Cold-Hearted Rake

She shrugged. “A man’s heart is different from a woman’s.”

His gaze turned quizzical.

“Women love more,” she explained. Seeing his expression, she asked, “You think I’m wrong?”

“I think you know little of men,” he said gently.

“I’ve been married: I know all I wish to.” She went to the threshold and paused to look back at him. “Thank you,” she said, and left before he could reply.

Devon wandered to the doorway after Kathleen had gone. Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the frame and expelled a controlled sigh.

Dear God… he wanted her beyond decency.

He turned and set his back against the match-boarded wall, struggling to understand what was happening to him. A euphoric, disastrous feeling had invaded him. He sensed that he’d undergone a sea change from which there was no return.

He hated it when women cried. At the first sign of tears, he had always bolted like a hare at a coursing. But as soon as his arms had gone around Kathleen, in one ordinary instant, the world, the past, everything he’d always been certain of had all been obliterated. She had reached for him, not out of passion or fear, but the simple human need for closeness. It had electrified him. No one had ever sought comfort from him before, and the act of giving it had felt more unspeakably intimate than the most torrid sexual encounter. He’d felt the force of his entire being wrap around her in a moment of sweet, raw connection.

His thoughts were in anarchy. His body still smoldered with the feeling of Kathleen’s slight weight in his lap. Before she had fully come back to herself, he had kissed her silky cheek, damp with salt tears and summer rain. He wanted to kiss her again, everywhere, for hours. He wanted her naked and exhausted in his arms. After all his past experience, physical pleasure had lost any trace of novelty, but now he wanted Kathleen Ravenel in ways that shocked him.

What a damnable situation, he thought savagely. A ruined estate, a depleted fortune, and a woman he couldn’t have. Kathleen would be in mourning for a year and a day, and even after that, she would be out of his reach. She would never lower herself to be any man’s mistress, and after what she had endured with Theo, she would want nothing to do with another Ravenel.

Brooding, Devon went to pick up his discarded coat from the floor. He shrugged into the rumpled garment and wandered from the saddle room back to the stalls. At the far end of the building, a pair of stable boys talked as they cleaned a box stall. Becoming aware of his presence, they quieted instantly, and all he could hear was the rasp of the broom and the scrape of a shovel. Some of the horses in the row watched him curiously while others affected disinterest.

Keeping his movements relaxed, Devon went to the Arabian’s stall. Asad turned his head sideways to view him, his teacup muzzle tightening in a sign of unease. “No need for concern,” Devon murmured. “Although one can’t blame you for wrinkling your nose at a Ravenel’s approach.”

Asad shuffled and swished his tail nervously. Slowly he came to the front of the stall.

“Look sharp, milor’,” came Mr. Bloom’s calm voice from somewhere behind Devon. “The lad’s a biter – he may take a nip of tha, if he doesn’t know tha. He prefers a lass’s company to a man’s.”

“That shows your judgment is sound,” Devon told the horse. He extended a hand palm-up, as he had seen Kathleen do earlier.

Carefully Asad sniffed. His eyes half closed. Working his mouth, he lowered his head in submission and pressed his muzzle against Devon’s hands. Devon smiled and stroked the horse’s head on both sides. “You’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?”

“And well he knows it,” the stable master said, approaching with a chuckle. “‘He smells her ladyship on thee. Now he’ll take to thee like ha’penny sweets. Once they know they’re safe with thee, they’ll do anything tha asks.”

Devon ran his hand along Asad’s graceful neck, from the narrow, refined throatlatch down to the sturdy shoulder. His coat was sleek and warm, like living silk. “What do you make of his temperament?” he asked. “Is there any danger to Lady Trenear if she continues to train him?”

“Nowt a bit, milor’. Asad will be a perfect lady’s mount, once he’s trained right. He’s not obstracklous, only sensitive. He sees, hears, smells everything. The fine ones are canny like that. Best to ride ’em wi’ soft tack and gentle hands.” Bloom hesitated, idly tugging on his white whiskers. “A week before the wedding, Asad was brought here from Leominster. Lord Trenear came to the stables to see him. ’Twas a mercy that her ladyship wasn’t here to witness: Asad nipped at him, and his lordship delivered a hard clout to his muzzle. I warned him, ‘If tha use a fist against him, milor’, tha may earn his fear but not his trust.’” Bloom shook his head sadly, his eyes moistening. “I knew the master since he was a dear little lad. Everyone at the Priory loved him. But none could deny he was a fire-flaught.”

Devon gave him a quizzical glance. “What does that mean?”

“In Yorkshire it’s what they call the hot coal that bounces out of the hearth. But it’s also the name for a man who can’t bide his temper.”

Asad raised his head and delicately touched his muzzle to Devon’s chin. Resisting the urge to jerk his head back, Devon held still.

“Breathe soft into his nose,” Bloom murmured. “He wants to make friends wi’ thee.”

Devon complied. After blowing back gently, the horse nudged his chest and licked his shirtfront.