Thunder and Roses Read Free Page A

impulse to back away, Clare reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small book that was her only hope. Opening the volume to the handwritten inscription, she held it up for him to see. “Do you remember this?”
     
    The message was a simple one. Reverend Morgan—I hope that some day I will be able to repay all you have done for me. Affectionately, Nicholas Davies.
     
    The schoolboy scrawl stopped the earl as if he had been struck. His wintry gaze shifted from the book to Clare’s face. “You play to win, don’t you? However, you’re holding the wrong hand. Any obligation I might feel would be toward your father. If he wants favors, he should ask for them in person.”
     
    “He can’t,” she said baldly. “He died two years ago.”
     
    After an awkward silence, the earl said, “I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. Your father was probably the only truly good man I’ve ever known.”
     
    “Your grandfather was also a good man. He did a great deal for the people of Penreith. The poor fund, the chapel …”
     
    Before Clare could list other examples of the late earl’s charity, Nicholas interrupted her. “Spare me. I know that my grandfather dearly loved setting a moral example for the lower orders, but that holds no appeal for me.”
     
    “At least he took his responsibilities seriously,” she retorted. “You haven’t done a thing for the estate or the village since you inherited.”
     
    “A record I have every intention of maintaining.” He finished his drink and set the glass down with a clink. “Neither your father’s good example nor the old earl’s moralizing succeeded in transforming me into a gentleman. I don’t give a damn about anyone or anything, and I prefer it that way.”
     
    She stared at him, shocked. “How can you say such a thing? No one is that callous.”
     
    “Ah, Miss Morgan, your innocence is touching.” He leaned against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his broad chest, looking as diabolical as his nickname. “You had better leave before I shatter any more of your illusions.”
     
    “Don’t you care that your neighbors are suffering?”
     
    “In a word, no. The Bible says that the poor will always be with us, and if Jesus couldn’t change that, I certainly can’t.” He gave her a mocking smile. “With the possible exception of your father, I’ve never met a man of conspicuous charity who didn’t have base motives. Most who make a show of generosity do it because they crave the gratitude of their inferiors and the satisfactions of self-righteousness. At least I, in my honest selfishness, am not a hypocrite.”
     
    “A hypocrite can do good even if his motives are unworthy, which makes him more valuable than someone with your brand of honesty,” she said dryly. “But as you wish. Since you don’t believe in charity, what do you care about? If money is what warms your heart, there is profit to be made in Penreith.”
     
    He shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t care much about money, either. I already have more than I could spend in ten lifetimes.”
     
    “How nice for you,” she muttered under her breath. She wished that she could turn and walk out, but to do so would be to admit defeat, and she had never been good at that. Thinking that there had to be some way to reach him, she asked, “What would it take to change your mind?”
     
    “My help is not available for any price you would be willing or able to pay.”
     
    “Try me.”
     
    Attention caught, he scanned her from head to foot with insulting frankness. “Is that an offer?”
     
    He had meant to shock her, and he had succeeded; she turned a hot, humiliated red. But she did not avert her eyes. “If I said yes, would that persuade you to help Penreith?”
     
    He regarded her with astonishment. “My God, you would actually let me ruin you if that would advance your schemes?”
     
    “If I was sure it would work, yes,” she said recklessly. “My virtue and a few