Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

Someday, by God, people would beg to marry Winterbornes.

Chapter 24

A week after the railway accident, Devon had still not healed sufficiently to go on his customary morning ride. He was accustomed to beginning each day with some form of physical exertion, and a simple walk wasn’t enough. His temper grew short with the enforced inactivity, and to make things worse, he was as randy as a stoat, with no way to relieve either problem. He was still puzzled over Kathleen’s refusal to even consider an affair with him. You’re dangerous to me… The statement had baffled and infuriated him. He would never harm a hair on her head. How could she even think otherwise?

Her proper upbringing by Lady Berwick had given her an overactive conscience, he decided. Obviously she needed time to adjust to the idea that she was no longer bound by the same rules she had always followed so strictly.

For his part, Devon knew that he would have to earn her trust.

Or seduce her.

Whatever happened first.

He struck out for the countryside along a footpath that led through the wood and past the remains of a medieval barn. The day was damp, the air bitten with hoarfrost, but the brisk walk kept him pleasantly warm. Noticing a hen harrier flying low to the ground, he paused to watch it hunt. The bird seemed to drift as it searched for prey, its gray and white plumage ghostlike in the morning light. In the distance, a flock of bramblings in flight quivered against the sky.

Continuing on the footpath, Devon reflected that he’d become attached to the estate. The lifelong responsibility of preserving it, and restoring the house, no longer seemed like a punishment. It called to a deep ancestral instinct.

If only the past few generations of Ravenels hadn’t been such shortsighted fools. At least two dozen rooms at Eversby Priory had become uninhabitable. Seeping water had assailed the walls with damp and rot, ruining plasterwork and interior furnishings. Restoration work had to be done soon, before the damage worsened beyond repair.

He needed money, a large sum, without delay. He would have loved to sell Ravenel House in London and immediately pour the profit into Eversby Priory, but that would be seen as a weakness by potential lenders or partners. Perhaps he could risk selling his land in Norfolk? That would attract far less notice. But the proceeds would be unimpressive… and he could already hear the howls of complaint from Kathleen and West if he decided to evict his Norfolk tenants.

A self-mocking smile curved his lips as he recalled that not too long ago, his problems had consisted of issues such as his cookmaid bringing weak tea, or his horse needing to be reshod.

Brooding, he headed back to Eversby Priory, its intricate roofline silhouetted against the December sky. As he gazed at the proliferation of openwork parapets, arcade arches, and slender chimneys topped with ornamental finials, he wondered grimly which parts of it were likely to fall to the ground first. He passed by outbuildings and neared the row of chalk paddocks behind the stables. A stable boy stood at the post and rail fencing of the largest enclosure, watching a small, slim rider put a horse through its paces.

Kathleen and Asad.

Devon’s pulse quickened with interest. He went to join the boy at the fence, bracing his forearms on the top rail.

“Milord,” the boy said, hastily grabbing the cap from his head to give him a respectful nod.

Devon nodded in return, watching intently as Kathleen rode the golden Arabian around the far side of the paddock.

She was dressed in a severely tailored riding jacket and a small hat with a narrow crown – and on her lower half, she wore trousers and ankle boots. Like the breeches he had seen her in before, the trousers had been designed to wear under a riding skirt, never by themselves. However, Devon had to admit that the somewhat outlandish ensemble gave Kathleen a freedom and athletic ease that heavy draped skirts would never have allowed.

She guided Asad into a series of half circles, her weight transferring fluidly with each turn, the inside hip pushing forward with a deep knee. Her form was so perfect and easy that the hairs on Devon’s neck lifted as he watched. He’d never seen anyone, man or woman, who could ride with such economy of motion. The Arabian was acutely sensitive to the subtle pressures of her knees and thighs, following her guidance as if he could read her mind. They were a perfect pairing, both of them fine-boned, elegant, quick.

Noticing Devon’s presence, Kathleen sent him a brilliant grin. Not above showing off, she urged the horse into a supple trot, the knees elevated, the hind legs flexed. After completing a serpentine pattern, Asad trotted in place before executing a perfect turn on his haunches, spinning in a circle to his right, and then a full spin to his left, his golden tail swishing dramatically.

The damned horse was dancing.

Devon shook his head slightly, watching them in wonder.

After taking the horse around the paddock in a rolling, gliding canter, Kathleen slowed him to a trot and then walked him up to the fence. Asad gave a welcoming nicker as he recognized Devon, and nudged his muzzle between the rails.

“Well done,” Devon said, stroking the horse’s golden hide. He glanced up at Kathleen. “You ride beautifully. Like a goddess.”

“Asad would make anyone look accomplished.”

He held her gaze. “No one but you could ride him as if he had wings.”

Turning pink, Kathleen glanced at the stable boy. “Freddie, will you walk Asad on the lead and then take him to the turn out paddock?”

“Yes, milady!” The boy slipped between the rails, while Kathleen dismounted in an easy motion.

“I would have helped you down,” Devon said.

Kathleen climbed through the fence. “I don’t need help,” she told him with a touch of smugness that he found adorable.

“Are you going into the house now?” he asked.

“Yes, but first I’ll collect my overskirt in the saddle room.”

Devon walked with her, stealing a surreptitious glance at her backside and hips. The clear outline of firm, feminine curves caused his pulse to quicken. “I seem to recall a rule regarding breeches,” he said.

“They’re not breeches, they’re trousers.”

He arched one brow. “So you think you’re justified in breaking the spirit of the law as long as you keep to the letter?”

“Yes. Besides, you have no right to make rules about my attire in the first place.”

Devon fought back a grin. If her impudence was intended to discourage him, it had the opposite effect. He was a man, after all, and a Ravenel to boot.