Devon shook his head. “At best, she’ll have a few adequate ones. None will be splendid, nor even appropriate for a girl of her quality.” In response to Rhys’s perplexed glance, he explained, “The late earl didn’t provide for a dowry.”
“A pity.” If Devon were going to try to borrow money from him to improve Lady Helen’s chances of marrying a peer, Rhys would tell him to sod off. “What has any of that to do with me?”
“Nothing, if she doesn’t please you.” Seeing Rhys’s baffled expression, Devon shook his head with an exasperated laugh. “Confound it, Winterborne, don’t be obtuse. I’m trying to point out an opportunity, if you have any interest in Lady Helen.”
Rhys was silent. Stunned.
Devon chose his words with obvious care. “On the surface, it’s not the most obvious match.”
Match? Marriage match? The bastard clearly didn’t understand what he was suggesting. Even so… Rhys felt his soul clutch at the idea.
“However,” Devon continued, “there are advantages to both sides. Helen would gain a life of security and comfort. She would have her own household. For your part, you would have a well-bred wife whose pedigree would gain you entrance to many of the doors that are closed to you now.” After a brief pause, he added casually, “As the daughter of an earl, she would keep her title, even after she became your wife. Lady Helen Winterborne.”
Devon was wily enough to understand how the sound of that would affect him. Lady Helen Winterborne… yes, Rhys bloody-fucking-well loved that. He had never dreamed of marrying a respectable woman, much less a daughter of the peerage.
But he wasn’t fit for her. He was a Welshman with a rough accent and a foul mouth, and vulgar origins. A merchant. No matter how he dressed or improved his manners, his nature would always be coarse and competitive. People would whisper, seeing the two of them together… They would agree that marrying him had debased her. Helen would be the object of pity and perhaps contempt.
She would secretly hate him for it.
Rhys didn’t give a damn.
He had no illusions of course, that Devon was offering him Lady Helen’s hand without conditions. There would be a hefty price: The Ravenels’ need for money was dire. But Helen was worth whatever he would have to pay. His fortune was even vaster than people suspected; he could have purchased a small country if he so desired.
“Have you discussed it with Lady Helen yet?” Rhys asked. “Is that why she played Florence Nightingale while I had fever? To soften me in preparation for bargaining?”
“Hardly,” Devon said with a snort. “Helen is above that sort of manipulation. She helped you because she’s naturally compassionate. No, she has no inkling that I’ve considered arranging a match for her.”
Rhys decided to be blunt. “What makes you think she would be willing to marry the likes of me?”
Devon answered frankly. “She has few options at present. There is no occupation fit for a gentlewoman that would afford her a decent living, and she would never lower herself to harlotry. Furthermore, Helen’s conscience won’t allow her to be a burden on someone else, which means that she’ll have to take a husband. Without a dowry, either she’ll be forced to wed some feeble old dotard who can’t work up a cock-stand or someone’s inbred fourth son. Or… she’ll have to marry out of her class.” Devon shrugged and smiled pleasantly. It was the smile of a man who held a good hand of cards. “You’re under no obligation, of course: I could always introduce her to Severin.”
Rhys was too experienced a negotiator to show any reaction, even though a burst of outrage filled him at the suggestion. Staying outwardly relaxed, he murmured, “Perhaps you should. Severin would take her at once. Whereas I would probably be better off marrying the kind of woman I deserve.” He paused, contemplating his wineglass, turning it so one last tiny red drop rolled across the inside. “However,” he said, “I always want better than I deserve.”
All his ambition and determination had converged into a single desire… to marry Lady Helen Ravenel. She would bear his children, handsome blue-blooded children. He would see that they were educated and raised in luxury, and he would lay the world at their feet.
Someday, by God, people would beg to marry Winterbornes.
Chapter 24
A
week after the railway accident, Devon had still not healed sufficiently to go on his customary morning ride. He was accustomed to beginning each day with some form of physical exertion, and a simple walk wasn’t enough. His temper grew short with the enforced inactivity, and to make things worse, he was as randy as a stoat, with no way to relieve either problem. He was still puzzled over Kathleen’s refusal to even consider an affair with him. You’re dangerous to me… The statement had baffled and infuriated him. He would never harm a hair on her head. How could she even think otherwise?
Her proper upbringing by Lady Berwick had given her an overactive conscience, he decided. Obviously she needed time to adjust to the idea that she was no longer bound by the same rules she had always followed so strictly.
For his part, Devon knew that he would have to earn her trust.
Or seduce her.
Whatever happened first.
He struck out for the countryside along a footpath that led through the wood and past the remains of a medieval barn. The day was damp, the air bitten with hoarfrost, but the brisk walk kept him pleasantly warm. Noticing a hen harrier flying low to the ground, he paused to watch it hunt. The bird seemed to drift as it searched for prey, its gray and white plumage ghostlike in the morning light. In the distance, a flock of bramblings in flight quivered against the sky.
Continuing on the footpath, Devon reflected that he’d become attached to the estate. The lifelong responsibility of preserving it, and restoring the house, no longer seemed like a punishment. It called to a deep ancestral instinct.
If only the past few generations of Ravenels hadn’t been such shortsighted fools. At least two dozen rooms at Eversby Priory had become uninhabitable. Seeping water had assailed the walls with damp and rot, ruining plasterwork and interior furnishings. Restoration work had to be done soon, before the damage worsened beyond repair.
He needed money, a large sum, without delay. He would have loved to sell Ravenel House in London and immediately pour the profit into Eversby Priory, but that would be seen as a weakness by potential lenders or partners. Perhaps he could risk selling his land in Norfolk? That would attract far less notice. But the proceeds would be unimpressive… and he could already hear the howls of complaint from Kathleen and West if he decided to evict his Norfolk tenants.
A self-mocking smile curved his lips as he recalled that not too long ago, his problems had consisted of issues such as his cookmaid bringing weak tea, or his horse needing to be reshod.