Rake with a Frozen Heart. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
a little bored. Henrietta’s unorthodox arrival provided some welcome excitement and consequently induced an unaccustomed garrulousness in the usually reserved housekeeper.
‘I’ve known Master Rafe all his life, since he was a babe,’ she said in answer to Henrietta’s question. ‘A bonny babe he was, too, and so clever.’
‘He has certainly retained his looks,’ Henrietta ventured, struggling into her newly brushed, but none the less indisputably brown dress.
Mrs Peters pursed her lips. ‘Certainly, he has no shortage of admirers,’ she said primly. ‘A man like Lord Pentland, with those looks and the Pentland title behind him, to say nothing of the fact that he’s as rich as Croesus, will always attract the ladies, but the master is—well, miss, the truth is …’ She looked over her shoulder, as if Rafe would suddenly appear in the bedchamber. ‘Truth is, he’s the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, as my Albert puts it, though I say there’s little loving and a darn sight more leaving. I don’t know why I’m telling you this except you seem such a nice young lady and it wouldn’t do to—But then, he’s not a libertine, if you know what I mean.’
Henrietta tried to look knowledgeable, though in truth she wasn’t exactly sure she understood the distinction between rake and libertine. Certainly Mama had never made one. She was attempting to formulate a question that would persuade Mrs Peters to enlighten her without revealing her own ignorance when the housekeeper heaved a huge sigh and clucked her teeth. ‘He wasn’t always like that, mind. I blame that wife of his.’
‘He’s married!’ Henrietta’s jaw dropped with shock. ‘I didn’t know.’ But why should she? Contrary to what his lordship thought, Henrietta was not a great one for gossip. Generally speaking, she closed her ears to it, which is why Rafe St Alban’s accusations had hurt. In fact, she had only become aware of his reputation recently, a chance remark of her employer’s having alerted her. But if he was married, it made his behaviour so much worse. Somewhat irrationally, Henrietta felt a little betrayed, as if he had lied to her, even though it was actually none of her business. ‘I hadn’t heard mention of a wife,’ she said.
‘That’s because she’s dead,’ Mrs Peters replied quietly. ‘Five years ago now.’
‘So he’s a widower!’ He looked even less like one of those. ‘What happened? How did she die? When did they marry? Was he—did they—was it a love match? Was he devastated?’ The questions tripped one after another off her tongue. Only the astonished look on Mrs Peters’s face made her stop. ‘I am just curious,’ Henrietta said lamely.
Mrs Peters eyed her warily. ‘Her name was Lady Julia. I’ve said more than enough already, the master doesn’t like her to be talked about. But if you’re ready to go, I can show you a likeness of her on the way out, if you want.’
The portrait hung in the main vestibule. The subject was depicted gazing meditatively into the distance, her willowy figure seated gracefully on a rustic swing bedecked with roses. ‘Painted the year she died, that was,’ Mrs Peters said.
‘She is—was—very beautiful,’ Henrietta said wistfully.
‘Oh, she was lovely, no doubt about that,’ Mrs Peters said, ‘though handsome is as handsome does.’
‘What do you mean?’
Mrs Peters looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’
‘How long were they married?’
‘Six years. Master Rafe was only a boy, not even twenty, when they were wed. She was a few years older than him. It makes a difference at that age,’ Mrs Peters said.
‘How so?’
Mrs Peters shook her head. ‘Don’t matter now. As Albert says, what’s done is done. The carriage will be waiting for you, miss.’
Henrietta took a final look at the perfect features of the elegant woman depicted in the portrait. There could be no denying the Countess of Pentland’s beauty, but there was a calculating hardness in the eyes she could not like, a glittering perfection to her appearance that made Henrietta think of polished granite. For some ridiculous reason, she did not like to imagine Rafe St Alban in love with this woman.
Taking leave of the housekeeper, she made her way down the front steps to the waiting coach, unable to stop herself looking back just in case the earl had changed his mind and deigned to say farewell to her himself. But there was no sign of him.
A large fountain dominated the courtyard, consisting of four dolphins supporting a statue of Neptune. Modelled on Bernini’s Triton fountain in Rome, Henrietta’s inner governess noted. Beyond the fountain, reached by a broad sweep of steps, pristine flower beds and immaculate lawns stretched into the distance. Like the house she had just left, the grounds spoke eloquently of elegance, taste and wealth.
The contrast with her own childhood home could not be more stark. The ramshackle house in which she had been raised was damp, draughty and neglected. A lack of funds, and other, more pressing priorities saw to that. Any spare money her parents had went to good causes. An unaccustomed gust of homesickness assailed Henrietta. Hopelessly inept her parents might be, but they always meant well. They always put others first, even if the others weren’t at all grateful. Even if it meant their only child coming last. Still, she never doubted that they loved her. She missed them.
But she had never been one to repine her lot. Henrietta straightened her shoulders and climbed into the waiting coach with its crest emblazoned on the door, already preparing herself for the forthcoming, almost certainly difficult, interview with her employer.
Rafe watched her departure from his bedroom window. Poor Henrietta Markham, it was unlikely in the extreme that Helen Ipswich would thank her for attempting to intervene—if that is what she really had done. He felt oddly uncomfortable at having allowed her to return on her own like a lamb to the slaughter. But he was not a shepherd and rescuing innocent creatures from Helen Ipswich’s clutches was not his responsibility.
As the carriage pulled off down the driveway, Rafe left the window, stripped off his boots and coat, and donned his dressing gown. Sitting by the fireside, a glass of brandy in hand, he caught Henrietta’s elusive scent still clinging to the silk. A long chestnut hair lay on the sleeve.
She had been a pleasant distraction. Unexpectedly desirable, too. That mouth. Those delectable curves.
But she was gone now. And later today, so too would he be. Back to London. Rafe took a sip of brandy. Two weeks ago he had turned thirty. Just over twelve years now since he had inherited the title, and almost five years to the day since he had become a widower. More than enough time to take up the reins of his life again, his grandmother, the Dowager Countess, chided him on a tediously regular basis. In a sense she was right, but in another she had no idea how impossible was her demand. The emotional scars he bore ran too deep for that. He had no desire at all to risk inflicting any further damage to his already battered psyche.
He took another, necessary, sip of brandy. The time had come. His grandmother would have to be made to relinquish once and for all any notion of a direct heir, though how he was going to convince her without revealing the unpalatable truth behind his reluctance, the terrible guilty secret that would haunt him to the grave, was quite another matter.
By the time the coach drew up at her employer’s front door, Henrietta’s natural optimism had reasserted itself. Whatever Rafe St Alban thought, she had tried to prevent a theft; even if she hadn’t actually succeeded, she could describe the housebreaker and that was surely something of an achievement. Entering the household, she was greeted by an air of suppressed excitement. The normally hangdog footman goggled at her. ‘Where have you been?’ he whispered. ‘They’ve been saying—’
‘My lady wishes to see you immediately,’ the butler interrupted.
‘Tell her I’ll be with her as soon as I’ve changed my clothes, if you please.’
‘Immediately,’ the butler repeated firmly.
Henrietta ascended