Cold-Hearted Rake

Angrily Kathleen parted her lips to reply… but not a single word emerged. She pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach as a sickening realization occurred to her. Now that her guilt over Theo’s death had been at least partially assuaged, she couldn’t identify any particular feeling for him except the distant pity she would have had for a complete stranger who had met such a fate.

Despite that, she had taken her place as Theo’s widow, living in his house, befriending his sisters, enjoying all the benefits of being Lady Trenear. Theo had known that she was a sham. He had known that she didn’t love him, even when she herself hadn’t known it. That was why his last words had been an accusation.

Furious and ashamed, Kathleen turned and went to the door. She flung it open without pausing to consider the need for discretion, and ran across the threshold. The breath was nearly knocked from her as she collided with a sturdy form.

“What the —” she heard West say, while he reached out to steady her. “What is it? Can I help?”

“Yes,” she snapped, “you can throw your brother back into that river.” She strode away before he could respond.

West wandered into the master bedroom. “Back to your usual charming self, I see.”

Devon grinned and let out a ragged breath, willing the raging heat of the past several minutes to retreat. Having Kathleen there, in his bed, had been the most exquisite torture imaginable. His body was a mass of aches, stabs, and cravings.

He’d never felt better in his life.

“Why was she angry?” West asked. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” Picking up the bedside chair with one hand, he turned it around. “You owe me a pair of shoes.” He sat astride the chair and braced his arms on the back of it.

“I owe you more than that.” A few months ago, Devon reflected, it was doubtful that West would have had the physical strength, let alone the presence of mind, to haul him out of the river. “Thank you,” he said simply, holding his brother’s gaze.

“It was wholly self-serving, I assure you. I have no desire to be the Earl of Trenear.”

Devon gave a short laugh. “Nor do I.”

“Oh? Lately the role seems a better fit for you than I would have expected.” West glanced over him speculatively. “How are your ribs?”

“Cracked but not broken.”

“You’ve fared much better than Winterborne.”

“He was seated next to the window.” Remembering the moment when the trains had collided, Devon grimaced. “How is he?”

“Sleeping. Weeks wants to keep him sedated to help with the pain and improve his chances of healing properly. He also advised sending for an oculist from London.”

“Will Winterborne regain his sight?”

“The doctor thinks so, but there’s no way of knowing for certain until he’s tested.”

“And the leg?”

“The break was clean – it will heal well. However, Winterborne will be staying with us for quite a bit longer than we’d planned. At least a month.”

“Good. That will give him more time to become acquainted with Helen.”

West’s face went blank. “You’re back to that idea again? Arranging a match between them? What if Winterborne turns out to be lame and blind?”

“He’ll still be rich.”

Looking sardonic, West said, “Evidently a brush with death hasn’t changed your priorities.”

“Why should it? The marriage would benefit everyone.”

“How exactly would you stand to benefit?”

“I’ll stipulate that Winterborne settle a large dower on Helen, and name me as the trustee of her finances.”

“And then you’ll use the money as you see fit?” West asked incredulously. “Sweet Mother of God, how can you risk your life to save drowning children one day, and plot something so ruthless the next day?”

Annoyed, Devon gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “There’s no need to carry on as if Helen’s going to be dragged to the altar in chains. She’ll have a choice in the matter.”

“The right words can bind someone more effectively than chains. You’ll manipulate her into doing what you want regardless of how she feels.”

“Enjoy the view from your moral pedestal,” Devon said. “Unfortunately I have to keep my feet on the ground.”

West stood and went to the window, scowling at the view. “There’s a flaw in your plan. Winterborne may decide that Helen isn’t to his taste.”

“Oh, he’ll take her,” Devon assured him. “Marrying a daughter of the peerage is the only way for him to climb in society. Consider it, West: Winterborne is one of the richest men in London and half the nobility is in debt to him – and yet the same aristocrats who beg him to extend their credit refuse to welcome him into their drawing rooms. If he marries an earl’s daughter, however, doors that have always been closed to him would instantly open.” Devon paused reflectively. “Helen would do well for him.”

“She may not want him.”

“Would she rather become a penniless spinster?”

“Perhaps,” West replied testily. “How should I know?”

“My question was rhetorical. Of course Helen will agree to the match. Aristocratic marriages are always arranged for the benefit of the family.”

“Yes, but the brides are usually paired with their social equals. What you’re proposing is to lower Helen by selling her to any common lout with deep pockets for your own benefit.”