by Lisa Kleypas
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.”
“Then he must be blind. No man with eyes in his head would ever mistake you for a boy.” Devon paused. “From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.”
“What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?”
“Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.”
“You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?”
“I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.”
“No, from your brother,” she shot back.
“I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.”
Unable to restrain herself any longer, Kathleen went to the open gap in the doorway and glared at him. “You were the one who hired the plumbers!” she hissed.
“The plumbers are the least of it. Someone needs to take the situation in hand.”
“If you’re foolish enough to imagine you could take me in hand —”
“Oh, I’d begin with you,” he assured her feelingly.
Kathleen would have delivered a scathing reply, but her teeth had begun to chatter. Although the Turkish towel had absorbed some of the moisture from her clothes, they were clammy.
Seeing her discomfort, Devon turned and surveyed the room, obviously hunting for something to cover her. Although his back was turned, she knew the precise moment that he spotted the shawl on the fireplace chair.
When he spoke, his tone had changed. “You didn’t dye it.”
“Give that to me.” Kathleen thrust her arm through the doorway.
Devon picked it up. A slow smile crossed his face. “Do you wear it often?”
“Hand me my shawl, please.”
Devon brought it to her, deliberately taking his time. He should have been mortified by his indecent state of undress, but he seemed entirely comfortable, the great shameless peacock.
As soon as the shawl was within reach, Kathleen snatched it from him.
Casting aside her damp towel, she pulled the shawl around herself. The garment was comforting and familiar, the soft wool warming her instantly.
“I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it,” she said grudgingly. She was tempted to tell him that even though the gift had been inappropriate… the truth was, she loved it. There were days when she wasn’t certain whether the gloomy widow’s weeds were reflecting her melancholy mood or causing it, and when she pulled the brilliant shawl over her shoulders, she felt instantly better.
No gift had ever pleased her as much.
She couldn’t tell him that, but she wanted to.
“You look beautiful in those colors, Kathleen.” His voice was low and soft.
She felt her face prickle. “Don’t use my first name.”
“By all means,” Devon mocked, glancing down at his towel-clad form, “let’s be formal.”
She made the mistake of following his gaze, and colored deeply at the sight of him… the intriguing dark hair on his chest, the way the muscle of his stomach seemed to have been carved like mahogany fretwork.
A knock came at the bedroom door. Kathleen retreated deeper into the bathroom like a turtle withdrawing in its shell.
“Come in, Sutton,” she heard Devon say.
“Your clothes, sir.”
“Thank you. Lay them out on the bed.”
“Won’t you require assistance?”
“Not today.”
“You will dress yourself?” the valet asked, bewildered.
“I’ve heard that some men do,” Devon replied sardonically. “You may leave now.”
The valet heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, sir.”
After the door had opened and closed again, Devon said, “Give me a minute. I’ll be dressed soon.”
Kathleen didn’t reply, thinking to her dismay that she would never be able to look at him without being aware of what was beneath those elegant layers of clothing.
Over the rustle of cloth, Devon said, “You’re welcome to occupy the master bedroom, if you like. It was your room before it was mine.”
“No, I don’t want it.”
“As you prefer.”
She was desperate to change the subject. “We need to discuss the tenants,” she said. “As I mentioned in the telegram —”
“Later. There’s no point in talking about it without my brother’s participation. The housekeeper said that he has gone to Wiltshire. When will he return?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why did he go?”
“To consult with an expert about modern farming methods.”
“Knowing my brother,” Devon said, “it’s more likely he’s gone a-whoring.”
“Apparently you don’t know him, then.” Not only was she pleased to be able to contradict him, she was affronted on West’s behalf. “Mr. Ravenel has worked very hard ever since he arrived here. I daresay he has learned more about the tenants and estate farms than anyone, including the land agent. Spend a few minutes reading the reports and ledgers he keeps in the study, and you’ll change your tune.”
“We’ll see.” Devon pushed open the bathroom door. He was fully clothed in a gray wool suit, although he wore no necktie, and his cuffs and collar had been left unfastened. His face was expressionless. “Will you help with this?” he asked, extending his arm.
Hesitantly Kathleen reached out to fasten one of his loose cuffs. The backs of her knuckles brushed the skin on the inside of his wrist, where the skin was blood-heated and smooth. Acutely aware of the measured sound of his breathing, she fastened the other cuff. Reaching up to the sides of his open shirt collar, she drew them together and proceeded to fasten them with a small gold stud that had been left dangling in the buttonhole. As she slid her fingers beneath the front of the collar, she could feel the ripple of his swallow.
“Thank you,” Devon said. There was a slight rasp in his voice, as if his throat had gone dry.
As he turned to leave, Kathleen said, “Please take care not to be seen when you leave the room.”
Devon paused at the door and glanced back a
t her. The familiar taunting gleam appeared in his eyes. “Have no fear. I’m accomplished at making a discreet exit from a lady’s bedroom.” He grinned at her scowl, looked out into the hallway, and slipped from the room.
Chapter 12
D
evon’s smile vanished as soon as he left the master bedroom. With no destination in mind, he wandered along the hallway until he reached a connecting space with an inset window niche. It led to a cramped circular stair that spiraled upward to servants’ rooms and garrets. The ceiling was so low that he was obliged to duck his head to pass through. A house as old as Eversby Priory had undergone multiple expansions over the decades, the additions creating odd and unexpected nooks. He found the effect less charming than other people might have; eccentricity was not something he valued in architecture.
Lowering to sit on a narrow step, Devon braced his forearms on his knees and bent his head. He let out a shaking breath. It had been the most exquisite torment he had ever suffered, standing there with Kathleen pressed against him. She had trembled like a newborn foal straining to stand. He’d never wanted anything in his life as much as he’d wanted to turn her to face him, and take her mouth with long, searching kisses until she melted against him.
Groaning faintly, he rubbed the inside of one of his wrists, where a glow of heat lingered as if he’d been branded by her touch.
What had his valet started to say about Kathleen? Why had she refused to sleep in the master bedroom after Theo’s death? The memory of her last argument with her husband must have something to do with it… but could it be something more? Perhaps the wedding night had been unpleasant for her. Privileged young women were often kept in ignorance about such matters until they were married.
Devon certainly didn’t care to speculate on his cousin’s prowess in the bedroom… but even Theo would have known to treat a virgin with care and patience… wouldn’t he? Even Theo would have known enough to soothe and seduce a nervous bride, and ease her fears before taking his own pleasure.
The thought of the two of them together… Theo’s hands on Kathleen… It sent an unfamiliar poisonous feeling through him. Holy hell, was it… jealousy?
He’d never been jealous over a woman.
Cursing beneath his breath, Devon stood and raked his hands through his damp hair. Brooding over the past wouldn’t change the fact that Kathleen had belonged to Theo first.
But she would belong to Devon last.
Gathering his wits, he walked through Eversby Priory, investigating the changes that had taken place since his last visit. Activity was rampant in the house, with many rooms in various stages of disrepair and construction. So far, repairs on the estate had required a small fortune, and it would take ten times that before all was said and done.
He ended up in the study, where ledgers and bundled papers had been piled high on the desk. Recognizing his brother’s precise, compact handwriting, he picked up a report of what West had learned about the estate so far.
It took two hours to read the report, which was more thorough than Devon would have ever expected – and it didn’t appear to be finished by half. Apparently West was visiting every tenant farm on the estate, making detailed notes about each family’s problems and concerns, the conditions of their property, their knowledge and views of farming techniques.
Sensing a movement, Devon turned in his chair and saw Kathleen in the doorway.
She was dressed in widow’s weeds again, her hair pinned in a braided coil, her wrists encircled with demure white cuffs. Her cheeks were very pink.
Devon could have devoured her in one bite. Instead, he gave her a neutral glance as he rose to his feet. “Skirts,” he said in a tone of mild surprise, as if it were a novelty to see her in a dress. “Where are you going?”
“To the library for a lesson with the girls. But I noticed that you were in here, and I wondered if you’d read Mr. Ravenel’s report.”
“I have. I’m impressed by his dedication. Also rather astonished, since West advised me to sell the estate, lock, stock, and barrel, just before he left London.”
Kathleen smiled and studied him with those tip-tilted eyes. He could see tiny rays in the light brown irises, like gold threads. “I’m very glad you didn’t,” she said softly. “I think perhaps he might be too.”
All the heat from their earlier encounter came rushing back so fast that it hurt, his flesh rising with a swift ache beneath the layers of his clothes. Devon was profoundly grateful for the concealment of his suit coat.
Kathleen reached for a wood-cased pencil on the desk. The graphite lead had worn down to a dull stub. “Sometimes I wonder…” Picking up a pair of scissors, she began to sharpen the pencil with one blade, scraping off thin layers of wood.
“What is it?” Devon asked huskily.
She concentrated on her task, sounding troubled as she replied. “I wonder what Theo would have done with the estate, if he hadn’t passed away.”
“I suspect he would have turned a blind eye until there were no decisions left to make.”
“But why? He wasn’t a stupid man.”
A latent impulse of fairness moved Devon to say, “It had nothing to do with intelligence.”
Kathleen paused and gave him a puzzled glance.
“Eversby Priory was Theo’s childhood home,” Devon continued. “I’m sure it was painful for him to confront its decline.”
Her face softened. “You’re confronting it, though, aren’t you? You’ve changed your entire life for it.”
Devon shrugged casually. “It’s not as though I had something better to do.”
“It’s not easy for you, however.” A faintly apologetic smile whisked across her lips. “I don’t always remember that.” Lowering her head, she resumed her work on the pencil.
Devon watched, helplessly charmed by the sight of her scraping away like an industrious schoolgirl.
“At this rate,” he said after a moment, “you’ll spend all day doing that. Why don’t you use a knife?”
“Lord Berwick would never allow it – he said scissors were safer.”
“Just the opposite. I’m surprised you never lost a finger. Here, set those down.” Devon reached across the desk to retrieve a silver penknife resting in the inkwell tray. He unfolded the blade and gave it to Kathleen handle first. “Hold the knife like this.” He rearranged her fingers, disregarding her protests. “Always direct the pencil away from your body as you sharpen it.”
“Really, there’s no need… I’m better with scissors…”
“Try. It’s more efficient. You can’t go through life doing this the wrong way. The wasted minutes could add up to days. Weeks.”
An unexpected giggle escaped her, as if she were a young girl being teased. “I don’t use a pencil that often.”
Devon reached around her, his hands engulfing hers. And she let him. She stood still, her body wary but compliant. A fragile trust had been established during their earlier encounter – no matter what else she might fear from him, she seemed to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her.
The pleasure of holding her washed through him in repeated waves. She was petite and fine-boned, the delicious fragrance of roses rising to his nostrils. He’d noticed it when he’d held her earlier… not a cloying perfume, but a light floral essence swept with the sharp freshness of winter air.
“All it takes is six cuts,” he said near her ear. She nodded, relaxing against him as he guided her hands with precision. One deep stroke of the blade neatly removed an angled section of wood. They rotated the pencil and made another cut, and then a third, creating a precise triangular prism. “Now trim the sharp edges.” They concentrated on the task with his hands still bracketed over hers, using the blade to chamfer each corner of wood until they had created a clean, satisfying point.
Done.
After one last luxurious inhalation of her scent, Devon released her slowly, knowing that for the rest of his life, a single breath of a rose would bring him back to this moment.
Kathleen set aside the knife and pencil, and turned to face Devon.
They were very close, not quite touching, not quite separate.
She looked uncertain, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t think of what it should be.
Devon’s control began to fray, thread by thread, in that electric silence. He found himself leaning forward by degrees until his hands were anchored on the desk on either side of her. Kathleen was forced to lean back, gripping his forearms to maintain her balance. He waited for her to protest, push him, tell him to move back.
