Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,90
could Peggy Crewe?
It must be that evil had its own attractions, just as goodness did.
Vance turned back to her. “Lady Helen, I have heard that you are engaged to marry Mr. Winterborne. A pity that you must take a husband outside your appropriate sphere. But still, my congratulations to you both.”
The comment rankled far more than when Lady Berwick had said the same thing in Hampshire. Only the awareness that Vance was goading her deliberately kept Helen from losing her composure. But she was sorely tempted to reply that if he were so concerned about people staying within their “appropriate spheres,” he should have refrained from having affairs with married women.
“I do hope someone has cautioned you,” Vance continued, “that your children may turn out to be a coarse, rebellious lot, no matter how gently they’re reared. It’s in the blood. One might tame a wolf, but its offspring will always be born wild. The Welsh are volatile and dishonest by nature. They lie easily and often, even when the truth would serve just as well. They love nothing more than to spite their betters, and they will do or say anything to avoid honest work.”
Helen thought of Rhys, who had worked ceaselessly for his entire life, and had done nothing to deserve the contempt of a man born to a life of privilege. Feeling her hands begin to ball into tight fists, she forced them to remain folded in her lap. “How have you come to be so informed on the subject?” she asked.
Lady Berwick tried to intercede. “Mr. Vance, I think—”
“Much of it is common knowledge,” he told Helen. “But I also toured throughout Wales to gather information for a pamphlet I was writing. I felt it my obligation to establish the necessity of banishing the Welsh language from their schools. It’s a poor medium of instruction, and yet they stubbornly insist on clinging to it.”
“Imagine,” Helen said softly.
“Oh yes,” Vance said, either missing the edge of sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it. “Something must be done to awaken their intelligence, and it begins with forcing English on them, whether they like it or not.” As he continued, Helen saw that he was no longer posturing or trying to provoke her, but rather speaking with sincere conviction. “The Welsh must be saved from their own sloth and brutality. As things stand now, they don’t even make fit servants.”
Lady Berwick glanced quickly at Helen’s stiff face, and sought to ease the tension. “You must have found it a relief to return to England from your tour,” she said to Vance.
His reply was emphatic. “I would rather be thrown in the fiery pit of hell than return to Wales.”
Unable to tolerate him for another second, Helen stood and said coolly, “I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr. Vance.”
Caught off guard, Vance rose slowly to his feet. “Why, you—”
“Do excuse me,” Helen said. “I have correspondence to attend to.” And she left the room without another word, fighting every instinct to keep from breaking into a run.
HELEN HAD NO idea how many minutes passed as she lay curled on her bed, using one hand to press a folded handkerchief against her streaming eyes. She tried to breathe around the sharp repeated pains in her throat.
Having no father at all would have been infinitely better than this. Albion Vance was more hateful than she could ever have imagined, warped in all directions. And she had come from him. His blood ran in her veins like venom.
The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children. Everyone knew that Biblical principle. Somewhere in her nature, something vile must have been passed down from him.
There came a brief tap at her door, and Lady Berwick entered, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. “You handled yourself very well,” she remarked, pausing at the foot of the bed.
“By insulting your guest?” Helen asked in a waterlogged voice.
“He was not my guest,” the countess said tersely. “He’s a despicable parasite. A worm who would feast on the cankered sores of Job. I had no idea that Vance would appear today without a word of warning.”
Peeling the damp handkerchief from her eyes, Helen blew her nose. “Mr. Winterborne will be angry,” she said. “He made it clear that I wasn’t to associate with Mr. Vance in any way.”
“Then I shouldn’t tell him, if I were you.”
Helen’s fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. “You’re advising me to keep a secret from him?”