Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

“I need you,” she gasped.

He used his tongue in a wickedly teasing circle. “Now say that you’re mine.”

She would have said almost anything, the desire was so consuming. But she’d heard a subtle change in his tone, a note of possessiveness that warned he was no longer playing.

When she didn’t reply, he insinuated a finger into the entrance of her body… no, two… nudging past sensitive tucks and pleats of flesh. The sense of fullness was uncomfortable but exquisite. She could feel her inner muscles pulsing, striving to pull his fingers even deeper. As he searched, he touched something inside her, some acutely tender place that made her knees draw up and her toes curl.

His voice lowered… darkened. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she said brokenly.

He made a sound of satisfaction, almost a purr.

Her hips arched, begging him to touch that soft inner spot again, and she jerked as he found it. All her limbs went weak. “Oh. Yes, there, there…” Her voice dissolved as she felt his lips open over her, sucking, teasing. He rewarded her with a steady rhythm, his free hand sliding beneath her writhing bottom, guiding her, rocking her more firmly up against his mouth. With every ascent of her hips, he licked upward, the tip of his tongue catching wetly just beneath the little pearl of her sex, again and again. She heard herself breathing in sobs and moaning out words, and there was no controlling anything now, no thought or will, only a terrible need that raced higher and higher, until the wrenching spasms began. With a low cry, she jerked against him, her thighs clamping uncontrollably on his shoulders.

After the last long, helpless shudders had faded, Kathleen fell back on the velvet cushions like a rag doll that someone had tossed aside. Devon kept his mouth on her, easing the pleasure into relaxation. She summoned just enough strength to reach out and caress his hair.

That might have been worth going to hell for, she thought, and didn’t realize she had mumbled it aloud until she felt him smile.

A few guttural words caused Helen’s steps to slow as she neared the upstairs parlor. The sounds of Welsh curses had become quite familiar during the past week, as Mr. Winterborne grappled with the limitations of his injuries and the heavy leg cast. Although he never shouted, something about his voice carried farther than the average man’s: It had a deep timbre like bronze bell metal. His accent fell pleasantly on her ears, with singsong vowels and tapped R’s that carried the hint of a burr, and consonants as soft as velvet.

Winterborne’s presence seemed to fill the household, no matter that he was still confined to the upstairs rooms. He was a vigorous man, easily bored, chafing at any restrictions. He craved activity and noise, having even gone so far as to insist that the carpenters and plumbers resume their daily cacophony of work, despite the fact that Devon had told them to stop while Winterborne recovered. Apparently the last thing Winterborne wanted was peace and quiet.

So far he had kept her father’s old valet running on constant errands, which would have been a cause for concern, except that Quincy seemed to be thriving in his new position as Winterborne’s manservant. A few days ago, Quincy had told the news to Helen as he had been on his way to the village with some telegraph dispatches from Winterborne.

“I’m so very pleased for you,” Helen had exclaimed, after the initial surprise had worn off. “Although I confess, I can’t imagine Eversby Priory without you here.”

“Yes, my lady.” The elderly man had regarded her warmly, his gaze conveying an affection that he would never express in words. He was a disciplined and buttoned-up man, but he had always treated Helen and the twins with unfailing kindness, interrupting his work to help search for a lost doll, or to wrap his own handkerchief around a scraped elbow. Deep down, Helen had always known that of the three sisters, she was Quincy’s favorite, perhaps because their natures were somewhat similar. They both liked everything to be peaceful and quiet and in its place.

Helen’s unspoken bond with Quincy had been cemented by the shared experience of taking care of her father in his last days, after he had fallen ill from a long day of hunting in the cold and wet. Although Sims and Mrs. Church had done what they could to ease the earl’s suffering, it had been Helen and Quincy who had taken turns sitting at his bedside. There had been no one else: The twins hadn’t been allowed into his room for fear that the earl’s illness was catching, and Theo hadn’t come from London in time to say good-bye.

Upon learning that Quincy was leaving Eversby Priory, Helen had tried to be happy for him, rather than selfishly wish for him to stay. “Will you like living in London, Quincy?”

“I expect so, my lady. I will view it as an adventure. Perhaps it will be just the thing to blow the cobwebs out.”

She had given him a tremulous smile. “I will miss you, Quincy.”

The valet had remained composed, but his eyes had turned suspiciously bright. “When you visit London, my lady, I trust you will remember that I’m always at your service. You have only to send for me.”

“I’m glad that you’re going to take care of Mr. Winterborne. He needs you.”

“Yes,” Quincy had said feelingly. “He does.”

It would take some time, Helen thought, for Quincy to become familiar with his new employer’s habits, preferences, and quirks. Fortunately Quincy had spent decades in the practice of managing volatile temperaments. Winterborne certainly couldn’t be any worse than the Ravenels.

During the past two days, a group of Winterborne’s employees, including store managers, an accountant, and a pressman, had visited from London. They had spent hours with Winterborne in the family parlor, delivering reports and receiving instructions. Although Dr. Weeks had warned that too much exertion might hinder the healing process, Winterborne seemed to have drawn energy from the interaction with his employees.

“That store is more than a mere business to him,” West had told Helen, while Winterborne had been upstairs talking with his managers. “It’s who he is. It consumes all his time and interest.”

“But what does he do it for?” Helen had asked, perplexed. “Usually a man desires an income so that he can pursue more important things… time with family and friends… developing his talents, his inner life…”

“Winterborne has no inner life,” West had replied dryly. “He would probably resent any suggestion that he did.”