Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(19)

The strain of the afternoon had left her so enervated that even the simplest task was difficult. She huffed and wriggled to pull the edges of the corset together.

After watching her for a moment, Devon said brusquely, “Allow me.” He brushed her hands away and began to hook the corset efficiently. She gasped as she felt the backs of his knuckles brush the skin of her upper chest. Finishing the hooks, he started on the row of buttons at her bodice. “Relax. I’m not going to ravish you; I’m not quite as depraved as my reputation might indicate. Besides, a bosom of such modest proportions – albeit charming – isn’t enough to send me into a frenzy of lust.”

Kathleen glowered and held still, secretly relieved that he’d given her a reason to hate him again. Nimbly his long fingers worked at the buttons until each one was neatly secured in its small silk loop. His lashes cast brindled shadows down his cheeks as he glanced along her front.

“There,” he murmured.

She clambered out of his lap with the haste of a scalded cat.

“Careful.” Devon flinched at the heedless placement of her knee. “I have yet to produce an heir, which makes certain parts of my anatomy more valuable to the estate than the actual family jewels.”

“They’re not valuable to me,” she said, staggering to her feet.

“Still, I’m quite fond of them.” He grinned and rose in an easy movement, reaching out to steady her.

Dismayed by the deplorably rumpled and muddy condition of her skirts, Kathleen whacked at the bits of hay and horsehair that clung to the black crepe fabric.

“Shall I accompany you into the house?” Devon asked.

“I prefer to go separately,” she said.

“As you wish.”

Straightening her spine, she added, “We will never speak of this.”

“Very well.”

“Also… we are still not friends.”

His gaze held hers. “Are we enemies, then?”

“That depends.” Kathleen took a wavering breath. “What… what will you do with Asad?”

Something in his face softened. “He’ll remain at the estate until he can be retrained. That’s all I can promise for now.”

Although it wasn’t precisely the answer she’d wanted, it was better than having Asad sold right away. If the horse could be retrained, he might at least end up in the possession of someone who valued him. “Then… I suppose… we’re not enemies.”

He stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight. The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before. She approached him with abashed tentativeness, and he held very still as she reached up to pull the little wisp of hay from his hair. The dark locks were invitingly disheveled, a cowlick on the right side, and she was almost tempted to smooth it.

“How long is the mourning period?” he surprised her by asking abruptly.

Kathleen blinked, disconcerted. “For a widow? There are four mourning periods.”

“Four?”

“The first one lasts a year, the second for six months, the third for three months, and then half mourning lasts for the rest of one’s life.”

“And if the widow wishes to marry again?”

“She may do so after a year and a day, although it is frowned upon to marry so quickly unless she has children, or lacks income.”

“Frowned upon but not forbidden?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Devon shrugged casually. “I’m merely curious. Men are required to mourn only for six months – probably because we wouldn’t tolerate anything longer than that.”

She shrugged. “A man’s heart is different from a woman’s.”

His gaze turned quizzical.

“Women love more,” she explained. Seeing his expression, she asked, “You think I’m wrong?”

“I think you know little of men,” he said gently.

“I’ve been married: I know all I wish to.” She went to the threshold and paused to look back at him. “Thank you,” she said, and left before he could reply.

Devon wandered to the doorway after Kathleen had gone. Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the frame and expelled a controlled sigh.

Dear God… he wanted her beyond decency.

He turned and set his back against the match-boarded wall, struggling to understand what was happening to him. A euphoric, disastrous feeling had invaded him. He sensed that he’d undergone a sea change from which there was no return.

He hated it when women cried. At the first sign of tears, he had always bolted like a hare at a coursing. But as soon as his arms had gone around Kathleen, in one ordinary instant, the world, the past, everything he’d always been certain of had all been obliterated. She had reached for him, not out of passion or fear, but the simple human need for closeness. It had electrified him. No one had ever sought comfort from him before, and the act of giving it had felt more unspeakably intimate than the most torrid sexual encounter. He’d felt the force of his entire being wrap around her in a moment of sweet, raw connection.

His thoughts were in anarchy. His body still smoldered with the feeling of Kathleen’s slight weight in his lap. Before she had fully come back to herself, he had kissed her silky cheek, damp with salt tears and summer rain. He wanted to kiss her again, everywhere, for hours. He wanted her naked and exhausted in his arms. After all his past experience, physical pleasure had lost any trace of novelty, but now he wanted Kathleen Ravenel in ways that shocked him.