Cold-Hearted Rake

To Kathleen’s dismay, any semblance of ladylike decorum fled. The twins erupted in screams of delight and began to dance around him right there in the entrance hall. Even Helen was pink-cheeked and breathless.

“That will do, girls,” Kathleen finally said, struggling to keep her expression neutral. “There’s no need to hop about like demented rabbits.”

Pandora had already begun to rip one of the parcels open.

“Save the paper!” Helen cried. She brought one of the parcels to Kathleen, lifting one of the layers of paper. “Just see, Kathleen, how thin and fine it is.”

“Gloves!” Pandora shouted, having unwrapped a parcel. “Oh, look, they’re so stylish, I want to die.” She held them against her chest. The wrist-length kid gloves had been tinted a soft pink.

“Colored gloves are all the rage this year,” West said. “Or so the girl at the department store counter said. There’s a pair for each of you.” He grinned at Kathleen’s obvious disapproval, his gray eyes glinting with mischief. “Cousins,” he said, as if that could explain away such unseemly gifts.

Kathleen narrowed her eyes. “My dears,” she said calmly, “why don’t you open your parcels in the receiving room?”

Chattering and squealing, the sisters hurried into the receiving room and piled the gifts on a satinwood table. They opened each parcel with scrupulous care, unfolding the gift tissue and smoothing each piece before placing it on an accumulating stack that resembled the froth of freshly poured milk.

There were more gloves, dyed in delicate shades of violet and aqua… tins of sweets… pleated paper fans with gold and silver embossing… novels and a book of poetry, and bottles of flower water to be used for the complexion or the bath, or sprinkled on the bed pillows. Although none of it was appropriate, except perhaps the books, Kathleen couldn’t find it in her heart to object. The girls had long been deprived of small luxuries.

She knew that Theo would never have thought of bringing gifts home for his sisters. And despite the family’s relative proximity to London, the girls had never been to Winterborne’s. Neither had Kathleen, since Lady Berwick had disliked the notion of rubbing elbows in a large store crowded with people from all walks of life. She had insisted instead on frequenting tiny, exclusive shops, where merchandise was kept discreetly out of sight rather than spread willy-nilly over the counters.

Stealing glances at West, Kathleen was disconcerted by the flashes of resemblance he bore to his older brother, the same dark hair and assertive bone structure. But Devon’s striking good looks were marred in his brother, whose features were ruddy and soft with dissipation. West was nothing if not well-groomed – in fact, he dressed too lavishly for Kathleen’s taste, wearing an embroidered silk waistcoat and jaunty patterned necktie, and gold cuff links set with what were either garnets or rubies. Even now at midday, he smelled strongly of liquor.

“You may not want to glare at me quite so fiercely,” West murmured to Kathleen sotto voce, as the sisters gathered up their gifts and carried them from the room. “It would distress the girls if they were to realize how much you dislike me.”

“I disapprove of you,” she replied gravely, walking out to the grand staircase with him. “That’s not the same as dislike.”

“Lady Trenear, I disapprove of me.” He grinned at her. “So we have something in common.”

“Mr. Ravenel, if you —”

“Mightn’t we call each other cousin?”

“No. Mr. Ravenel, if you are to spend a fortnight here, you will conduct yourself like a gentleman, or I will have you forcibly taken to Alton and tossed onto the first railway car that stops at the station.”

West blinked and looked at her, clearly wondering if she was serious.

“Those girls are the most important thing in the world to me,” Kathleen said. “I will not allow them to be harmed.”

“I have no intention of harming anyone,” West said, offended. “I’m here at the earl’s behest to talk to a set of clodhoppers about their turnip planting. As soon as that’s concluded, I can promise you that I’ll return to London with all possible haste.”

Clodhoppers? Kathleen drew in a sharp breath, thinking of the tenant families and the way they worked and persevered and endured the hardships of farming… all to put food on the table of men such as this, who looked down his nose at them.

“The families who live here,” she managed to say, “are worthy of your respect. Generations of tenant farmers built this estate – and precious little reward they’ve received in return. Go into their cottages, and see the conditions in which they live, and contrast it with your own circumstances. And then perhaps you might ask yourself if you’re worthy of their respect.”

“Good God,” West muttered, “my brother was right. You do have the temperament of a baited badger.”

They exchanged glances of mutual loathing and walked away from each other.

Fortunately the girls kept the conversation cheerful at dinner. Only Helen seemed to notice the bitter tension between Kathleen and West, sending Kathleen discreet glances of concern. With each course, West asked for new wine, obliging the underbutler to fetch bottle after bottle from the cellar. Fuming at his wastefulness, Kathleen bit her tongue to keep from commenting as he became increasingly soused. At the conclusion of the meal, Kathleen ushered the girls upstairs, leaving West alone at the table with a bottle of port.

In the morning Kathleen rose early, dressed in her riding habit, and went out to the stable as usual. With the assistance of Mr. Bloom, the stable master, she was training Asad to resist shying at objects that frightened him. Bloom accompanied her out to the paddock as she led Asad with a special training halter.