Cold-Hearted Rake

  “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.

  Kathleen moaned as he sank two of his fingers into her, her hips tilting forward eagerly, her wetness and heat pulsing around him. All reason fled. Nothing mattered except being inside her. Withdrawing his fingers, he fumbled roughly for the fastenings of his trousers. She tried to help him, grappling with the obstinate buttons. Her efforts ended up hindering him in a way that would have made him laugh, if he hadn’t been so wild for her. Somehow they ended up on the floor, with Kathleen still straddling him, her skirts billowing and ballooning over them both like some gigantic unearthly flower.

  Underneath the tumult of fabric, his naked flesh found hers. He positioned himself, and before he could even guide her, Kathleen had sunk down, her small, wet sex taking him deeper than ever before. They both shivered and gasped at the feel of it, the crushed-velvet texture of her closing on him in rich pulses.

  She held on to his shoulders and began to roll to the side, trying to reverse their positions and pull him over her. Resisting, he caught her hips, keeping her on top. While Kathleen stared down at him with bewildered eyes, he spread his fingers over her hips and buttocks, relishing the shape of her. He showed her the movement, thrusting upward, bringing her down with care. He delayed her descent enough to let her slide a few inches down his length, and she let out a stuttering breath. Another boost of his hips, followed by a silky erotic plunge.

  Kathleen began to move hesitantly, her face flooding with brilliant color. Following her instinct, she adjusted her position and moved on him with increasing confidence, finishing each drive with a forward sway that absorbed his upward thrusts.

  God, he was being ridden, hard and well. She pleasured herself on him in an aggressive rhythm, faster and faster, striking a blaze of lust that made him sweat beneath his clothes and in his shoes. Perspiration trickled from his forehead. Closing his eyes, he tried to bring himself under control, but it was hellishly difficult at the pace she set. No, impossible.

  “Slowly, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, reaching beneath her dress to take her hips between his palms. “I want you too much.”

  She resisted, driving him roughly, her body tightening.

  The climax was rushing up to him. He could feel it intensifying no matter how he worked to stave it off. “Kathleen,” he said through gritted teeth, “I can’t… can’t hold back…”

  She was beyond hearing, working on him in repeated lunges. He felt her reach the peak, the supple quivers and throbs closing all around him. In an agony of self-discipline he held still, every muscle contracted and rock-hard. Forcing himself to wait, he let her take her pleasure, even though his heart threatened to explode from the effort. He managed to give her ten seconds… the most excruciating ten seconds of his life. That was all he could last before his release began. Grunting with effort, he tried to haul her off him.

  What he hadn’t bargained on, however, was the strength of her thighs, the muscles of an experienced horsewoman gripping him with a tenacity that even a thousand-pound Arabian couldn’t have unseated. As he tried to buck her off, he felt her instinctively using the movements against him, her legs locking tighter with each backlash. She was too much for him. A scalding climax overcame him, pouring through him in a pleasure as absolute as death. He bucked a few more times while she rode him through it, her body wringing out every drop of sensation without mercy.

  Devon groaned and collapsed back to the floor.

  As the dizzying ecstasy faded, he was chilled by the realization that he had come inside her. He’d never done that with any woman before. In fact he’d always used rubber sheaths to make certain of it. But he’d arrogantly assumed that he would have no problem withdrawing from Kathleen – and the truth was, he’d wanted to be inside her with no barriers between them.

  The price he might have to pay for that was unthinkable.

  Kathleen lay over him, her slender body rising and falling on his wracking breaths.

  “I’m so sorry,” she gasped, sounding shocked. “I couldn’t stop. I just… couldn’t.”

  Devon was silent, trying to think through the panic.

  “What should we do now?” she asked, her voice muffled.

  Although he knew of ways to prevent pregnancy, the details and particulars of what to do after the sexual act were a woman’s province.

  “I’ve heard of using champagne,” he managed to say. But he had only the vaguest idea about how a contraceptive douche was administered, and there was no way in hell that he would risk harming Kat
hleen by making a mistake.

  “Drinking champagne will help?” she asked hopefully.

  He smiled grimly above her head. “Not to drink, my innocent. But it doesn’t matter – it would have to be done soon, and there isn’t time.”

  Her weight on his ribs was making him ache. He eased her off his body and stood, restoring his clothes with vicious efficiency. Reaching down, he took her outstretched hand and helped her up.

  As Kathleen stood and saw his expression, all the color leached from her face. “I’m sorry,” she said once more, her voice unsteady. “Please believe that no matter what happens, I won’t hold you responsible.”

  His fear transformed instantly into anger, the words setting off his temper like a keg of gunpowder. “Do you think that makes a damned bit of difference?” he asked savagely. “I’m already responsible for a thousand things I never asked for.”

  She replied with as much dignity as a woman could while trying to pull her undergarments back into place. “I don’t want to be included on that list.”

  “For once, it doesn’t matter what you want. If there is a baby, neither of us can will it out of existence. And it’s half mine.” He couldn’t keep his appalled gaze from sliding low on her body, as if his seed were already taking root inside her. She took a step backward, the small movement infuriating him.

  “When will your monthly flow begin?” he asked, struggling to moderate his tone.

  “Two, perhaps three weeks. I’ll send a telegram to you in London when it happens.”

  “If it happens,” he said bitterly. “And you won’t need to send a bloody telegram – you’re still coming with me. Don’t bother asking why – I’m weary of having to explain every decision I make to every person on this godforsaken estate.”

  He left her before he could say anything else, striding away as if the devil were at his heels.

  Chapter 28

  T

  he railway journey to London was accomplished in a miraculous two hours, at least four times faster than it would have been had they gone by coach. That turned out to be fortunate, as it soon became apparent that the Ravenel family did not travel well.

  Pandora and Cassandra were both overcome with excitement, never having set foot on a train before. They chattered and exclaimed, darting across the station platform like feeding pigeons, begging West to purchase railway editions of popular novels – only a shilling apiece – and sandwiches packaged in cunning little paper boxes, and handkerchiefs printed with pastoral scenes. Loaded with souvenirs, they boarded the family’s first-class railway carriage and insisted on trying every seat before choosing the ones they preferred.

  Helen had insisted on bringing one of her potted orchids, its long, fragile stem having been stabilized with a stick and a bit of ribbon. The orchid was a rare and sensitive species of Blue Vanda. Despite its dislike of being moved, she believed it would be better off in London with her. She carried the orchid in her lap the entire way, her absorbed gaze focused on the passing landscape.

  Soon after the train had left the station, Cassandra made herself queasy by trying to read one of the railway novels. She closed the book and settled in her seat with her eyes closed, moaning occasionally as the train swayed. Pandora, by contrast, couldn’t stay seated for more than a few minutes at a time, jumping up to test the feeling of standing in a moving locomotive, and attempting to view the scenery from different windows. But the worst traveler by far was Clara, the lady’s maid, whose fear of the train’s speed proved resistant to all attempts at soothing. Every small jolt or lurch of the carriage drew a fearful cry from her until Devon had given her a small glass of brandy to settle her nerves.

  “I told you we should have put her in the second-class carriage with Sutton,” he said to Kathleen.

  In the week since the episode in the morning room, they had both taken care to avoid each other as much as possible. When they were together, as now, they retreated into mutual and scrupulous politeness.

  “I thought she would feel safer with us,” Kathleen replied. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Clara was sleeping with her head tilted back and her mouth half open. “She seems to be faring better after a nip of brandy.”

  “Nip?” He gave her a dark glance. “She’s had at least a half pint by now. Pandora’s been dosing her with it for the past half hour.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because it kept her quiet.”

  Kathleen jumped up and hurried to retrieve the decanter from Pandora. “Darling, what are you doing with this?”

  The girl stared at her owlishly. “I’ve been helping Clara.”

  “That was very kind, but she’s had enough. Don’t give her any more.”

  “I don’t know why it’s made her so sleepy. I’ve had almost as much medicine as she’s had, and I’m not a bit tired.”

  “You drank some of the brandy?” West had asked from the other side of the railway carriage, his brows lifting.

  Pandora stood and made her way to the opposite window to view a Celtic hill fort and a meadow with grazing cattle. “Yes, when we were crossing the bridge over the water, I felt a bit nervous. But then I dosed myself, and it was quite relaxing.”

  “Indeed,” West said, glancing at the half-empty bottle in Kathleen’s hand before returning his gaze to Pandora. “Come sit with me, darling. You’ll be as stewed as Clara by the time we reach London.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Dropping into the empty seat next to him, Pandora argued and giggled profusely, until she dropped her head to his shoulder and began to snore.

  Finally they arrived at one of the two train sheds at Waterloo Station, crowded with thousands of passengers searching for their correct departure platforms. Standing, Devon stretched his shoulders and said, “The driver and carriage are waiting outside the train shed. I’ll have a porter assist Clara. Everyone else, stay together. Cassandra, don’t even think about dashing off to look at trinkets or books. Helen, hold fast to your orchid in case you’re jostled while we move through the crowd. As for Pandora…”

  “I have her,” West assured him, pulling the wilting girl to her feet. “Wake up, child. It’s time to leave.”

  “My legs are on the wrong feet,” Pandora mumbled, her face buried against his chest.

  “Reach around my neck.”

  She squinted up at him. “Why?”

  West regarded her with amused exasperation. “So I can carry you off the train.”

  “I like trains.” Pandora hiccupped as he lifted her against his chest. “Oh, being carried is ever so much nicer than walking. I feel so flopsawopsy-doodly…”

  Somehow the group made it through the train shed without mishap. Devon directed the porters and footmen to load their luggage onto a road wagon that would follow the carriage. Sutton reluctantly took charge of Clara, who was inclined to collapse and slump like a sack of beans as she sat next to him on a wagon bench.

  The family settled into the carriage, while West elected to sit up top with the driver. As the vehicle left the station and proceeded toward Waterloo Bridge, a mist of rain accompanied the slow descent of pumice-colored fog.

  “Will Cousin West be uncomfortable, riding out in the weather?” Cassandra asked in concern.

  Devon shook his head. “West is invigorated by the city. He’ll want to have a good look at everything.”

  Pandora stirred and sat up to take in the scenery. “I thought all the streets would be paved with stone.”

  “Only a few,” Devon said. “Most have been paved with wood block, which provides a better foothold for horses.”

  “How tall the buildings are,” Helen remarked, curving her arm protectively around the orchid pot. “Some of them must be seven stories, at least.”

  The twins pressed their noses to the windows, their eager faces on open display.

  “Girls, your veils —” Kathleen began.

  “Let them look,” Devon interrupted quietly. “It’s their first glimpse of the cit
y.”

  She relented, settling back in her seat.

  London was a city of wonders, alive with thousands of odors and sights. The air was thick with the barking of dogs, the clip-clopping of iron-shod horses and the bleating of sheep, the grinding of carriage wheels, the worrying of fiddles and the whines of street organs, fragments of song from street sellers and balladeers, and thousands of voices that argued, bargained, laughed, and called out to each other.