Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(44)

He kissed her again, slow and ruthlessly gentle, until her mouth clung to his and he felt the answering touch of her tongue. Her hands inched up his chest, her head tilting backward as she surrendered helplessly. The pleasure was unimaginable, as unfamiliar to him as it must have been to her. Suffused with an agony of need, he moved his hands over her, caressing and trying to grip her closer. He could feel the movements of her body within the rustling dress, firm sweet flesh trussed in all those stiff layers of starch and laces and boning. He wanted to tear it all from her. He wanted her vulnerable and exposed to him, her private skin naked beneath his mouth.

But as he took her face in his hands so his thumbs could stroke her cheeks, he felt a smudge of moisture.

A tear.

Devon went still. Lifting his head, he stared down at Kathleen while their panting breaths mingled. Her eyes were wet and bewildered. She raised her fingers to her lips, touching them tentatively as if they’d been burned.

Silently he berated himself, knowing that he’d pushed her too far, too soon.

Somehow he managed to let go and back away, putting a crucial distance between them.

“Kathleen —” he began gruffly. “I shouldn’t have —”

She fled before he could say another word.

The next morning, Devon took the family coach to meet West’s train. The market town of Alton was bisected by a long main street lined with prosperous shops, neighborhoods of handsome houses, a bombazine cloth factory, and a paper mill. Unfortunately the sulfurous stench of the paper mill announced itself well before the building came into view.

The footman huddled closer to the station building, taking refuge from the biting November wind. Feeling too restless to stay still, Devon paced along the platform, his hands shoved in the pockets of his black wool greatcoat. Tomorrow he would have to return to London. The thought of that silent house, so crowded with furniture and yet so empty, filled him with revulsion. But he had to stay away from Hampshire. He needed distance from Kathleen, or he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from seducing her long before she was ready for it.

He was playing a long game, and he couldn’t let himself forget that.

Bloody mourning period.

He was obliged to curtail his pacing as the platform became crowded with people holding tickets, and others waiting to greet the arriving passengers. Soon their conversation and laughter were drowned out by the approach of the locomotive, a thundering, hissing beast that sped forward with impatient clattering and chugging.

After the train had stopped with a metallic screech, porters carried trunks and valises off the train, while arriving and departing passengers milled in a roiling crowd. People collided as they headed in a multitude of directions. Objects were dropped and hastily retrieved; travelers became separated and searched for each other; names were called out in the cacophony. Devon pushed past the confluence of bodies, looking for his brother. Not finding him, he glanced back at the footman, wondering if he had caught sight of West. The servant gestured and shouted something, but his voice was lost in the clamor.

As Devon made his way to the footman, he saw him talking to a stranger wearing baggy clothes, the kind of good quality but ill-fitting castoffs that a clerk or tradesman might wear. The man was young and slim, with heavy dark hair that wanted cutting. He bore a striking resemblance to West in his days at Oxford, especially the way he smiled with his chin tilted downward, as if reflecting on some private joke. In fact…

Holy hell. It was his brother. It was West.

“Devon,” West exclaimed with a surprised laugh, reaching out to shake his hand heartily. “Why aren’t you in London?”

Devon was slow to gather his wits. West looked years younger… healthy, clear-eyed, as he’d never thought to see him again.

“Kathleen sent for me,” he finally said.

“Did she? Why?”

“I’ll explain later. What has happened to you? I hardly recognize you.”

“Nothing’s happened. What do you – oh, yes, I’ve lost a bit of weight. Never mind that, I’ve just arranged to purchase a threshing machine.” West’s face glowed with pleasure. At first Devon thought he was being sarcastic.

My brother, he thought, is excited over farming equipment.

As they proceeded to the coach, West described his visit to Wiltshire and talked animatedly about what he had learned from an agriculturist who was practicing modern techniques on his model farm. With a combination of deep drainage and steam power, the man had doubled the yield on his land using less than half the labor. Furthermore, the agriculturist wanted to acquire the latest machinery and was willing to sell his equipment at a bargain. “It will require some investment,” West admitted, “but the returns will be exponential. I have some estimates to show you —”

“I’ve seen some of them. You’ve done impressive work.”

West shrugged nonchalantly.

They climbed into the coach and settled into the fine leather seats. “You seem to be thriving at Eversby Priory,” Devon remarked as their vehicle began to move.

“The devil knows why. There’s never a moment’s peace or privacy. A man can’t sit and think without being jumped on by some overexcited dog, or harassed by gabby females. There’s always an emergency: something breaking, exploding, or collapsing —”

“Exploding?”

“One explosion. The laundry drying room stove wasn’t properly ventilated – no, don’t be alarmed – a brick wall absorbed most of the force. No one was injured. The point is that the house is perpetually topsy-turvy.”