Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

“Nevertheless,” he said, “there will be consequences.”

Kathleen shot him an uncertain glance.

He kept his expression impassive as they headed through the stables to the saddle room.

“There’s no need for you to accompany me,” Kathleen said, her pace quickening. “I’m sure you have much to do.”

“Nothing as important as this.”

“As what?” she asked warily.

“Finding out the answer to one question.”

Kathleen stopped near the wall of saddle racks, squared her shoulders, and turned to face him resolutely. “Which is?” She tugged meticulously at the fingers of her riding gloves and pulled them from her hands.

Devon loved her willingness to stand up to him, even though she was half his size. Slowly he reached out and removed her hat, tossing it to the corner. Some of the defiant tension left her slight frame as she realized that he was playing with her. She looked very young with her cheeks flushed and her hair a bit mussed from the ride.

He moved forward, crowding her back against the wall between two rows of empty racks, effectively pinning her into the small space. Gripping the narrow lapels of her riding jacket, he lowered his mouth to her ear and asked softly, “What do ladies wear beneath their riding trousers?”

A breathless laugh escaped her. The gloves dropped to the floor. “I would think an infamous rake would already know.”

“I was never infamous. In fact, I’m fairly standard as far as rakes go.”

“The ones who deny it are the worst.” She strained as he began to kiss along the side of her neck. Her skin was hot from exertion, a little salty, and her scent was divinely arousing: horses, fresh winter air, roses. “I’m sure you caused no end of mayhem in London, with all your drinking, gambling, carousing, chasing lightskirts…”

“Moderate drinking,” he said in a muffled voice. “Very little gambling. I’ll admit to the carousing.”

“And the lightskirts?”

“None.” At her skeptical snort, Devon lifted his head. “None since I met you.”

Kathleen drew back, her perplexed gaze lifting to his. “There haven’t been women since…”

“No. How could I take someone else to bed? In the morning I would wake up still wanting you.” He moved closer, his large feet bracketing her small ones. “You haven’t answered my question.”

She shrank from him until her head pressed against the wood-planked wall. “You know I can’t.”

“Then I’ll have to find out for myself.” His arms slid around her, one hand traveling beneath the hem of her riding jacket to the small of her back. His fingertips drew across the ribbed surface of her riding corset, shorter and lighter than the usual ones. Exploring beneath the waist of her trousers, he encountered thin, silky fabric where he would have expected linen or cotton. Fascinated, he used one hand to unfasten the row of buttons at the front of her trousers, while the other eased into the back. “Are these drawers? What are they made of?”

She began to push at him, but remembering his injury, she stopped. Her hands were suspended in midair as Devon pulled her hips against his. Feeling how hard he was, Kathleen drew in a quick breath.

“Someone will see,” she hissed.

He was far too occupied with her drawers to care. “Silk,” he said, his hand wandering deeper inside the trousers.

“Yes, so they don’t bunch up beneath the… Oh, do stop…”

The legs of the undergarment were hemmed so that they only just covered the tops of her thighs. As Devon continued to explore, he discovered that there was no split-seam opening in her drawers. “They’re sewn shut.”

A nervous giggle broke through Kathleen’s indignation as she saw his genuinely perplexed expression. “One wouldn’t want an opening there while riding.” She shivered as one of his hands slid down her front to caress her over the silk.

He traced the delicate swells of feminine flesh, the heat of her radiating through the fabric. His fingertips played over her, tickling and soothing, and he felt a change in her body, the way she began to soften against him. Returning his mouth to her neck, he kissed the smooth curve down to the collar of her jacket. Very gently he used his knuckle to stroke into the furrow between her thighs, the knobbiness drawing a moan from her.

She began to say something on a desperate breath, but he took the words into his mouth, kissing her with avid hunger. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, and she clung to him with an agitated sound. Her reluctance was collapsing, melting deliciously, and he didn’t allow her one second of respite, only kissed and stroked until a little seep of dampness came through the silk.

Kathleen struggled until he let go of her and stepped back. Holding the front of her trousers closed, she went to snatch her overskirt from the hook on the wall. She grappled with the heavy mass of fabric, unable to find the fastenings.

“Would you like me to —” Devon began.

“No.” Huffing with frustration, she gave up and bundled the skirts in her arms.

Instinctively Devon reached out for her. She hopped back with an anxious froth of laughter.

The sound aroused him unbearably, heat bolting from nerve to nerve.

“Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.” He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, “And I’ll make you come for me again.”

Her eyes turned huge.

He took a deliberate step forward. She bolted across the nearest threshold and fled to the carriage room. Devon was at her heels instantly, following her past the workshop with its long carpenter’s benches and tool cupboards. The carriage room smelled pleasantly of sawdust, axle grease, lacquer varnish, and leather polish. It was quiet and shadowy, illuminated only by a row of skylights over massive hinge-strapped doors that could be opened onto the estate’s carriage drive.

Kathleen darted through rows of vehicles used for different purposes; carts, wagons, a light brougham, a landau with a folding top, a phaeton, a hooded barouche for summer. Devon circled around and intercepted her beside the family coach, a huge, stately carriage that could only be pulled by six horses. It had been designed as a symbol of power and prestige, with the Ravenel family crest – a trio of black ravens on a white and gold shield – painted on the sides.