Hey there, you guys know the score. The original story is not mine and most of the work is the author's.
The title of the book is Cold-Hearted Rake and it's by Lisa Kleypas.
I do not own Merlin or the characters, neither do I own Cold-Hearted Rake.
I invite you to give it a try. Thank you and thank you for your continued support.
Hampshire, England
August 1875
"The devil knows why my life should be ruined," Arthur Pendragon said grimly, "All because a cousin I never liked, fell from a horse."
"Liam didn't fall, precisely," his younger brother, William, replied. "He was thrown."
"Obviously, the horse found him as insufferable as I did," Arthur said, as he paced around the receiving room, in restless, abbreviated strides. "If Liam hadn't already broken his damned neck, I'd like to go and break it for him."
William sent him a glance of exasperated amusement.
"How can you complain, when you've just inherited an earldom, that confers an estate in Hampshire, lands in Norfolk, a house in London..."
"All entailed. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm for land and properties that I'll never own and can't sell."
"You may be able to break the entailment, depending on how it was settled. If so, you could sell everything and be done with it."
"God willing." Arthur glanced at a bloom of mold in the corner with disgust. "No one could reasonably expect me to live here. The place is a shambles."
This was the first time either of them had ever set foot in Hampshire's Priory, the ancestral family domain, built over the remains of a monastic residence and church.
Although Arthur had become ennobled, shortly after his cousin's death three months ago, he had waited as long as possible, before facing the mountain of problems, he now confronted.
So far, he had seen only this room and the entrance hall...the two areas that were supposed to impress visitors the most.
The rugs were worn, the furniture threadbare, the plaster wall moldings dingy and cracked. None of this boded well, for the condition of the rest of the house.
"It needs refurbishing," William admitted.
"It needs to be razed to the ground."
"It's not so bad..." William broke off with a yelp, as his foot began to sink into a depression in the rug.
He hopped away and stared at the bowl-shaped indentation.
"What the deuce...?"
Arthur bent and lifted the corner of the rug, to reveal a rotting hole in the flooring beneath.
Shaking his head, he dropped the rug back into place and went to a window, fitted with diamond-shaped panes.
He noticed the lead-came that joined the window glass was corroded, the hinges and fittings rusted.
"Why hasn't that been repaired?" William asked.
"For want of money, obviously."
"But how could that be? The estate comes with twenty thousand acres. All those tenants, the annual yields..."
"Estate farming is no longer profitable," Arthur stated.
"In Hampshire?" William asked.
Arthur sent him a dark glance, before returning his attention to the view.
"Anywhere."
The Hampshire scenery was green and bucolic, neatly divided by bottle-green hedgerows in bloom.
However, somewhere beyond the cheerful huddles of thatched-roof cottages and the fertile tracts of chalk down and ancient woodland, thousands of miles of steel track were being laid out, for an onslaught of locomotive engines and rail cars.
All across England, new factories and mill towns, had begun to appear, faster than hazel catkins in the spring.
It had been Arthur's bad luck to inherit a title, just as a tide of industry, was sweeping away aristocratic traditions and entitled modes of living.
"How do you know?" his brother asked.
"Everyone knows, Will. Grain prices have collapsed. When did you last read an issue of the Times? Have you paid no attention to the discussions at the club or the taverns?"
"Not when the subject was farming," came Will's dour reply. He sat heavily, rubbing his temples. "I don't like this. I thought we had agreed, never to be serious about anything."
"I'm trying. But death and poverty, have a way of making everything seem, rather less amusing." Leaning his forehead against the windowpane, Arthur said morosely, "I've always enjoyed a comfortable life, without having to perform a single day of honest labor. Now, I have responsibilities."
He said the word, as if it was a profanity.
"I'll help you think of ways to avoid them," Will offered.
Rummaging in his coat, he pulled a silver flask from an inside pocket, uncapped it and took a long swallow.
Arthur's brows lifted.
"Isn't it a bit early for that? You'll be stewed by noon."
"Yes, but it won't happen, unless I start now," Will said, and tilted the flask again.
The habits of self-indulgence, Arthur reflected with concern, were catching up with his younger brother.
Will was a tall, handsome man, of four-and-twenty, with a wily intelligence, that he preferred to use as seldom as possible.
In the past year, an excess of strong drink, had lent a ruddy cast to his cheeks, and softened his neck and waistline.
Although Arthur had made a point, of never interfering in his brother's affairs, he wondered if he should mention something about his swilling.
On second thoughts, Will would only resent the unwanted advice.
After replacing the flask in his coat, Will steepled his hands and regarded Arthur over the tips of his fingers.
"You need to acquire capital, and sire an heir. A rich wife would solve both problems."
Arthur blanched.
"You know I'll never marry..."
He understood his limitations...he wasn't meant to be a husband or father. The idea of repeating the travesty of his childhood, with himself in the role of the cruel and indifferent parent, made his skin crawl.
"...When I die," he continued, "You're next in line."
"Do you actually believe I'll outlive you?" Will asked. "With all my vices?"
"I have just as many."
"Yes, but I'm far more enthusiastic about mine."
Arthur couldn't hold back a wry laugh.
No one could have foreseen that the two of them, from a far-flung branch of the Pendragons, would be the last in a lineage, that could be traced back to the Norman Conquest.
Unfortunately, Pendragons had always been too hot-blooded and impulsive. They yielded to every temptation, indulged in every sin, and scorned every virtue, with the result, that they tended to die faster than they could reproduce.
Now there were only a few left.
Although Arthur and Will were well-born, they had never been part of the peerage, a world so rarefied, that the highest levels were impermeable, even for minor gentry.
Arthur knew little of the complex rules and rituals, that distinguished aristocrats from the common masses.
What he did know, was that the Hampshire estate was no windfall, only a trap. It could no longer generate enough income to sustain itself. It would devour the modest annual income from his trust, crush him, and then it would finish off his brother.
"Let the Pendragons come to an end," Arthur said. "We're a bad lot and always have been. Who will care if the earldom goes extinct?"
"The servants and tenants might object, to losing their incomes and homes," Will said dryly.
"They can all go hang. I'll tell you how, what's to be done. First, I'll send Liam's widow and sisters packing, they're of no use to me..."
"Arthur..." he heard his brother say uneasily.
"...Then, I'll find a way to break the entailment, split the estate apart, and sell it piecemeal. If that's not possible, I'll strip the house of everything valuable, tear it down, and sell the stone..."
"Arthur!" Will gestured to the doorway, where a small, slim woman veiled in black, stood at the threshold.
Liam's widow.
She was the daughter of Lord Thomas Smith, an Irish peer, who owned a stud farm in Glengarriff.
She had been married to Liam for only three days, before he had died. Such tragedy coming on the heels of a customarily joyful event, must have been a cruel shock.
As one of the last few members, of a dwindling family, Arthur supposed, he should have sent her a letter of sympathy, when Liam's accident had occurred. But somehow, the thought had never translated into action, only stayed in his mind, like a bit of lint caught on a coat lapel.
Perhaps, he might have forced himself to send condolences, if he hadn't despised his cousin so much.
Life had favored Liam in many ways, gifting him with wealth, privilege, and handsomeness. But instead of being grateful for his good fortune, he had always been smug and superior...a bully.
And since Arthur had never been able to overlook an insult or provocation, he had ended up brawling with him, whenever they were together.
It would have been a lie to say he was sorry, that he would never see his cousin again.
As for his widow, she had no need of sympathy. She was young and childless, and she had a jointure, which would make it easy for her to marry again.
Although she was reputed to be a beauty, it was impossible to judge, because, a heavy black veil obscured her, in a mist of gloom.
One thing was certain...after what she had just overheard, she must think Arthur despicable.
He didn't give a damn.
As Arthur and Will bowed, the widow responded with a perfunctory curtsy.
"Welcome, my lord, and Mr. Pendragon. I will provide a list of the household inventory as soon as possible, so that you may loot and pillage in an organized fashion."
Her voice was refined, the cut-glass syllables frosted with dislike.
Arthur watched alertly, as she came farther into the room. Her figure seemed too slender for his taste, in the heft of mourning clothes.
But there was something riveting about her controlled movement, a subtle volatility, contained within stillness.
"My condolences for your loss," he said.
"My congratulations for your gain," she replied.
Arthur frowned.
"I assure you, I never wanted your husband's title."
"It's true," Will said. "He complained about it, all the way from London."
Arthur sent his brother a damning glance.
"The butler, Sims, will be available to show you the house and grounds at your leisure," the widow said. "Since I am...as you remarked...of no use to you, I will retire to my room and begin to pack."
"My lady of Winchester," Arthur said curtly, "We seem to have started off on bad footing. I apologize, if I've given offense."
"No need to apologize, my lord. Such remarks are no less than what I expected of you." She continued, before Arthur could reply. "May I ask, how long you intend to stay at Hampshire Priory?"
"Two nights, I expect. At dinner, perhaps you and I could discuss..."
"I'm afraid, my sisters-in-law and I, will not be able to dine with you. We are inundated by grief, and shall take our meals separately."
"Countess..."
Ignoring him, she left the room, without another word. Without even a curtsy.
Stunned and outraged, Arthur stared at the empty doorway with narrowed eyes.
Women have never treated him with such contempt. He felt his temper threatening to break loose.
How the hell could she hold him at fault for the situation, when he'd had no choice in any of it?
"What did I do to deserve that?" he demanded.
Will's mouth twitched.
"Aside from saying you were going to cast her out and destroy her home?"
"I apologized!"
"Never apologize to women. It only confirms that you were wrong, and incenses them further."
Arthur would be damned, if he would tolerate the insolence of a woman, who should have been offering to help him, instead of heaping blame on his head.
Widow or not, she was about to learn a much-needed lesson.
"I'm going to talk to her," he said grimly.
Lifting his feet onto the upholstered settee, Will stretched out and arranged a pillow beneath his head.
"Wake me when it's over," he said.
Arthur left the receiving room and followed the widow, with long, ground-eating strides. He caught a glimpse of her at the end of the hallway, her dress and veil rippling, as she sped away like a pirate ship at full sail.
"Wait!" he called after her. "I didn't mean what I said earlier."
"You did mean it." She stopped and whirled to face him, in an abrupt motion. "You intend to destroy the estate, and your family legacy, all for your own selfish purposes."
He stopped in front of her, his hands bawled into fists.
"Look here," he said coldly, "The most I've ever had to manage, is a terrace apartment, a cook/maid, a valet, and one horse. And now, I'm expected to look after a foundering estate, with more than two hundred tenant farms. I would think, that merits some consideration. Even sympathy."
"Poor you. How trying it must be, how inconvenient, for you to have to think about someone other than yourself."
With that parting jab, she tried to leave. However, she had stopped near an arched niche in the wall, intended for the display of statuary, or art objects on pedestals.
She was trapped. Arthur had her now.
Deliberately, he braced his hands on either side of the recess, blocking her retreat.
He heard her breath catch, and although he wasn't proud of it, he felt a bolt of satisfaction, at having unnerved her.
"Let me pass," she said.
He didn't move, keeping her captive.
"First, tell me your name."
"Why? I would never give you leave to use it."
Exasperated, he studied her shrouded form.
"Has it occurred to you, that we have more to gain from mutual cooperation than hostility?"
"I've just lost my husband and my home. What precisely do I have to gain, my lord?"
"Perhaps, you should find out, before you decide to make an enemy of me."
"You were the enemy before you ever set foot here."
Arthur found himself straining to see through the veil.
"Must you wear that blasted head covering?" he asked irritably. "It's like conversing with a lampshade."
"It's called a weeping veil, and yes, I must wear it in, the presence of a visitor."
"I'm not a visitor, I'm a relative."
"Only by marriage."
As he contemplated her, Arthur felt his temper begin to subside.
She was very small and looked as fragile and quick as a sparrow. He gentled his tone.
"Come, don't be stubborn. There's no need to wear the veil around me, lift it, unless you're literally weeping, in which case, I would insist that you put it back down immediately. I can't abide a woman crying."
"Because, you're secretly soft-hearted?" she asked sarcastically.
A distant memory stung Arthur, one he hadn't allowed himself to think about in years.
He tried to shake it off, but his mind stubbornly retained the image of himself as a boy of five or six, sitting at the closed door of his mother's dressing room, agitated by the sounds of weeping on the other side.
He didn't know what had made her cry, but it had undoubtedly been a failed love affair, of which there had been many.
His mother had been a renowned beauty, who often fell in and out of love in a single night.
His father, exhausted by her caprices and driven by his own demons, had rarely been at home.
Arthur remembered the suffocating helplessness, of listening to her sob, but not being able to reach her.
He had settled for pushing handkerchiefs under the door, begging her to open it, and asking repeatedly, what was wrong.
"Arthur, you're sweet," she had said through her sniffles. "All little boys are. But then you all grow up to be so selfish and cruel. You were born to break women's hearts."
"I won't, Mummy," he had cried in alarm. "I promise I won't."
He had heard a laughing sob then, as if he'd said something foolish.
"Of course you will, poppet. You'll do it without even trying."
The scene had been repeated on other occasions, but that was the one he remembered most clearly.
As it had turned out, his mother had been right. Or at least, he'd often been accused of breaking women's hearts.
But he had always made it clear, that he had no intention of marrying. Even if he fell in love, he would never make that kind of promise to a woman.
There was no reason for it, when any promise could be broken.
Having experienced the pain, that people who loved each other could inflict, he had no desire to do that to anyone.
His attention returned to the woman in front of him.
"No, I'm not soft-hearted," he said in answer to her question. "In my opinion, a woman's tears are manipulative and even worse, unattractive."
"You," she said with certainty, "Are the vilest man I have ever met."
Arthur was amused, by the way she enunciated every word, as if it had been shot from a bow.
"How many men have you met?"
"Enough to recognize a wicked one when I see him."
"I doubt you can see much of anything through this veil." He reached out to finger the edge of the black gauze. "You can't possibly like to wear it."
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Because, it hides your face when you cry," he said, rather than asked.
"I never cry."
Taken aback, he wondered if he had heard her correctly.
"You mean not since your husband's accident?"
"Not even then."
What kind of woman would say such a thing, even if it was true?
Arthur gripped the front of the veil and began to hike it upward.
"Hold still." He pushed handfuls of the crepe, back over the little headpiece that anchored it. "No, don't pull away. The two of us are going to stand face-to-face and attempt a civilized conversation. Good God, you could rig a merchant ship with all this..."
He broke off, as her face was uncovered.
He found himself staring into a pair of amber eyes, that tilted at the outer corners in a catlike slant.
For a moment he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, while all his senses struggled to take her in.
He had never seen anything like her.
She was younger than he had expected, with a soft caramel complexion and and curly hair, that looked too heavy for its pins.
A set of wide, pronounced cheekbones and a narrow jaw, imparted an exquisite feline triangularity to her features.
The curves of her lips were so full, that even when she pressed them together tightly, as she was doing now, they still looked soft.
Although she was not what people would call conventionally beautiful, she was so original, that it rendered the question of beauty inconsequential.
Her mourning dress was slim and tightly fitted from the neck to the hips, before flaring into a series of complex pleats.
A man could only guess at the figure, encased in all that boning, ruching and intricate stitching.
Even her wrists and hands were obscured by black gloves. And aside from her face, the only visible skin was at her throat, where the front of her high collar, parted with a U-shaped notch.
It looked so very soft, that private place, where a man might press his lips and feel the rhythm of her pulse.
He could see the vulnerable movement of her swallow.
And he wanted to start there, kissing her throat, while he undressed her, like an intricately wrapped gift, until she was gasping and squirming beneath him.
If she were any other woman, and they had found themselves in any other circumstances, he would have seduced her on the spot.
Realizing, that it would not do to stand there gaping like a landed trout, Arthur searched through his hot, disordered thoughts, for some conventional remark, something coherent.
To his surprise, she was the first to break the silence.
"My name is Guinevere."
An Irish/Welsh name. "Why do you have no accent?"
"I was sent to England as a child, to live with family friends."
"Why?"
A frown knit between her winged brows.
"My parents were very much occupied with their horses. They spent several months of each year in Egypt, purchasing Arabian bloodstock for their farm. I was...an inconvenience. Their friends, Lord and Lady Gemswick, who were also horse people, offered to take me in and raise me with their two daughters."
"Do your parents still live in Ireland?"
"My mother has passed away, but my father is still there." Her gaze turned distant, her thoughts chasing elsewhere. "He sent Amhad to me as a wedding present."
"Amhad?" Arthur repeated, puzzled.
Refocusing on him, Guinevere looked perturbed, color sweeping from her neck to her hairline.
Then, he understood.
"The horse that threw Liam," he said quietly.
"It wasn't Amhad's fault. He was so badly trained, that my father bought him back from the man, who had originally purchased him."
"Why give a problem horse to you?"
"Lord Gemswick, often allowed me to help him train the young colts."
Arthur ran a deliberate glance over her fine-boned frame.
"You're no bigger than a sparrow."
"One doesn't use brute force to train an Arabian. They're a sensitive breed...they require understanding and skill."
'Two things that Liam had lacked. How bloody stupid he had been, to risk his neck and a valuable animal along with it.'
"Did Liam do it on a lark?" Arthur couldn't resist asking. "Was he trying to show off?"
A glint of searing emotion appeared in her luminous eyes, before it was quickly extinguished.
"He was in a temper. He wouldn't be dissuaded."
'That's a Pendragon for you.'
If anyone had ever dared to contradict Liam, or refuse him anything, it had ignited an explosion.
Perhaps, Guinevere had thought she could manage him, or that time would mellow him. She couldn't have known that a Pendragon's temper, usually outweighed any sense of self-preservation.
Arthur would have liked to consider himself above that sort of thing, but he had succumbed to it, more than once in the past, throwing himself into the volcanic pit of consuming fury.
It always felt glorious, until one had to face the consequences.
Guinevere folded her arms tightly, each small, black-gloved hand, forming a clamp around the opposite elbow.
"Some people said, I should have had Amhad put down after the accident. But it would be cruel, and wrong, to punish him for something that wasn't his fault."
"Have you considered selling him?"
"I wouldn't want to. But even if I did, I would have to retrain him first."
Arthur doubted the wisdom, of allowing her anywhere near a horse, that had just killed her husband, albeit inadvertently. And in all likelihood, she wouldn't be able to stay at Hampshire Priory long enough, to make any progress with the Arabian.
However, now wasn't the time to point that out.
"I'd like to see the grounds," he said. "Will you walk with me?"
Looking perturbed, Guinevere retreated a half step.
"I'll arrange for the head gardener to show them to you."
"I would prefer you." He paused, before asking deliberately, "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
Her brows rushed downward.
"Certainly not."
"Then, walk with me."
Ignoring his proffered arm, she slid him a wary glance.
"Shall we invite your brother?"
Arthur shook his head.
"He's napping."
"At this hour of the day? Is he ill?"
"No, he keeps the schedule of a cat. Long hours of slumber, interrupted by brief periods of self-grooming."
He saw the corners of her lips deepen with reluctant amusement.
"Come, then," she murmured, brushing by him, to walk briskly along the hallway.
And he followed without hesitation.
Stay safe!