Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 103
“If Mr. Winterborne is not at home, he is most definitely at the store. I will locate him for you.” Clicking his tongue, Quincy escorted her up the stairs, with Clara following. “Keeping Lady Trenear waiting outside on the street,” he muttered in disbelief. “I’ll give that butler an earful he won’t soon forget.”
After opening the door with a key that hung on a gold fob, the valet showed them inside. The house was smart and modern, smelling of new paint and plaster, and wood finished with walnut oil.
Solicitously Quincy led Kathleen to an airy, high-ceilinged reading room and invited her to wait there while he took Clara to the servants’ hall. “Shall I have someone bring tea for you,” he asked, “while I go in search of Mr. Winterborne?”
She pulled back her veil, glad to remove the black haze from her vision. “That’s very kind, but there’s no need.”
Quincy hesitated, clearly longing to know the reason for her unorthodox visit. He settled for asking, “Everyone at Ravenel House is in good health, I hope?”
“Yes, they’re all well. Lady Helen is afflicted by a migraine, but I’m sure she’ll recover soon.”
He nodded, his snowy brows knitting together over his spectacles. “I’ll find Mr. Winterborne,” he said distractedly, and left with Clara in tow.
As she waited, Kathleen wandered around the reading room. More smells of newness, coupled with a slight staleness in the air. The house felt unfinished. Unoccupied. A paltry number of paintings and knickknacks seemed to have been scattered there as afterthoughts. The furniture looked as though it had never been used. Most of the reading room shelves were empty save for a handful of eclectic titles that Kathleen would have been willing to bet had been pulled carelessly from bookstore shelves and deposited there for display.
Judging by the reading room alone, Kathleen knew that it was not a house that Helen could be happy in, or a man she could ever be happy with.
A quarter hour passed while she considered what to say to Winterborne. Unfortunately there was no diplomatic way to tell a man that, among other things, he had made his fiancée ill.
Winterborne entered the room, his larger-than-life presence seeming to take up every surplus inch of space. “Lady Trenear. What an unexpected pleasure.” He executed a shallow bow, his expression conveying that her visit was providing anything but pleasure to him.
She knew she had put them both in a difficult position. It was wildly unorthodox for her to call on an unmarried man with no one else present, and she was sorry for it. However, she’d had no choice.
“Please forgive me for inconveniencing you, Mr. Winterborne. I don’t intend to stay long.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?” he asked curtly.
“No.”
“Speak your piece, then, and make it fast.”
“Very well. I —”
“But if it has anything to do with Lady Helen,” he interrupted, “then leave now. She can come to me herself if there’s something that needs to be discussed.”
“I’m afraid Helen can’t go anywhere at the moment. She’s been in bed all day, ill with a nervous condition.”
His eyes changed, some unfathomable emotion spangling the dark depths. “A nervous condition,” he repeated, his voice iced with scorn. “That seems a common complaint among aristocratic ladies. Someday I’d like to know what makes you all so nervous.”
Kathleen would have expected a show of sympathy or a few words of concern for the woman he was betrothed to. “I’m afraid you are the cause of Helen’s distress,” she said bluntly. “Your visit yesterday put her in a state.”
Winterborne was silent, his eyes black and piercing.
“She told me only a little about what happened,” Kathleen continued. “But it’s clear that there is much you don’t understand about Helen. My late husband’s parents kept all three of their daughters very secluded. More than was good for them. As a result, all three are quite young for their age. Helen is one-and-twenty, but she hasn’t had the same experiences, or seasoning, as other girls her age. She knows nothing of the world outside Eversby Priory. Everything is new to her. Everything. The only men she has ever associated with have been a handful of close relations, the servants, and the occasional visitor to the estate. Most of what she knows about men has been from books and fairy tales.”
“No one can be that sheltered,” Winterborne said flatly.
“Not in your world. But at an estate like Eversby Priory, it’s entirely possible.” Kathleen paused. “In my opinion, it’s too soon for Helen to marry anyone, but when she does… she will need a husband with a placid temperament. One who will allow her to develop at her own pace.”
“And you assume I wouldn’t,” he said rather than asked.
“I think you will command and govern a wife just as you do everything else. I don’t believe you would ever harm her physically, but you’ll whittle her to fit your life, and make her exceedingly unhappy. This environment – London, the crowds, the department store – is so ill suited to her nature that she would wither like a transplanted orchid. I’m afraid I can’t support the idea of marriage for you and Helen.” Pausing, she took a long breath before saying, “I believe it’s in her best interest for the engagement to be broken.”
A heavy silence descended.
“Is that what she wants?”
“She said earlier today that she has no wish to see you again.”
After opening the door with a key that hung on a gold fob, the valet showed them inside. The house was smart and modern, smelling of new paint and plaster, and wood finished with walnut oil.
Solicitously Quincy led Kathleen to an airy, high-ceilinged reading room and invited her to wait there while he took Clara to the servants’ hall. “Shall I have someone bring tea for you,” he asked, “while I go in search of Mr. Winterborne?”
She pulled back her veil, glad to remove the black haze from her vision. “That’s very kind, but there’s no need.”
Quincy hesitated, clearly longing to know the reason for her unorthodox visit. He settled for asking, “Everyone at Ravenel House is in good health, I hope?”
“Yes, they’re all well. Lady Helen is afflicted by a migraine, but I’m sure she’ll recover soon.”
He nodded, his snowy brows knitting together over his spectacles. “I’ll find Mr. Winterborne,” he said distractedly, and left with Clara in tow.
As she waited, Kathleen wandered around the reading room. More smells of newness, coupled with a slight staleness in the air. The house felt unfinished. Unoccupied. A paltry number of paintings and knickknacks seemed to have been scattered there as afterthoughts. The furniture looked as though it had never been used. Most of the reading room shelves were empty save for a handful of eclectic titles that Kathleen would have been willing to bet had been pulled carelessly from bookstore shelves and deposited there for display.
Judging by the reading room alone, Kathleen knew that it was not a house that Helen could be happy in, or a man she could ever be happy with.
A quarter hour passed while she considered what to say to Winterborne. Unfortunately there was no diplomatic way to tell a man that, among other things, he had made his fiancée ill.
Winterborne entered the room, his larger-than-life presence seeming to take up every surplus inch of space. “Lady Trenear. What an unexpected pleasure.” He executed a shallow bow, his expression conveying that her visit was providing anything but pleasure to him.
She knew she had put them both in a difficult position. It was wildly unorthodox for her to call on an unmarried man with no one else present, and she was sorry for it. However, she’d had no choice.
“Please forgive me for inconveniencing you, Mr. Winterborne. I don’t intend to stay long.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?” he asked curtly.
“No.”
“Speak your piece, then, and make it fast.”
“Very well. I —”
“But if it has anything to do with Lady Helen,” he interrupted, “then leave now. She can come to me herself if there’s something that needs to be discussed.”
“I’m afraid Helen can’t go anywhere at the moment. She’s been in bed all day, ill with a nervous condition.”
His eyes changed, some unfathomable emotion spangling the dark depths. “A nervous condition,” he repeated, his voice iced with scorn. “That seems a common complaint among aristocratic ladies. Someday I’d like to know what makes you all so nervous.”
Kathleen would have expected a show of sympathy or a few words of concern for the woman he was betrothed to. “I’m afraid you are the cause of Helen’s distress,” she said bluntly. “Your visit yesterday put her in a state.”
Winterborne was silent, his eyes black and piercing.
“She told me only a little about what happened,” Kathleen continued. “But it’s clear that there is much you don’t understand about Helen. My late husband’s parents kept all three of their daughters very secluded. More than was good for them. As a result, all three are quite young for their age. Helen is one-and-twenty, but she hasn’t had the same experiences, or seasoning, as other girls her age. She knows nothing of the world outside Eversby Priory. Everything is new to her. Everything. The only men she has ever associated with have been a handful of close relations, the servants, and the occasional visitor to the estate. Most of what she knows about men has been from books and fairy tales.”
“No one can be that sheltered,” Winterborne said flatly.
“Not in your world. But at an estate like Eversby Priory, it’s entirely possible.” Kathleen paused. “In my opinion, it’s too soon for Helen to marry anyone, but when she does… she will need a husband with a placid temperament. One who will allow her to develop at her own pace.”
“And you assume I wouldn’t,” he said rather than asked.
“I think you will command and govern a wife just as you do everything else. I don’t believe you would ever harm her physically, but you’ll whittle her to fit your life, and make her exceedingly unhappy. This environment – London, the crowds, the department store – is so ill suited to her nature that she would wither like a transplanted orchid. I’m afraid I can’t support the idea of marriage for you and Helen.” Pausing, she took a long breath before saying, “I believe it’s in her best interest for the engagement to be broken.”
A heavy silence descended.
“Is that what she wants?”
“She said earlier today that she has no wish to see you again.”
