Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 93

Winterborne arrived punctually and was shown to the main floor drawing room, where the Ravenels had gathered. His powerful form was dressed with elegant simplicity in a black coat, gray trousers, and a gray waistcoat. Although his broken leg was still healing, the cast had been removed and he walked with the use of a wooden cane. One could have easily singled him out in a crowd, not only from his distinctive height and size, but also from his raven hair and swarthy complexion. The coloring, thought to be the result of Spanish Basque influence in Wales, was not considered aristocratic… but Helen thought it very handsome and striking.
His gaze came to Helen, dark heat framed with black lashes, and she felt a nervous flutter. Maintaining her composure, she gave him a neutral smile, wishing she had the confidence to say something charming or flirtatious. To her chagrin, Pandora and Cassandra – two years younger than she – were both far more comfortable with Winterborne. They amused him with nonsense such as asking whether there was a sword concealed in his cane (regrettably, no) and describing the mummified dogs in the Egyptian gallery.
As the company went in to dinner, a moment of perplexity ensued when it was discovered that the twins had written the name cards in hieroglyphics.
“We thought everyone might want to guess which one was theirs,” Pandora informed them.
“Thankfully, I’m at the head of the table,” Devon said.
“This is mine,” Winterborne said, gesturing to one name card, “and I believe Lady Helen is seated next to me.”
“How did you know?” Cassandra asked. “Are you familiar with hieroglyphics, Mr. Winterborne?”
He smiled. “I counted the letters.” Picking up the name card, he regarded it closely. “It’s cleverly drawn, especially the little bird.”
“Can you tell what kind of bird it is?” Pandora asked hopefully.
“Penguin?” he guessed.
Cassandra told her sister triumphantly, “I told you it looked like a penguin.”
“It’s a quail,” Pandora said to Winterborne, heaving a sigh. “My penmanship is no better in ancient Egyptian than it is in English.”
After everyone was seated and the footmen had begun serving, Helen turned to Winterborne, determined to overcome her shyness. “I see your cast has been removed, Mr. Winterborne. I trust you’re mending well?”
He gave her a guarded nod. “Quite well, thank you.”
She repeatedly smoothed the napkin on her lap. “I can hardly find words to thank you for the music box. It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.”
“I hoped it would please you.”
“It does.” As Helen looked into his eyes, it occurred to her that someday this man might have the right to kiss her… hold her in intimacy… They would do whatever mysterious things occurred between a husband and wife. A terrible blush began, the pervasive, self-renewing color that only he seemed to inspire. Desperate to halt its progress, she lowered her gaze to his shirt collar, and then a bit lower, tracking the perfect straight line of a hand-stitched seam.
“I see Mr. Quincy’s influence,” she found herself saying.
“The shirt?” Winterborne asked. “Aye, the contents of every wardrobe, drawer, and trunk have been under siege since Quincy arrived. He informs me that a separate room is needed for the sole purpose of maintaining the clothing.”
“How is Mr. Quincy? Has he acclimated to London yet?”
“It took only a day.” Winterborne proceeded to describe the valet’s enjoyment of his new life, and how he had already become more familiar with the department store than employees who had worked there for a few years. The valet had made many new friends, with the exception of Winterborne’s private secretary, with whom he bickered constantly. Winterborne suspected, however, that the two secretly enjoyed the exchanges.
Helen listened attentively, relieved to be spared the necessity of talking. She thought of bringing up the subject of books, or music, but she feared that might lead to conflicting opinions. She would have liked to ask about his past, but perhaps that was a sensitive area, in light of his Welsh heritage. No, it was safer to remain quiet. When her restrained comments could no longer sustain a conversation, Winterborne was drawn into a discussion with West.
Fearing that he thought her dull, Helen fretted silently and picked at her food.
Eventually Winterborne turned back to her as the plates were being removed. “Will you play the piano after dinner?” he asked.
“I would, but I’m afraid we haven’t one.”
“No piano anywhere in the house?” There was a calculating flicker in his dark eyes.
“Please don’t buy one for me,” Helen said hastily.
That produced a sudden grin, a flash of white against cinnamon skin, so appealing that it sent a shot of warmth down to her tummy. “There are at least a dozen pianos at my store,” he said. “Some of them have never been played. I could have one sent here tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened at the thought of so many pianos in one place. “You’ve already been far too generous,” she told him. “The greatest kindness you could bestow is the gift of your company.”
His gaze locked with hers. “Does that mean you’ve agreed to let me court you?” he asked softly. At her timid nod, he leaned a few degrees closer, barely an inch, but it made her feel overwhelmed by him. “Then you’ll have more of my company,” he murmured. “What other gifts would you like?”
Blushing, she replied, “Mr. Winterborne, there is no need —”