Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(71)

Fortunately there was a lull in the line of arriving guests, and Kathleen took swift advantage. Slipping her arm through Devon’s, she said quietly, “Let’s go.”

He escorted her away without a word, letting out a sigh of relief as they walked through the entrance hall.

Kathleen had intended to find a quiet place for them to sit undisturbed, but Devon surprised her by pulling her behind the Christmas tree. He drew her into the space beneath the stairs where heavy-laden evergreen branches obscured them from view.

“What are you doing?” she asked in bemusement.

Lights from hundreds of tiny candles danced in his eyes. “I have a gift for you.”

Disconcerted, she said, “Oh, but… the family will exchange presents tomorrow morning.”

“Unfortunately the presents I brought from London were lost in the accident.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he said, “This is the one thing I managed to keep. I’d rather give it to you privately, since I have nothing for the others.”

Hesitantly she took the object from his open palm.

It was a small, exquisite black cameo rimmed with pearls. A woman on a horse.

“The woman is Athena,” Devon said. “According to myth, she invented the bridle and was the first ever to tame a horse.”

Kathleen looked down at the gift in wonder. First the shawl… now this. Personal, beautiful, thoughtful things. No one had ever understood her taste so acutely.

Damn him.

“It’s lovely,” she said unsteadily. “Thank you.”

Through a glaze of incipient tears, she saw him grin.

Unclasping the little pin, she tried to fasten it to the center of her collar. “Is it straight?”

“Not quite.” The backs of his fingers brushed her throat as he adjusted the cameo and pinned it. “I have yet to actually see you ride,” he said. “West claims that you’re more accomplished than anyone he’s ever seen.”

“An exaggeration.”

“I doubt that.” His fingers left her collar. “Happy Christmas,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

As the pressure of his lips lifted, Kathleen stepped back, trying to create a necessary distance between them. Her heel brushed against some solid, living thing, and a sharply indignant squeal startled her.

“Oh!” Kathleen leaped forward instinctively, colliding with Devon’s front. His arms closed around her automatically, even as a pained grunt escaped him. “Oh – I’m sorry… What in heaven’s name —” She twisted to see behind her and broke off at the sight of Hamlet, who had come to root beneath the Christmas tree for stray sweets that had fallen from paper cones as they’d been removed from the branches. The pig snuffled among the folds of the tree skirt and the scattered presents wrapped in colored paper. Finding a tidbit to consume, he oinked in satisfaction.

Kathleen shook her head and clung to Devon as laughter trembled through both of them. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, her hand resting lightly at the side of his waistcoat.

His smiling lips grazed her temple. “Of course not, you little makeweight.”

They stayed together in that delicious moment of scattered light and fragrant spruce and irresistible attraction. The entrance hall was quiet now; the guests had proceeded en masse to the drawing room.

Devon’s head lowered, and he kissed the side of her throat. “I want you in my bed again,” he whispered. Working his way along her neck, he found a sensitive place that made her shiver and arch, the tip of his tongue stroking a soft pulse. It seemed as if her body had become attuned to his, excitement leaping instantly at his nearness, delight pooling hotly in her stomach. How easy it would be to let him have whatever he wanted of her. To yield to the pleasure he could give her, and think only of the present moment.

And then someday… it would all fall apart, and she would be devastated.

Forcing herself to pull away from him, she stared at him with equal parts misery and resolve. “I can’t have an affair with you.”

Devon’s expression was instantly remote.

“You want more than that?”

“No,” she said feelingly. “I can’t conceive of any kind of relationship with you that would end in anything other than misery.”

That seemed to pierce through his detachment like a steel-tipped arrow.

“Would you like references?” he asked, his tone edged with coolness. “Attesting to my satisfactory performance in the bedroom?”

“Of course not,” she said shortly. “Don’t be snide.”

His gaze shot to hers, a smolder awakening in the depths of blue. “Then why refuse me? And why deny yourself something you want? You’ve been married – no one would expect virginity of you. It would harm no one if you and I took pleasure in each other’s company.”

“It would harm me, eventually.”

He stared at her with baffled anger. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I know myself,” she said. “And I know you well enough to be certain that you would never intentionally hurt any woman. But you’re dangerous to me. And the more you try to convince me otherwise, the more obvious it becomes.”

Helen spent three days in Rhys Winterborne’s room, babbling incessantly while he lay there feverish and mostly silent. She became heartily tired of the sound of her own voice, and said something to that effect near the end of the second day.