good.”

  Devon’s brows lifted. “Now you approve of a match between them?”

  “In part.”

  “What do you mean, in part?”

  “The part of me that loves money and wants to stay out of prison thinks it’s a splendid idea.”

  “We wouldn’t face prison. Only bankruptcy.”

  “A fate worse than debt,” West quipped, and shrugged. “I’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be a bad match for Helen. If she doesn’t marry him, she’ll have to choose from among the dregs of the aristocracy.”

  Speculatively Devon glanced back at the window. “I’ve been thinking about bringing the family to London with me.”

  “The entire family? Good God, why?”

  “It will bring Helen into proximity with Winterborne.”

  “And,” West said pointedly, “it will keep Kathleen in proximity with you.” Meeting Devon’s alert gaze, he continued in an ironic tone. “When I told you not to seduce her, it was out of concern for her well-being. Now it seems I should have been equally as concerned for yours.” A deliberate pause. “You’re not yourself these days, Devon.”

  “Let it be,” he said tersely.

  “Very well. But one more bit of advice – I wouldn’t mention anything to Kathleen about your plans for Helen. She’s determined to help all three of those girls find happiness.” West smiled grimly. “It seems she hasn’t yet realized that in this life, happiness is optional.”

  As Kathleen entered the morning room, she discovered that Helen and the twins were not at breakfast. West and Devon sat at the table reading mail and newspapers, while a footman removed used dishes and flatware.

  “Good morning,” Kathleen said. Both men stood automatically as she entered the room. “Have the girls finished already?”

  West nodded. “Helen is accompanying the twins to the Luftons’ farm.”

  “For what purpose?” she asked as Devon helped her into her chair.

  “It was my suggestion,” West told her. “The Luftons have offered to take Hamlet, provided we undertake the expense of building a pen and covered enclosure. The twins are willing to give the pig away if they have Mr. Lufton’s personal guarantee of his welfare.”

  Kathleen smiled. “How did that come about?” The footman brought a tea tray from the sideboard, and held it while she measured a few spoonfuls of loose leaves into a small pot.

  West spread a liberal helping of preserves on a slice of toast. “I told the twins, as tactfully as possible, that Hamlet was never barrowed in infancy, as he should have been. I had no idea the procedure was necessary, or I would have made certain it was done.”

  “Barrowed?” Kathleen asked, perplexed.

  West made a scissoring gesture with two fingers.

  “Oh.”

  “Remaining, er… intact,” West continued, “has made Hamlet unfit for future consumption, so there’s no reason to fear he’ll end up on the dinner table. But he’ll become increasingly aggressive as he goes through pubescence. It seems he’ll become malodorous as well. He’s now suited for only one purpose.”

  “Do you mean —” Kathleen began.

  “Might this wait until after breakfast?” Dev
on asked from behind a newspaper.

  West sent Kathleen an apologetic grin. “I’ll explain later.”

  “If you’re going to tell me about the inconvenience of having an uncastrated male in the house,” Kathleen said, “I’m already aware of it.”

  West choked a little on his toast. There was no sound from Devon’s direction.

  The footman returned with the tea, and Kathleen poured a cup for herself. After she added sugar and took a sip of the steaming beverage, the butler approached.

  “Milady,” he said, proffering a silver tray that contained a letter and an ivory-handled letter knife.

  Picking up the letter, she saw to her pleasure that it was from Lord Berwick. She slit the envelope open, set the knife back on the tray, and started to read silently. The letter began innocuously enough, assuring her that all was well with the Berwick family. He proceeded to describe a fine Thoroughbred colt he had just bought. Midway through the letter, however, Lord Berwick had written, I recently learned some troubling news from your father’s farm manager in Glengarrif. Although he did not seem to think it necessary for you to be informed, neither did he oppose my wish to tell you about an injury that your father sustained…

  As Kathleen tried to set her teacup on its saucer, the porcelain rattled. Ordinary though the sound was, it attracted Devon’s attention. After one glance at her bleach-white face, he folded the paper and set it aside. “What is it?” he asked, his intent gaze on her.

  “Nothing serious,” she said. Her cheeks felt stiff. Her heart had begun to beat unpleasantly fast and sharp, while her corset seemed to squeeze every breath short. Glancing back down at the letter, she read the paragraph again, trying to make sense of it. “The letter is from Lord Berwick. He relates that my father suffered an injury but has recovered now.” She wasn’t aware that Devon had moved until she found him sitting in the chair next to hers, his warm hand enclosing hers.

  “Tell me what happened.” His tone was very gentle.

  Kathleen stared down at the letter in one hand, trying to breathe around the suffocating tightness in her chest. “I… I don’t know long ago it was. It seems my father was riding into an indoor arena, and the horse flung up its head. The momentum knocked my father’s skull against a wooden support beam.” She paused and shook her head helplessly. “According to the farm manager, he was in pain and disoriented, but the doctor bandaged his head and prescribed rest. He was in bed for three days, and now it appears he’s feeling more himself.”

  “Why weren’t you told immediately?” Devon asked with a frown.

  Kathleen shrugged, unable to reply.

  “Perhaps your father didn’t want to worry you,” came West’s neutral comment.

  “I suppose so,” she managed to say.

  But the truth was that it didn’t matter to her father whether she worried over him or not. He had never felt any affection for her. He’d never remembered her birthdays, nor had he ever traveled to spend a holiday with her. After her mother had died, he hadn’t sent for Kathleen to come home to live with him. And when she had turned to him for comfort after Theo’s passing, he had warned her not to expect that there would be a place for her under his roof, should she want to live in Ireland. She should return to the Berwicks, he had suggested, or strike out on her own.

  After so many rejections, Kathleen would have expected it to stop hurting by now. But the pain sank as deep as ever. She had always secretly harbored the fantasy that her father might need her someday, that he would send for her if he were ever injured or ill. She would go to him at once, and care for him tenderly, and they would finally have the relationship she had always longed for. But reality, as usual, bore no resemblance to fantasy. Her father had been injured, and not only had he declined to send for her, he hadn’t even wanted her to know about it.

  Staring down at the blur of Lord Berwick’s letter, Kathleen was unaware of the glance Devon gave his brother. All she knew was that by the time she took her hand from Devon’s and reached for her tea, West’s place was empty. She cast a bewildered glance around the room. West had left surreptitiously, along with the butler and footman, and they had closed the door behind them.

  “You didn’t have to make them leave,” Kathleen exclaimed, her color rising. “I’m not going to make a scene.” She tried to drink her tea, but the hot liquid sloshed over the rim, and she set down the cup with chagrin.

  “You’re upset,” Devon said quietly.

  “I’m not upset, I’m merely…” She paused and ran a trembling hand across her forehead. “I am upset,” she admitted.

  Devon reached out to lift her from her chair with astonishing ease. “Sit with me,” he murmured, settling her onto his lap.

  “I was sitting with you. I don’t need to sit on you.” She found herself perched sideways with her feet dangling. “Devon —”

  “Hush.” Keeping a supportive arm around her, he reached with his free hand for her teacup and brought it to her lips. She took a sip of the hot, sweet tea. His lips brushed her temple. “Have some more,” he murmured, and held the cup as she drank again. She felt rather silly, allowing him to comfort her like a child… and yet a sense of relief began to steal over her as she leaned against his broad chest.

  “My father and I have never been close,” she eventually said. “I’ve never understood why. Something… something about me, I suppose. He only ever loved one person in his life, and that was my mother. She felt the same about him. Which is romantic, but… it was difficult for a child to understand.”

  “Where did you acquire such a perverse view of romance?” Devon asked, now sounding sardonic.

  She glanced at him in surprise.

  “Loving only one person in the world isn’t romantic,” he said, “nor is it love. No matter how your parents felt about each other, they had no excuse for relinquishing all responsibility for their only child. Although God knows you were better off living with the Berwicks.” His hand tightened on hers. “If it pleases you, I’ll telegram the farm manager to find out more about your father’s condition.”

  “I would like that,” Kathleen admitted, “but it would probably annoy my father.”

  “So much the better.” Devon reached up to the ebony cameo at her throat and adjusted it.

  She looked at him solemnly. “I used to wish I’d been born a boy. I thought he might have taken an interest in me then. Or perhaps if I were prettier or cleverer.”

  Devon cupped the side of her face, compelling her to look at him. “You’re already too pretty and clever by half, darling. And it wouldn’t have mattered if you were a boy. That was never the problem. Your parents were a pair of selfish lackwits.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “And whatever flaws you might have, being unlovable is not one of them.”

  During that last extraordinary sentence, the quiet volume of his voice fell to a near whisper.

  She stared at him, transfixed.

  He hadn’t meant to say it, she thought. He undoubtedly regretted it.

  But their shared gaze remained unbroken. Looking into his dark blue eyes was like drowning, sinking into unfathomable depths from which she might never resurface. She trembled and managed to look away, severing the connection.

  “Come to London with me,” she heard Devon say.

  “What?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Come to London with me,” he repeated. “I have to leave within a fortnight. Bring the girls and your maid. It will be good for everyone, including you. At this time of year there’s nothing to do in Hampshire, and London offers no end of amusements.”

  Kathleen looked at him with a frown. “You know that’s impossible.”

  “You mean because of mourning.”

  “Of course that’s what I mean.”

  She didn’t like the sparks of mischief that had appeared in his eyes.

  “I’ve already considered that,” he told her. “Not being as familiar with the rules of propriety as yourself, I undertook to consult a paragon of society about what
activities might be permissible for young women in your situation.”

  “What paragon? What are you talking about?”

  Shifting her weight more comfortably in his lap, Devon reached across the table to retrieve a letter by his plate. “You’re not the only one who received correspondence today.” He extracted the letter from its envelope with a flourish. “According to a renowned expert on mourning etiquette, even though attending a play or a dance is out of the question, it’s permissible to go to a concert, museum exhibition, or private art gallery.” Devon proceeded to read aloud from the letter. “This learned lady writes, One fears that the prolonged seclusion of young persons may encourage a lasting melancholy in such malleable natures. While the girls must pay appropriate respect to the memory of the late earl, it would be both wise and kind to allow them a few innocent recreations. I would recommend the same for Lady Trenear, whose lively disposition, in my opinion, will not long tolerate a steady diet of monotony and solitude. Therefore you have my encouragement to —”