Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

“I would like that,” Kathleen admitted, “but it would probably annoy my father.”

“So much the better.” Devon reached up to the ebony cameo at her throat and adjusted it.

She looked at him solemnly. “I used to wish I’d been born a boy. I thought he might have taken an interest in me then. Or perhaps if I were prettier or cleverer.”

Devon cupped the side of her face, compelling her to look at him. “You’re already too pretty and clever by half, darling. And it wouldn’t have mattered if you were a boy. That was never the problem. Your parents were a pair of selfish lackwits.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “And whatever flaws you might have, being unlovable is not one of them.”

During that last extraordinary sentence, the quiet volume of his voice fell to a near whisper.

She stared at him, transfixed.

He hadn’t meant to say it, she thought. He undoubtedly regretted it.

But their shared gaze remained unbroken. Looking into his dark blue eyes was like drowning, sinking into unfathomable depths from which she might never resurface. She trembled and managed to look away, severing the connection.

“Come to London with me,” she heard Devon say.

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“Come to London with me,” he repeated. “I have to leave within a fortnight. Bring the girls and your maid. It will be good for everyone, including you. At this time of year there’s nothing to do in Hampshire, and London offers no end of amusements.”

Kathleen looked at him with a frown. “You know that’s impossible.”

“You mean because of mourning.”

“Of course that’s what I mean.”

She didn’t like the sparks of mischief that had appeared in his eyes.

“I’ve already considered that,” he told her. “Not being as familiar with the rules of propriety as yourself, I undertook to consult a paragon of society about what activities might be permissible for young women in your situation.”

“What paragon? What are you talking about?”

Shifting her weight more comfortably in his lap, Devon reached across the table to retrieve a letter by his plate. “You’re not the only one who received correspondence today.” He extracted the letter from its envelope with a flourish. “According to a renowned expert on mourning etiquette, even though attending a play or a dance is out of the question, it’s permissible to go to a concert, museum exhibition, or private art gallery.” Devon proceeded to read aloud from the letter. “This learned lady writes, One fears that the prolonged seclusion of young persons may encourage a lasting melancholy in such malleable natures. While the girls must pay appropriate respect to the memory of the late earl, it would be both wise and kind to allow them a few innocent recreations. I would recommend the same for Lady Trenear, whose lively disposition, in my opinion, will not long tolerate a steady diet of monotony and solitude. Therefore you have my encouragement to —”

“Who wrote that?” Kathleen demanded, snatching the letter from his hand. “Who could possibly presume to —” She gasped, her eyes widening as she saw the signature at the conclusion of the letter. “Dear God. You consulted Lady Berwick?”

Devon grinned. “I knew you would accept no one’s judgment but hers.” He bounced Kathleen a little on his knee. The slim, supple weight of her was anchored amid the rustling layers of skirts and underskirts, the pretty curves of her body corseted into a narrow column. With every movement she made, little whiffs of soap and roses floated around them. She reminded him of one of those miniature sweet-smelling bundles that women tucked into dressers and wardrobes.

“Come,” he said, “London isn’t such an appalling idea, is it? You’ve never stayed at Ravenel House – and it’s in far better condition than this heap of ruins. You’ll have new sights and surroundings.” He couldn’t resist adding in a mocking tone, “Most importantly, I’ll be available to service you whenever you like.”

Her brows flew down. “Don’t call it that.”

“Forgive me, that was uncouth. But I’m an uncastrated male, after all.” He smiled as he saw that the stricken look had gone from her eyes. “Consider it for the girls’ sake,” he coaxed. “They’ve endured mourning far longer than you have. Don’t they deserve a respite? Besides, it would benefit them to become more familiar with London before next year’s season.”

Her brows drew together. “How long do you propose for us to stay? A fortnight?”

“Perhaps a month.”

She played with the ends of his silk necktie as she considered it. “I’ll discuss it with Helen.”

Sensing that she was leaning toward agreeing, he decided to push her a bit. “You’re coming to London,” he said flatly. “You’ve become a habit. If you’re not with me, I’m afraid of what I may start doing to replace you. Tobacco. Knuckle cracking.”

Kathleen twisted in his lap to face him more fully, her hands coming to the shoulders of his morning coat. Her smiling gaze locked with his. “You could take up an instrument,” she suggested.

Slowly Devon brought her forward and whispered against the sweet, full curves of her mouth, “But you’re the only thing I want to play.”

Her arms reached around his neck.

The position between them was awkward, with her body angled sideways and the stiff corset latched around her torso. They were smothered in layers of clothing that hadn’t been designed for freedom of movement. The rigid collar of his shirt pressed into his neck and his shirt had begun to bunch beneath his waistcoat, while the elastic of his braces pulled uncomfortably. But her tongue played against his with a kittenish flick, and that was all it took to send him to full-bore arousal.

Still kissing him, Kathleen struggled within the heap of her dress. She reached down to tug at the great mass of her skirts, and to his amusement, she nearly toppled herself from his lap. He pulled her body higher against his, while her legs churned amid the heavy skirts until she managed to straddle him even with huge swathes of fabric still trapped between them. It was ridiculous, the two of them writhing on this blasted chair, but it felt insanely good to hold her.

One of her hands slipped over his front, and she gripped the hard length of him over the fabric of his trousers. He jolted against her. Before he quite realized what he was doing, his hands were rummaging beneath her skirts. Finding the slit of her drawers, he pulled at the fabric until the seam tore with a satisfying rip, and the soft, moist flesh he craved was exposed.