Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(14)

A huge shape loomed beside her… a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding – he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste.

“Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter – it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.”

Kathleen stared at him with stunned confusion.

In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with Devon back to the estate. The dray, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching… his arms around her…

No. She couldn’t bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought.

“I… I can’t ride with you.” Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth.

Devon’s lips parted as if he were about to deliver a scathing reply. As his gaze traveled over her drenched form, however, his expression softened. “Then you take the horse, and I’ll walk back.”

Dumbstruck by the offer, Kathleen could only stare at him. “No,” she eventually managed to say. “But… thank you. Please, you must return to the house.”

“We’ll both walk,” he said impatiently, “or we’ll both ride. But I won’t leave you.”

“I’ll be perfectly —”

She broke off and flinched at a bone-rattling peal of thunder.

“Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her.

The dray bobbed its head and pawed the ground with one hoof.

She would have to ride back with him, she realized in despair. There was no alternative. Wrapping her arms around herself, she said anxiously, “F-first I have something to say to you.”

Devon’s brows lifted, his face cold.

“I…” She swallowed hard, and the words came out in a rush. “What I said in the study earlier was unkind, and untrue, and I’m s-sorry for it. It was very wrong of me. I shall make that very clear to Mr. Totthill and Mr. Fogg. And your brother.”

His expression changed, one corner of his mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile that sent her heartbeat into chaos. “You needn’t bother mentioning it to them. All three will be calling me far worse before all is said and done.”

“Nevertheless, it wasn’t fair of me —”

“It’s forgotten. Come, the rain is worsening.”

“I must fetch my shawl.”

Devon followed her glance to the dark heap in the distance. “Is that it? Good God, leave it there.”

“I can’t —”

“It’s ruined by now. I’ll buy you another.”

“I couldn’t accept something so personal from you. Besides… you can’t afford extra expenses, now that you have Eversby Priory.”

She saw the flash of his grin.

“I’ll replace it,” he said. “From what I gather, people at my level of debt never concern themselves with economizing.” Sliding back against the cantle of the saddle, he extended a hand down. His form was large and lean against the rioting sky, the hard lines of his face cast in shadow.

Kathleen gave him a doubtful glance; it would require considerable strength for him to lift her while he was mounted. “You won’t drop me?” she asked uneasily.

Devon sounded insulted. “I’m hardly some limp-wristed fop, madam.”

“My skirts are heavy and wet —”

“Give me your hand.”

She approached him, and his hand took hers in a strong clasp. A nervous shiver went through her.

She hadn’t touched any man since Theo’s death three months ago. Lord Berwick had attended the funeral, and afterward had offered Kathleen an awkward embrace, but she had given him her gloved hand instead. “I can’t,” she had whispered to him, and Lord Berwick had nodded in understanding. Although he was a kind man, he had seldom been disposed to demonstrations of affection. Lady Berwick was the same, a benevolent but self-contained woman who had tried to teach her daughters and Kathleen the value of self-restraint. “Rule your emotions,” she had always advised, “or they will most certainly rule you.”

An icy runnel of rain ran down Kathleen’s sleeve, contrasting sharply with the heat of Devon’s grip, and she shivered.

The dray waited patiently in the thrashing wind and rain.

“I want you to spring up,” she heard Devon say, “and I’ll lift you until you can find the stirrup with your left foot. Don’t try to swing a leg over. Just mount as if it were a sidesaddle.”

“When should I jump?”

“Now would be convenient,” he said dryly.