Cold-Hearted Rake

Kathleen shook her head and clung to Devon as laughter trembled through both of them. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, her hand resting lightly at the side of his waistcoat.

His smiling lips grazed her temple. “Of course not, you little makeweight.”

They stayed together in that delicious moment of scattered light and fragrant spruce and irresistible attraction. The entrance hall was quiet now; the guests had proceeded en masse to the drawing room.

Devon’s head lowered, and he kissed the side of her throat. “I want you in my bed again,” he whispered. Working his way along her neck, he found a sensitive place that made her shiver and arch, the tip of his tongue stroking a soft pulse. It seemed as if her body had become attuned to his, excitement leaping instantly at his nearness, delight pooling hotly in her stomach. How easy it would be to let him have whatever he wanted of her. To yield to the pleasure he could give her, and think only of the present moment.

And then someday… it would all fall apart, and she would be devastated.

Forcing herself to pull away from him, she stared at him with equal parts misery and resolve. “I can’t have an affair with you.”

Devon’s expression was instantly remote.

“You want more than that?”

“No,” she said feelingly. “I can’t conceive of any kind of relationship with you that would end in anything other than misery.”

That seemed to pierce through his detachment like a steel-tipped arrow.

“Would you like references?” he asked, his tone edged with coolness. “Attesting to my satisfactory performance in the bedroom?”

“Of course not,” she said shortly. “Don’t be snide.”

His gaze shot to hers, a smolder awakening in the depths of blue. “Then why refuse me? And why deny yourself something you want? You’ve been married – no one would expect virginity of you. It would harm no one if you and I took pleasure in each other’s company.”

“It would harm me, eventually.”

He stared at her with baffled anger. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I know myself,” she said. “And I know you well enough to be certain that you would never intentionally hurt any woman. But you’re dangerous to me. And the more you try to convince me otherwise, the more obvious it becomes.”

Helen spent three days in Rhys Winterborne’s room, babbling incessantly while he lay there feverish and mostly silent. She became heartily tired of the sound of her own voice, and said something to that effect near the end of the second day.

“I’m not,” he said shortly. “Keep talking.”

The combination of Winterborne’s broken leg, the fever, and the enforced bed rest had made him surly and ill tempered. It seemed that whenever Helen wasn’t there to entertain him, he vented his frustration on everyone within reach, even snapping at the poor housemaid who came in the morning to clean and light the grate.

After having run through childhood anecdotes, detailed histories of the Ravenel family, and descriptions of all her tutors, favorite pets, and the most picturesque walks around Eversby, Helen had gone in search of reading material. Although she had attempted to interest Winterborne in a Dickens novel, he had rejected it categorically, having no interest in fiction or poetry. Next Helen had tried newspapers, which had been deemed acceptable. In fact, he wanted her to read every word, including the advertisements.

“I’m amazed that you’re willing to read to him at all,” Kathleen said when Helen told her about it later. “If it were me, I wouldn’t bother.”

Helen glanced at her with mild surprise. They were in the orchid house, where Kathleen was helping her with the painstaking task of hand pollinating vanilla blossoms. “You sound as if you don’t like Mr. Winterborne.”

“He’s terrified the housemaids, cursed Mrs. Church, insulted Sims, and was rather short-tempered with me,” Kathleen said. “I’m beginning to think the only member of the household he hasn’t offended is the pig, and that’s only because Hamlet hasn’t gone into his room yet.”

“He’s had a fever,” Helen protested.

“You must at least concede that he’s grumpy and demanding.”

Helen’s lips tightened against a smile as she admitted, “Perhaps a little demanding.”

Kathleen laughed. “I’ve never been more impressed with your ability to manage difficult people.”

Helen pried a pale yellow flower open to find the pollen-tipped rod within. “If living in a house of Ravenels hasn’t been adequate preparation, I can’t fathom what would be.” Using a toothpick, she collected grains of pollen and applied them to the nectar, which was hidden beneath a tiny flap in the stigma. Her hands were adept from years of practice.

After finishing a flower, Kathleen gave her sister-in-law a puzzled glance. “I’ve always wondered why you’re the only one who doesn’t have a temper. I’ve never seen you in a rage.”

“I’m quite capable of anger,” Helen assured her wryly.

“Anger, yes. But not the kind of fury in which you shout and throw things, and make nasty remarks you’ll later regret.”

Helen worked diligently on the vanilla vine as she replied. “Perhaps I’m a late bloomer. I could develop a temper later.”

“Heavens, I hope not. If you do, we’ll have no kind, calm person to soothe savage beasts such as Mr. Winterborne.”

Helen sent her a quick sidelong smile. “He’s not savage. He’s accustomed to being the center of much activity. It’s difficult for a man with a forceful nature to be idle and ill.”