Cold-Hearted Rake

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 —”

“Who wrote that?” Kathleen demanded, snatching the letter from his hand. “Who could possibly presume to —” She gasped, her eyes widening as she saw the signature at the conclusion of the letter. “Dear God. You consulted Lady Berwick?”