Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(40)

Then she realized what the hard ridge was.

She tensed, her throat closing against a whimper. All the tantalizing heat fled, her flesh turning to ice, the trembling breaking into continuous shivers. She was about to be hurt. Attacked.

Marriage had taught her that men forgot themselves when aroused. They lost control and turned into beasts.

Desperately she calculated how much of a threat Devon might pose, how far he might go. If he hurt her, she would scream. She would fight back, no matter what the consequences to herself or her reputation.

One of his hands came to the side of her waist – she felt the pressure of it even through her corset – and he rubbed in slow circles, the way one would calm a spooked horse.

Through the blood pounding in her ears, Kathleen heard the valet ask if the luggage should be conveyed to the master bedroom. Devon replied that he would decide later, for now just bring some clothes and be quick about it. The valet agreed.

“He’s gone,” Devon said in a few moments. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he reached around the edge of the door to tamper with the latch mechanism, bending the thumb-lift bar so it wouldn’t close. “Although no one has asked my opinion about the pig,” he said, “I’m against any house pet that will eventually outweigh me.”

Having braced herself for attack, Kathleen blinked uncertainly. He was behaving so unlike a lust-crazed beast that it gave her pause.

In response to her frozen silence, Devon lifted a hand to her jaw and nudged her to look at him. Unable to avoid his calm, appraising glance, she realized there was no immediate danger of him forcing himself on her.

“You’d best look away,” he advised, “unless you want a big eyeful of Ravenel. I’m going to fetch the towels.”

Kathleen nodded, her eyes squeezing shut as he left the bathroom.

She waited, letting the chaos of her thoughts settle. But her nerves still reverberated with the feeling of him against her, the details of his aroused body.

Once, not long ago, she had gone with Lord and Lady Berwick, and their daughters, to visit the National Museum. On their way to view a display of South Seas objects that had been collected by the legendary explorer Captain James Cook, they had passed by a gallery of Italian statuary, where a pair of nude male sculptures had been positioned by the doorway. One of the detachable plaster fig leaves devised by a museum director to conceal the statues’ genitals had dropped to the floor and scattered in pieces. Lady Berwick, appalled by what she had considered no less than a visual assault, had whisked Kathleen and her daughters past the offending marble flesh… but not before they had seen exactly what the fig leaf had been intended to cover.

Kathleen had been shocked but intrigued by the statue, marveling at how the delicacy of the sculpting had made cold marble look like flesh: veined, vulnerable, smooth everywhere except for the little scruff of hair at the groin. The shy, unobtrusive bud hadn’t seemed worth the fuss Lady Berwick had made.

On Kathleen’s wedding night, however, she had glimpsed and felt just enough of Theo’s body to realize that a living, breathing man was endowed far more substantially than the marble sculpture at a museum.

And just now, the pressure of Devon’s body against hers…

She wished she’d been able to look at him.

Instantly she chastised herself for the thought. Still… she couldn’t help being curious. Would it do any harm if she took a quick peek? This was the only chance she would ever have to see a man as God had made him. Before she could talk herself out of it, she inched to the edge of the door and looked around it cautiously.

What a startling sight… a healthy, virile male in his prime. Strong and complexly muscled, barbaric and yet beautiful. Fortunately he was facing partially away from her, so that her surveillance went unnoticed. He toweled his hair until the thick locks stood on end and worked down to his arms and chest, scrubbing vigorously. His back was powerful, the line of his spine a pronounced groove. The broad slopes of his shoulders flexed as he draped the towel across and began to dry himself with a sawing motion. A plentitude of hair covered his limbs and the upper portion of his chest, and there was far more at his groin than the decorative tuft she had expected. As for the glimpse she’d had of his male part… it was scaled similarly to her husband’s, except perhaps even more prodigious. It appeared decidedly inconvenient to have such an appendage. How in the world did men ride horses?

Red-faced, she shrank back behind the door before Devon could catch her spying on him.

Soon she heard him approach, the floor creaking beneath his feet, and a dry Turkish towel was extended through the partially open doorway. She took it gratefully and wrapped it around herself.

“Are you adequately covered?” she brought herself to ask.

“I doubt anyone would call it adequate.”

“Would you like to wait in here?” she offered reluctantly. The bathroom was warmer than the drafty bedroom.

“No.”

“But it’s as cold as ice out there.”

“Precisely,” came his brusque reply. Judging from his voice, he was standing just on the other side of the door. “What the devil are you wearing, by the way?”

“My riding habit.”

“It looks like half a riding habit.”

“I leave off the overskirt when I train Asad.” At his lack of response, she added, “Mr. Bloom approves of my breeches. He says that he could almost mistake me for one of the stable boys.”