Cold-Hearted Rake

  But she stared at him as if mesmerized, her breath coming in fits and starts. Her grip began to tighten and ease on his arms like a cat kneading her paws. Lowering his head, he touched his lips to her temple, where a faint whisk of blue veins was visible. He could sense her bewilderment, the force of her unwilling attraction to him.

  Dimly aware that he was burning through the last few shreds of self-control, he forced himself to straighten and take his hands from the desk. He began to move away, but Kathleen stayed with him, still clinging to his arms, her gaze unfocused. God… this was how it would be, her body following his without effort, while he lifted and filled her…

  Every heartbeat drove him closer to her.

  His hand lifted to the side of her face, tilting it upward, while his other arm drew around her.

  Her lashes lowered, settling in dark crescents against her pink skin. Confusion had etched a delicate apostrophe of tension between her brows, and he kissed the fine notches before bringing his mouth to hers.

  He expected her to protest, to push him away, but instead she went pliant, making a little pleasured sound that sent burning chills down his spine. Both his hands came to her face, gently adjusting the angle of her jaw as he coaxed her lips to part. He began to search her, wringing sensation and sweetness from her innocently responsive mouth… but her tongue retreated instantly at the first touch of his.

  Burning with lust and tender amusement, Devon slid his mouth to her ear. “No,” he whispered, “let me taste you… let me feel how soft you are inside…”

  He kissed her again, slow and ruthlessly gentle, until her mouth clung to his and he felt the answering touch of her tongue. Her hands inched up his chest, her head tilting backward as she surrendered helplessly. The pleasure was unimaginable, as unfamiliar to him as it must have been to her. Suffused with an agony of need, he moved his hands over her, caressing and trying to grip her closer. He could feel the movements of her body within the rustling dress, firm sweet flesh trussed in all those stiff layers of starch and laces and boning. He wanted to tear it all from her. He wanted her vulnerable and exposed to him, her private skin naked beneath his mouth.

  But as he took her face in his hands so his thumbs could stroke her cheeks, he felt a smudge of moisture.

  A tear.

  Devon went still. Lifting his head, he stared down at Kathleen while their panting breaths mingled. Her eyes were wet and bewildered. She raised her fingers to her lips, touching them tentatively as if they’d been burned.

  Silently he berated himself, knowing that he’d pushed her too far, too soon.

  Somehow he managed to let go and back away, putting a crucial distance between them.

  “Kathleen —” he began gruffly. “I shouldn’t have —”

  She fled before he could say another word.

  The next morning, Devon took the family coach to meet West’s train. The market town of Alton was bisected by a long main street lined with prosperous shops, neighborhoods of handsome houses, a bombazine cloth factory, and a paper mill. Unfortunately the sulfurous stench of the paper mill announced itself well before the building came into view.

  The footman huddled closer to the station building, taking refuge from the biting November wind. Feeling too restless to stay still, Devon paced along the platform, his hands shoved in the pockets of his black wool greatcoat. Tomorrow he would have to return to London. The thought of that silent house, so crowded with furniture and yet so empty, filled him with revulsion. But he had to stay away from Hampshire. He needed distance from Kathleen, or he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from seducing her long before she was ready for it.

  He was playing a long game, and he couldn’t let himself forget that.

  Bloody mourning period.

  He was obliged to curtail his pacing as the platform became crowded with people holding tickets, and others waiting to greet the arriving passengers. Soon their conversation and laughter were drowned out by the approach of the locomotive, a thundering, hissing beast that sped forward with impatient clattering and chugging.

  After the train had stopped with a metallic screech, porters carried trunks and valises off the train, while arriving and departing passengers milled in a roiling crowd. People collided as they headed in a multitude of directions. Objects were dropped and hastily retrieved; travelers became separated and searched for each other; names were called out in the cacophony. Devon pushed past the confluence of bodies, looking for his brother. Not finding him, he glanced back at the footman, wondering if he had caught sight of West. The servant gestured and shouted something, but his voice was lost in the clamor.

  As Devon made his way to the footman, he saw him talking to a stranger wearing baggy clothes, the kind of good quality but ill-fitting castoffs that a clerk or tradesman might wear. The man was young and slim, with heavy dark hair that wanted cutting. He bore a striking resemblance to West in his days at Oxford, especially the way he smiled with his chin tilted downward, as if reflecting on some private joke. In fact…

  Holy hell. It was his brother. It was West.

  “Devon,” West exclaimed with a surprised laugh, reaching out to shake his hand heartily. “Why aren’t you in London?”

  Devon was slow to gather his wits. West looked years younger… healthy, clear-eyed, as he’d never thought to see him again.

  “Kathleen sent for me,” he finally said.

  “Did she? Why?”

  “I’ll explain later. What has happened to you? I hardly recognize you.”

  “Nothing’s happened. What do you – oh, yes, I’ve lost a bit of weight. Never mind that, I’ve just arranged to purchase a threshing machine.” West’s face glowed with pleasure. At first Devon thought he was being sarcastic.

  My brother, he thought, is excited over farming equipment.

  As they proceeded to the coach, West described his visit to Wiltshire and talked animatedly about what he had learned from an agriculturist who was practicing modern techniques on his model farm. With a combination of deep drainage and steam power, the man had doubled the yield on his land using less than half the labor. Furthermore, the agriculturist wanted to acquire the latest machinery and was willing to sell his equipment at a bargain. “It will require some investment,” West admitted, “but the returns will be exponential. I have some estimates to show you —”

  “I’ve seen some of them. You’ve done impressive work.”

  West shrugged nonchalantly.

  They climbed into the coach and settled into the fine leather seats. “You seem to be thriving at Eversby Priory,” Devon remarked as their vehicle began to move.

  “The devil knows why. There’s never a moment’s peace or privacy. A man can’t sit and think without being jumped on by some overexcited dog, or harassed by gabby females. There’s always an emergency: something breaking, exploding, or collapsing —”

  “Exploding?”

  “One explosion. The laundry drying room stove wasn’t properly ventilated – no, don’t be alarmed – a brick wall absorbed most of the force. No one was injured. The point is that the house is perpetually topsy-turvy.”

  “Why don’t you come back to London, then?”

  “I can’t.”

  “If it’s because of your plan to visit every tenant family on the estate, I don’t see the need —”

  “No, it’s not that. The fact is… Eversby Priory suits me. Damned if I know why.”

  “Have you developed an attachment for… someone?” Devon asked, his soul icing over with the suspicion that West wanted Kathleen.

  “All of them,” West admitted readily.

  “But not one in particular?”

  West blinked. “A romantic interest in one of the girls, you mean? Good God, no. I know too much about them. They’re like sisters to me.”

  “Even Kathleen?”

  “Especially her.” An absent smile crossed West’s face. “I’ve come to like her,” he said frankly. “Theo chose well for himself. She would have improv
ed him.”

  “He didn’t deserve her,” Devon muttered.

  West shrugged. “I can’t think of a man who would.”

  Devon clenched his hand until the scab over his knuckle pulled stingingly tight. “Does she ever mention Theo?”

  “Not often. I can’t imagine a more dedicated effort to mourn someone, but it’s obvious that her heart isn’t in it.” Noticing Devon’s sharp glance, West said, “She knew Theo for a mere matter of months and was married to him for three days. Three days! How long should a woman grieve for a man she scarcely knew? It’s absurd for society to insist upon a fixed mourning period without regard to circumstance. Can’t such things be allowed to happen naturally?”

  “The purpose of society is to prevent natural behavior,” Devon said dryly.

  West grinned. “Granted. But Kathleen isn’t suited to the role of drab little widow. She has too much spirit. It’s why she was attracted to a Ravenel in the first place.”

  The amiable relationship between West and Kathleen was immediately obvious upon their return to Eversby Priory. Kathleen came to the entrance hall while the butler was still collecting their hats and coats, and propped her hands on her hips as she viewed West with mock suspicion. “Have you brought back any farm animals?” she asked.

  “Not this time.” West smiled and went to kiss her forehead.

  To Devon’s surprise, Kathleen accepted the affectionate gesture without protest. “Did you learn as much as you’d hoped?” she asked.

  “Ten times more,” West said promptly. “On the subject of fertilizer alone, I could regale you for hours.”

  Kathleen laughed, but her expression became remote as she turned to Devon. “My lord.”

  Annoyed by the stilted acknowledgment, Devon nodded in return.

  It appeared that she had decided to hold him at arm’s length and pretend the kiss had never happened.

  “The earl claims that you sent for him, my lady,” West said. “Should I assume that you pined for his charming company, or was there another reason?”

  “After you left, there was a crisis with the Wootens,” Kathleen told him. “I informed Trenear of the situation and asked what he knew about it. So far he’s insisted on being mysterious.”

  “What happened to the Wootens?” West asked, looking from one of them to the other.

  “We’ll discuss it in the library,” Devon said. “Lady Trenear, it’s unnecessary for you to be present, however —”

  “I will be present.” Kathleen’s brows lowered. “I gave the Wootens my personal assurance that everything would be sorted out.”

  “They shouldn’t have come to you,” Devon said bluntly. “They should have waited to speak to my brother or Mr. Carlow.”

  “They went to Mr. Carlow first,” she retorted, “and he knew nothing about the situation. And Mr. Ravenel wasn’t here. I was the only person available.”

  “From now on, I would prefer you not to make yourself available when it comes to discussing leaseholds. You should limit yourself to whatever it is the lady of the manor is supposed to do. Bring them baskets when people are ill, and so forth.”

  “What smug, condescending —” Kathleen began.

  “Are we to stand here squabbling in the entrance hall?” West interceded hastily. “Let’s pretend to be civilized and proceed to the library.” He pulled Kathleen’s arm over his and accompanied her from the entrance hall. “I wouldn’t mind sending for some tea and sandwiches,” he said. “I’m starved after riding on the train. You’re always telling me to eat, remember?”

  Devon strode after them, only half listening to the conversation. Scowling, he focused on the sight of Kathleen’s arm tucked into West’s. Why was he touching her? Why was she allowing it? The unfamiliar poisonous jealousy returned, coiling thickly in his chest.

  “… and Mrs. Wooten couldn’t speak for weeping,” Kathleen said indignantly. “They have four children, and Mrs. Wooten’s elderly aunt to look after, and if they were to lose the farm —”

  “Don’t worry,” West interrupted with a soothing murmur. “We’ll sort it all out. I promise.”

  “Yes, but if Trenear made such an important decision without saying anything —”

  “Nothing’s been decided yet,” Devon said stonily, following the pair.

  Kathleen glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. “Then why were there railroad surveyors on the estate land?”

  “I prefer not to discuss my business affairs in the hallway.”

  “You gave them permission to be there, didn’t you?” Kathleen tried to stop and face him, but West tugged her inexorably toward the library.

  “I wonder if I should have Darjeeling tea?” West mused aloud. “No, perhaps something stronger… Ceylon or pekoe… and some of the little buns with the cream and jam… What were those, Kathleen?”

  “Cornish splits.”

  “Ah. No wonder I like them. It sounds like something I once saw performed at a dance hall.”

  They entered the library. Kathleen tugged at the bellpull beside the door and waited until a housemaid appeared. After requesting a tea tray and a plate of sandwiches and pastries, Kathleen went to the long table, where Devon had unrolled a map of the estate lands.

  “Well, did you?” she asked.

  Devon gave her an ominous glance. “Did I what?”

  “Did you give the railway men permission to survey your land?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “But they didn’t have permission to talk to anyone about it. They should have kept their mouths shut.”

  Her eyes flashed with outrage. “Then it’s true? You’ve sold the Wootens’ farm?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to.”

  “Then what —”

  “Kathleen,” West broke in gently, “We’ll be here all night if you don’t let him finish.”

  She scowled and fell silent, watching as Devon weighted the corners of the map with various objects.

  Taking up a pencil, Devon drew a line across the east side of the estate. “Recently I met with the director of the London Ironstone railway,” he said. For Kathleen’s benefit, he explained, “It’s a private company, owned by a friend. Tom Severin.”

  “We’re in the same London club,” West added.

  Devon viewed the map critically before drawing a parallel line. “Severin wants to reduce distance on London Ironstone’s existing Portsmouth route. He’s also planning to relay the entire sixty-mile line, start to finish, with heavier rails to accommodate faster trains.”

  “Can he afford such a project?” West asked.

  “He’s already secured one million pounds.”

  West uttered a wordless exclamation.

  “Precisely,” Devon said, and continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “Of all the prospective plans for the shortened route, the natural gradient is best across this area.” He shaded lightly between the parallel lines. “If we were to allow London Ironstone to cross the eastern perimeter of the estate, we would receive a large annual sum that would go far toward easing our financial problems.”

  Kathleen leaned over the table, staring intently at the pencil markings. “But this is impossible,” she said. “According to what you’ve drawn, the tracks would run not only across the Wootens’ farm, but at least three other leaseholds as well.”

  “Four tenant farms would be affected,” Devon admitted.

  A frown grooved West’s forehead as he studied the map. “The tracks appear to cross two private drives. We would have no access to the east side.”

  “The railroad would build occupation bridges at their own expense, to keep all parts of the estate connected.”

  Before West could comment, Kathleen stood and faced Devon across the table. She looked stricken. “You can’t agree to this. You can’t take the farms away from those families.”

  “The solicitor confirmed that it’s legal.”

  “I don’t mean legally, I mean morally. You can’t deprive them of their homes and their livings. Wha
t would happen to those families? All those children? Even you couldn’t live with that on your conscience.”

  Devon gave her a sardonic glance, annoyed that she would automatically assume the worst about him. “I’m not going to abandon the tenants. I fully intend to help them find new situations.”

  Kathleen had begun to shake her head before he had even finished. “Farming is what these people have done for generations. It’s in their blood. Taking away their land would break them.”