Cold-Hearted Rake

“No one could blame you for what happened.”

“I blame myself.”

“‘Let her cover the mark as she will,’” he quoted sardonically, “‘the pang of it will always be in her heart.’”

Recognizing the words from The Scarlet Letter, Kathleen glanced up at him miserably. “You liken me to Hester Prynne?”

“Only in your aspirations to martyrdom. Although even Hester had a bit of fun before her comeuppance, whereas you’ve apparently had little.”

“Fun?” Despair gave way to bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

His gaze was intent on her face. “I would think that even a proper lady might find some pleasure in the conjugal embrace.”

She gasped in befuddled outrage. “I – you – that you would dare bring up such a subject —” He had been so gentle and comforting, and now he had changed back into the insufferable cad of before. “As if I would ever discuss that with anyone, least of all you!” As she writhed and began to crawl from his lap, he held her in place easily.

“Before you charge away in righteous indignation,” he said, “you might want to refasten your bodice.”

“My —” Glancing down at her front, Kathleen saw to her horror that the first few buttons of her dress and the top two hooks of her corset had been undone. She went scarlet. “Oh, how could you?”

A flare of amusement lit his eyes. “You weren’t breathing well. I thought you needed oxygen more than modesty.” After watching her frantic efforts to rehook the corset, he asked politely, “May I help?”

“No. Although I’m certain you’re quite accomplished at ‘helping’ ladies with their undergarments.”

“They’re hardly ever ladies.” He laughed quietly as she worked at the placket of the corset with increasing panic.

The strain of the afternoon had left her so enervated that even the simplest task was difficult. She huffed and wriggled to pull the edges of the corset together.

After watching her for a moment, Devon said brusquely, “Allow me.” He brushed her hands away and began to hook the corset efficiently. She gasped as she felt the backs of his knuckles brush the skin of her upper chest. Finishing the hooks, he started on the row of buttons at her bodice. “Relax. I’m not going to ravish you; I’m not quite as depraved as my reputation might indicate. Besides, a bosom of such modest proportions – albeit charming – isn’t enough to send me into a frenzy of lust.”

Kathleen glowered and held still, secretly relieved that he’d given her a reason to hate him again. Nimbly his long fingers worked at the buttons until each one was neatly secured in its small silk loop. His lashes cast brindled shadows down his cheeks as he glanced along her front.

“There,” he murmured.

She clambered out of his lap with the haste of a scalded cat.

“Careful.” Devon flinched at the heedless placement of her knee. “I have yet to produce an heir, which makes certain parts of my anatomy more valuable to the estate than the actual family jewels.”

“They’re not valuable to me,” she said, staggering to her feet.

“Still, I’m quite fond of them.” He grinned and rose in an easy movement, reaching out to steady her.

Dismayed by the deplorably rumpled and muddy condition of her skirts, Kathleen whacked at the bits of hay and horsehair that clung to the black crepe fabric.

“Shall I accompany you into the house?” Devon asked.

“I prefer to go separately,” she said.

“As you wish.”

Straightening her spine, she added, “We will never speak of this.”

“Very well.”

“Also… we are still not friends.”

His gaze held hers. “Are we enemies, then?”

“That depends.” Kathleen took a wavering breath. “What… what will you do with Asad?”

Something in his face softened. “He’ll remain at the estate until he can be retrained. That’s all I can promise for now.”

Although it wasn’t precisely the answer she’d wanted, it was better than having Asad sold right away. If the horse could be retrained, he might at least end up in the possession of someone who valued him. “Then… I suppose… we’re not enemies.”

He stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight. The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before. She approached him with abashed tentativeness, and he held very still as she reached up to pull the little wisp of hay from his hair. The dark locks were invitingly disheveled, a cowlick on the right side, and she was almost tempted to smooth it.

“How long is the mourning period?” he surprised her by asking abruptly.

Kathleen blinked, disconcerted. “For a widow? There are four mourning periods.”

“Four?”

“The first one lasts a year, the second for six months, the third for three months, and then half mourning lasts for the rest of one’s life.”

“And if the widow wishes to marry again?”

“She may do so after a year and a day, although it is frowned upon to marry so quickly unless she has children, or lacks income.”

“Frowned upon but not forbidden?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Devon shrugged casually. “I’m merely curious. Men are required to mourn only for six months – probably because we wouldn’t tolerate anything longer than that.”