Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 85

“Let it be,” he said tersely.
“Very well. But one more bit of advice – I wouldn’t mention anything to Kathleen about your plans for Helen. She’s determined to help all three of those girls find happiness.” West smiled grimly. “It seems she hasn’t yet realized that in this life, happiness is optional.”
As Kathleen entered the morning room, she discovered that Helen and the twins were not at breakfast. West and Devon sat at the table reading mail and newspapers, while a footman removed used dishes and flatware.
“Good morning,” Kathleen said. Both men stood automatically as she entered the room. “Have the girls finished already?”
West nodded. “Helen is accompanying the twins to the Luftons’ farm.”
“For what purpose?” she asked as Devon helped her into her chair.
“It was my suggestion,” West told her. “The Luftons have offered to take Hamlet, provided we undertake the expense of building a pen and covered enclosure. The twins are willing to give the pig away if they have Mr. Lufton’s personal guarantee of his welfare.”
Kathleen smiled. “How did that come about?” The footman brought a tea tray from the sideboard, and held it while she measured a few spoonfuls of loose leaves into a small pot.
West spread a liberal helping of preserves on a slice of toast. “I told the twins, as tactfully as possible, that Hamlet was never barrowed in infancy, as he should have been. I had no idea the procedure was necessary, or I would have made certain it was done.”
“Barrowed?” Kathleen asked, perplexed.
West made a scissoring gesture with two fingers.
“Oh.”
“Remaining, er… intact,” West continued, “has made Hamlet unfit for future consumption, so there’s no reason to fear he’ll end up on the dinner table. But he’ll become increasingly aggressive as he goes through pubescence. It seems he’ll become malodorous as well. He’s now suited for only one purpose.”
“Do you mean —” Kathleen began.
“Might this wait until after breakfast?” Devon asked from behind a newspaper.
West sent Kathleen an apologetic grin. “I’ll explain later.”
“If you’re going to tell me about the inconvenience of having an uncastrated male in the house,” Kathleen said, “I’m already aware of it.”
West choked a little on his toast. There was no sound from Devon’s direction.
The footman returned with the tea, and Kathleen poured a cup for herself. After she added sugar and took a sip of the steaming beverage, the butler approached.
“Milady,” he said, proffering a silver tray that contained a letter and an ivory-handled letter knife.
Picking up the letter, she saw to her pleasure that it was from Lord Berwick. She slit the envelope open, set the knife back on the tray, and started to read silently. The letter began innocuously enough, assuring her that all was well with the Berwick family. He proceeded to describe a fine Thoroughbred colt he had just bought. Midway through the letter, however, Lord Berwick had written, I recently learned some troubling news from your father’s farm manager in Glengarrif. Although he did not seem to think it necessary for you to be informed, neither did he oppose my wish to tell you about an injury that your father sustained…
As Kathleen tried to set her teacup on its saucer, the porcelain rattled. Ordinary though the sound was, it attracted Devon’s attention. After one glance at her bleach-white face, he folded the paper and set it aside. “What is it?” he asked, his intent gaze on her.
“Nothing serious,” she said. Her cheeks felt stiff. Her heart had begun to beat unpleasantly fast and sharp, while her corset seemed to squeeze every breath short. Glancing back down at the letter, she read the paragraph again, trying to make sense of it. “The letter is from Lord Berwick. He relates that my father suffered an injury but has recovered now.” She wasn’t aware that Devon had moved until she found him sitting in the chair next to hers, his warm hand enclosing hers.
“Tell me what happened.” His tone was very gentle.
Kathleen stared down at the letter in one hand, trying to breathe around the suffocating tightness in her chest. “I… I don’t know long ago it was. It seems my father was riding into an indoor arena, and the horse flung up its head. The momentum knocked my father’s skull against a wooden support beam.” She paused and shook her head helplessly. “According to the farm manager, he was in pain and disoriented, but the doctor bandaged his head and prescribed rest. He was in bed for three days, and now it appears he’s feeling more himself.”
“Why weren’t you told immediately?” Devon asked with a frown.
Kathleen shrugged, unable to reply.
“Perhaps your father didn’t want to worry you,” came West’s neutral comment.
“I suppose so,” she managed to say.
But the truth was that it didn’t matter to her father whether she worried over him or not. He had never felt any affection for her. He’d never remembered her birthdays, nor had he ever traveled to spend a holiday with her. After her mother had died, he hadn’t sent for Kathleen to come home to live with him. And when she had turned to him for comfort after Theo’s passing, he had warned her not to expect that there would be a place for her under his roof, should she want to live in Ireland. She should return to the Berwicks, he had suggested, or strike out on her own.
After so many rejections, Kathleen would have expected it to stop hurting by now. But the pain sank as deep as ever. She had always secretly harbored the fantasy that her father might need her someday, that he would send for her if he were ever injured or ill. She would go to him at once, and care for him tenderly, and they would finally have the relationship she had always longed for. But reality, as usual, bore no resemblance to fantasy. Her father had been injured, and not only had he declined to send for her, he hadn’t even wanted her to know about it.