Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

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 —”

“I’m still considering the piano.”

“Flowers,” she said quickly. “A tin of sweets, or a paper fan. Small gestures.”

His lips curved. “Unfortunately I’m known for making large gestures.”

At the conclusion of dinner, the gentlemen remained at the table and the ladies withdrew for tea.

“You were so dreadfully quiet at dinner, Helen,” Pandora exclaimed as soon as they had entered the drawing room.

“Pandora,” Kathleen reproved softly.

Cassandra came to her twin’s defense. “But it’s true. Helen was as talkative as a fern.”

“I wasn’t certain what to say to him,” Helen admitted. “I didn’t want to make a mistake.”

“You did very well,” Kathleen said. “Conversing with strangers isn’t easy.”

“It is if you don’t care what you say,” Pandora advised.

“Or what their opinion of you might be,” Cassandra added.

Kathleen sent Helen a private glance of comical despair. “They’ll never be ready for the season,” she whispered, and Helen bit back a grin.

At the end of the evening, when Winterborne was donning his hat and gloves in the entrance hall, Helen impulsively picked up her potted orchid from a table in the drawing room, and brought it to him.

“Mr. Winterborne,” she said earnestly, “I would like very much for you to have this.”

He gave her a questioning glance as she pushed the pot into his hands.

“It’s a Blue Vanda orchid,” she explained.

“What should I do with it?”

“You might wish to keep it in a place where you can see it often. Remember that it doesn’t like to be cold and wet, or hot and dry. Whenever it’s moved to a new environment, the Vanda usually becomes distressed, so don’t be alarmed if a flower shrivels and drops off. Generally it’s best not to set it where there may be a draft, or too much sun. Or too much shadow. And never place it next to a bowl of fruit.” She gave him an encouraging glance. “Later, I’ll give you a special tonic to mist over it.”

As Winterborne stared at the exotic flower in his hands with perplexed reluctance, Helen began to regret her spontaneous action. He didn’t seem to want the gift, but she couldn’t very well ask to have it back.

“You needn’t take it if you don’t want it,” she said. “I would understand —”