What a Reckless Rogue Needs (The Sinful Scoundrels, #2)(28)

He led her up the next flight of stairs. She couldn’t help noting the lack of family portraits on the walls, though she could discern where they had once hung. She told herself they were only rooms, and she was here to assist him with the inspection. Yet she thought of how her father would react if he learned she’d gone into a bedchamber with Colin. Oh, for pity’s sake, her father would never know, and Colin certainly wouldn’t mention it when they returned to Deerfield.

She never used to be so skittish, but she’d disappointed her family. Her guilt was like the fog. It inevitably rolled in.

The first bedchamber was a well-appointed room with tall mahogany bedposts and rose-colored bed hangings that matched the drapes. A chaise longue with rose-colored cushions was angled in the corner.

“Was this your mother’s room?” she asked.

“I imagine so,” he said. There was determination in his expression as he opened the drawer of a night table.

She didn’t think much of it at first and walked to the window where she drew the draperies open. “I think you could have a wonderful flower garden in the spring.”

Footsteps alerted her. Colin was opening and closing drawers in the dressing table.

“Are you looking for something?” she asked.

“Yes.”

He strode to the wardrobe and opened the doors.

She thought it was odd that he’d not told her what he was seeking.

He released an exasperated sigh and checked the other night table.

“Perhaps I can help,” she said.

“Everything is empty.” He walked through the connecting door.

Angeline followed him, concerned about his strange mood.

“This must have been your father’s room.” The bedposts were enormous and the bed hangings were a dark crimson. In the corner was a mirrored mahogany shaving stand.

He began searching through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.

“Colin?”

He said nothing at first. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “It’s as if she never existed.”

Her heart felt as if it had fallen to her feet. “If you tell me what you’re looking for, I will help you find it.”

“I don’t know if you can.”

“Perhaps if you describe it to me, I will have success.”

“It’s a miniature…of my mother.”

Oh, dear God. She took a shaky breath, needing to compose herself for his sake. “When did you last see it?” she asked.

“It was on her dressing table, but I might be mistaken. It was long ago.” He sighed. “I have nothing to remember her by.”

She swallowed hard. “It’s bound to be somewhere in the house. Was there anything special about the miniature?”

He frowned. “I’m imagining smooth stones for some reason.”

“You were very young,” she said.

He walked to the window and planted his hands against the wavy glass.

“Colin, what troubles you?”

He turned toward her. “I can’t remember her features.”

She bit her lip, because her tears wouldn’t help him.

He blew out his breath. “It’s been too long.”

She inhaled slowly. “I imagine servants moved everything to the attic.”

“Probably.” He paced the room. “I should have stayed in London and let it be.”

“No,” she said. “Sommerall is important to you.”

“I could have investigated the property years ago. I just assumed I would inherit. God only knows what has rotted or fallen apart.”

“Colin, your father is still the owner, and as such, it was his responsibility.”

“You miss the point. I ignored Sommerall until my father expressed his intention to sell.”

“You mustn’t criticize yourself,” she said. “You could not have predicted that your father would decide to sell.”

He huffed. “If my father hadn’t sent that letter informing me that he meant to sell, I would have made excuses to avoid the house party. Make no mistake, Angeline. I’m a selfish man. I’ve done bad things, but I won’t sully your ears. Believe me, I have earned my rakehell reputation.”

Angeline recognized self-loathing, because she’d experienced it. How many times had she silently rebuked herself for falling for a man she’d known was trouble? Instead, she’d believed his claims that he was a new man because of her. “None of us can change the past, but we do not have to be slaves to it, either.”

He huffed. “Here is something you ought to know. Rakes are irredeemable.”

“I have no intention of trying to reform you. I have made mistakes, and so have you. That doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve to find your mother’s miniature, and that doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve Sommerall.”

“If you had any sense, you would demand I return you to Deerfield immediately.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Colin.”

“You should be,” he said.

“Yes, you are a big, bad rake.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to help me? Do you imagine it is akin to taking hampers to the poor?”

He was proud and probably regretted admitting his mistakes. “There is an old saying: Do not look a gift horse in the mouth.”