by Lisa Kleypas
His gaze was intent on her face. “I would think that even a proper lady might find some pleasure in the conjugal embrace.”
She gasped in befuddled outrage. “I – you – that you would dare bring up such a subject —” He had been so gentle and comforting, and now he had changed back into the insufferable cad of before. “As if I would ever discuss that with anyone, least of all you!” As she writhed and began to crawl from his lap, he held her in place easily.
“Before you charge away in righteous indignation,” he said, “you might want to refasten your bodice.”
“My —” Glancing down at her front, Kathleen saw to her horror that the first few buttons of her dress and the top two hooks of her corset had been undone. She went scarlet. “Oh, how could you?”
A flare of amusement lit his eyes. “You weren’t breathing well. I thought you needed oxygen more than modesty.” After watching her frantic efforts to rehook the corset, he asked politely, “May I help?”
“No. Although I’m certain you’re quite accomplished at ‘helping’ ladies with their undergarments.”
“They’re hardly ever ladies.” He laughed quietly as she worked at the placket of the corset with increasing panic.
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.
What a damnable situation, he thought savagely. A ruined estate, a depleted fortune, and a woman he couldn’t have. Kathleen would be in mourning for a year and a day, and even after that, she would be out of his reach. She would never lower herself to be any man’s mistress, and after what she had endured with Theo, she would want nothing to do with another Ravenel.
Brooding, Devon went to pick up his discarded coat from the floor. He shrugged into the rumpled garment and wandered from the saddle room back to the stalls. At the far end of the building, a pair of stable boys talked as they cleaned a box stall. Becoming aware of his presence, they quieted instantly, and all he could hear was the rasp of the broom and the scrape of a shovel. Some of the horses in the row watched him curiously while others affected disinterest.
Keeping his movements relaxed, Devon went to the Arabian’s stall. Asad turned his head sideways to view him, his teacup muzzle tightening in a sign of unease. “No need for concern,” Devon murmured. “Although one can’t blame you for wrinkling your nose at a Ravenel’s approach.”
Asad shuffled and swished his tail nervously. Slowly he came to the front of the stall.
“Look sharp, milor’,” came Mr. Bloom
’s calm voice from somewhere behind Devon. “The lad’s a biter – he may take a nip of tha, if he doesn’t know tha. He prefers a lass’s company to a man’s.”
“That shows your judgment is sound,” Devon told the horse. He extended a hand palm-up, as he had seen Kathleen do earlier.
Carefully Asad sniffed. His eyes half closed. Working his mouth, he lowered his head in submission and pressed his muzzle against Devon’s hands. Devon smiled and stroked the horse’s head on both sides. “You’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?”
“And well he knows it,” the stable master said, approaching with a chuckle. “‘He smells her ladyship on thee. Now he’ll take to thee like ha’penny sweets. Once they know they’re safe with thee, they’ll do anything tha asks.”
Devon ran his hand along Asad’s graceful neck, from the narrow, refined throatlatch down to the sturdy shoulder. His coat was sleek and warm, like living silk. “What do you make of his temperament?” he asked. “Is there any danger to Lady Trenear if she continues to train him?”
“Nowt a bit, milor’. Asad will be a perfect lady’s mount, once he’s trained right. He’s not obstracklous, only sensitive. He sees, hears, smells everything. The fine ones are canny like that. Best to ride ’em wi’ soft tack and gentle hands.” Bloom hesitated, idly tugging on his white whiskers. “A week before the wedding, Asad was brought here from Leominster. Lord Trenear came to the stables to see him. ’Twas a mercy that her ladyship wasn’t here to witness: Asad nipped at him, and his lordship delivered a hard clout to his muzzle. I warned him, ‘If tha use a fist against him, milor’, tha may earn his fear but not his trust.’” Bloom shook his head sadly, his eyes moistening. “I knew the master since he was a dear little lad. Everyone at the Priory loved him. But none could deny he was a fire-flaught.”
Devon gave him a quizzical glance. “What does that mean?”
“In Yorkshire it’s what they call the hot coal that bounces out of the hearth. But it’s also the name for a man who can’t bide his temper.”
Asad raised his head and delicately touched his muzzle to Devon’s chin. Resisting the urge to jerk his head back, Devon held still.
“Breathe soft into his nose,” Bloom murmured. “He wants to make friends wi’ thee.”
Devon complied. After blowing back gently, the horse nudged his chest and licked his shirtfront.
“Tha has won him over, milor’,” the stable master said, a smile splitting his round face until his cheeks bunched over the cottony bolsters of his whiskers.
“It has nothing to do with me,” Devon replied, stroking Asad’s sleek head, “and everything to do with Lady Trenear’s scent.”
“Aye, but tha has a good touch wi’ him.” Blandly the stable master added, “An’ wi’ her ladyship, it seems.”
Devon sent him a narrow-eyed glance, but the elderly man returned it innocently.
“Lady Trenear was distressed by the memory of her husband’s accident,” Devon said. “I would offer assistance to any woman in such a state.” He paused. “For her sake, I want you and the stablemen to say nothing about her loss of composure.”
“I told the lads I’d flay the hide off them if there’s so much as a whisper of’t.” Bloom frowned in concern. “That morning… there was a scruffle between her ladyship and the master, before he came running to the stables. I worrit she might fault hersel’ for it.”
“She does,” Devon said quietly. “But I told her that she is in no way accountable for his actions. Nor is the horse. My cousin brought the tragedy upon himself.”
“I agree, milor’.”
Devon gave Asad a last pat. “Good-bye, fellow… I’ll visit you in the morning before I leave.” He turned to walk along the stalls to the entrance, while the elderly man accompanied him. “I suppose rumors ran rife around the estate after the earl’s death.”
“Rumors? Aye, the air was fat wi’ them.”
“Has anyone said what Lord and Lady Trenear were arguing about that morning?”
Bloom was expressionless. “I couldn’t say.”
There was no doubt that the man had some idea as to the nature of the conflict between Theo and Kathleen. Servants knew everything. However, it would be unseemly to persist in questioning him about private family matters. Reluctantly Devon set aside the subject… for now.
“Thank you for your help with Lady Trenear,” he told the stable master. “If she decides to continue training Asad, I’ll allow it on condition of your oversight. I trust your ability to keep her safe.”
“Thank you, milor’,” Bloom exclaimed. “Tha intends for the lady to remain at Eversby Priory, then?”
Devon stared at him, unable to answer.
The question was simple on the surface, but it was overwhelmingly complex. What did he intend for Kathleen? For Theo’s sisters? What did he intend for Eversby Priory, the stables and household, and the families that farmed the estate?
Could he really bring himself to throw them all upon the mercy of fate?
But damn it, how could he spend the rest of his life with unimaginable debt and obligations hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles?
He closed his eyes briefly as the realization came to him: It was already there.
The sword had been suspected above him from the moment he’d been informed of Theo’s death.
There was no choice to make. Whether or not he wanted the responsibility that came with the title, it was his.
“I do,” he finally said to the stable master, feeling vaguely nauseous. “I intend for all of them to stay.”
The older man smiled and nodded, seeming to have expected no other answer.
Exiting through the wing of the stables that connected to the house, Devon made his way to the entrance hall. He had a sense of distance from the situation, as if his brain had decided to stand back and view it as a whole before applying itself to the particulars.
The sounds of piano music and feminine voices drifted from one of the upper floors. Perhaps he was mistaken, but Devon thought he could hear a distinctly masculine tone filtering through the conversation.
Noticing a housemaid cleaning the stair rails of the grand staircase with a banister brush, he asked, “Where is that noise coming from?”
“The family is taking their afternoon tea in the upstairs parlor, milord.”
Devon began to ascend the staircase with measured footsteps. By the time he reached the parlor, he had no doubt that the voice belonged to his incorrigible brother.
“Devon,” West exclaimed with a grin as he entered the room. “Look at the charming little bevy of cousins I’ve discovered.” He was sitting in a chair beside a game table, pouring a hefty splash of spirits from his flask into a cup of tea. The twins hovered around him, busily constructing a dissected map puzzle. Sliding a speculative glance over his brother, West remarked, “You look as though you’d been pulled backward through the hedgerow.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Devon told him. He turned to the room in general. “Has anyone been corrupted or defiled?”
“Since the age of twelve,” West replied.
“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking the girls.”
“Not yet,” Cassandra said cheerfully.
“Drat,” Pandora exclaimed, examining a handful of puzzle pieces, “I can’t find Luton.”
“Don’t concern yourself with it,” West told her. “We can leave out Luton entirely, and England will be none the worse for it. In fact, it’s an improvement.”
“They are said to make fine hats in Luton,” Cassandra said.
“I’ve heard that hat making drives people mad,” Pandora remarked. “Which I don’t understand, because it doesn’t seem tedious enough to do that.”
“It isn’t the job that drives them mad,” West said. “It’s the mercury solution they use to smooth the felt. After repeated exposure, it addles the brain. Hence the term ‘mad as a hatter.’”
“Then why is it used, if it is harmful to the workers?” Pan
dora asked.
“Because there are always more workers,” West said cynically.
“Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.”
“It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly.
“Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?”
The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.”
