Cold-Hearted Rake

And you? Helen longed to ask. What are you searching for? The question was too personal to ask even of someone she had known for a long time, much less a stranger. Even so, the words hovered on her tongue, begging to be spoken. She looked away and fought to hold them back. When she returned her gaze to Winterborne, his expression had become remote again. Which was a relief, because for a moment she’d had the alarming feeling that she was only a breath away from confiding every private thought and wish that she’d never told anyone.

To Helen’s great relief, Quincy arrived with the dinner tray. The valet’s white brows lifted fractionally as he saw her alone in the room with Winterborne, but he said nothing. As Quincy proceeded to arrange the flatware, glasses, and plate on the table, Helen regained her composure. She stood from the upholstered bench and gave Winterborne a neutral smile. “I will leave you to enjoy your dinner.”

His gaze swept over her, lingering at her face. “You’ll play for me again one evening?”

“Yes, if you like.” She left the parlor gratefully, steeling herself not to break into a run.

Rhys stared after Helen, while his brain sorted through every detail of the past few minutes. It was fairly clear that she had a disgust of him: She had recoiled from his touch, and she had trouble meeting his gaze. She had abruptly changed the conversation when it had strayed toward the personal.

Perhaps his looks weren’t to her taste. No doubt his accent was off-putting. And like the other sheltered young women of her class, she probably thought of the Welsh as third-rate barbarians. Helen knew that she was too fine for the likes of him – God knew Rhys wouldn’t argue.

But he was going to have her anyway.

“What is your opinion of Lady Helen?” he asked as Quincy arranged the meal on the table in front of him.

“She is the jewel of the Ravenels,” Quincy said. “A more kind-hearted girl you’ll never meet. Sadly, she’s always been overlooked. Her older brother received the lion’s share of her parents’ interest, and what little was left went to the twins.”

Rhys had met the twins a few days earlier, both of them bright-eyed and amusing, asking a score of questions about his department store. He had liked the girls well enough, but neither of them had captured his interest. They were nothing close to Helen, whose reserve was mysterious and alluring. She was like a mother-of-pearl shell that appeared to be one color, but from different angles revealed delicate shimmers of lavender, pink, blue, green. A beautiful exterior that revealed little of its true nature.

“Is she aloof with all strangers?” he asked, arranging a napkin on his lap. “Or is it only with me?”

“Aloof?” The valet sounded genuinely surprised. Before he could continue, a pair of small black spaniels entered the parlor, panting happily as they bounded up to Rhys. “Good heavens,” he muttered with a frown.

Rhys, who happened to like dogs, didn’t mind the interruption. What he found disconcerting, however, was the third animal that trotted into the room after them and sat assertively by his chair.

“Quincy,” Rhys asked blankly, “why is there a pig in the parlor?”

The valet, who was busy shooing the dogs from the room, said distractedly, “A family pet, sir. They try to keep him in the barn, but he will insist on coming into the house.”

“But why —” Rhys broke off, realizing that regardless of the explanation, it would make no sense to him. “Why is it,” he asked instead, “that if I kept livestock in my home, people would say I was ignorant or daft, but if a pig wanders freely in the mansion of an earl, it’s called eccentric?”

“There are three things that everyone expects of an aristocrat,” the valet replied, tugging firmly at the pig’s collar. “A country house, and a weak chin, and eccentricity.” He pushed and pulled at the pig with increasing determination, but the creature only sat more heavily. “I vow,” the valet wheezed, budging him only an inch at a time, “I’ll have you turned into sausage and collops by tomorrow’s breakfast!”

Ignoring the determined valet, the pig stared up at Rhys with patient, hopeful eyes.

“Quincy,” Rhys said, “look sharp.” He picked up a bread roll from his plate and tossed it casually in the air.

The valet caught it deftly in a white-gloved hand. “Thank you, sir.” As he walked to the door with the bread in hand, the pig trotted after him.

Rhys watched with a faint smile. “Desire,” he said, “is always better motivation than fear. Remember that, Quincy.”

Chapter 26

Theo! Theo, don’t!

The nightmare was as vivid and intolerable as ever, the ground shifting so that every step landed askew as she ran toward the stables. She could hear Asad’s maddened whinnying in the distance. A pair of stablemen held on to the horse’s bridle, forcing him to stay still while her husband’s dominating figure swung up onto his back. The morning light fell with bright menace onto Asad’s golden form as his hooves churned and stomped.

Her heart thudded as she saw that her husband was holding a whip. Asad would die rather than submit to it. Stop! she cried, but the stablemen had released the bridle, and the horse had leaped forward. Wall-eyed and panicked, Asad reared, plunged, swelling his body to break his girth. Theo’s whip arm lifted and descended, again and again.

The Arabian twisted and bucked, and Theo was flung from the saddle. His body snapped like a length of toweling before hitting the ground with sickening force.

Kathleen staggered the last few yards before she reached his still form, already knowing it was too late. Falling to her knees, she stared into the face of her dying husband.