Cold-Hearted Rake

“You’ll be the first to try the new copper bathtub,” the housekeeper said, in a tone she might have used while offering a bonbon to a sullen child.

Kathleen smiled wanly. “That is some consolation.”

As it turned out, her bath in the copper tub was so lovely and luxurious that it almost made up for having to sleep in the master bedroom. Not only was it deeper than any bath she’d ever been in before, it was crowned with a full roll edge upon which she could rest her head comfortably. It was the first bath she’d had ever taken in which she could lean back and submerge herself all the way up to the neck, and it was heavenly.

She stayed in the bath for as long as possible, lazing and half floating until the water began to cool. Clara, her lady’s maid, came to wrap her in soft Turkish towels and settle a clean white nightgown over her head.

Covered with gooseflesh, Kathleen went to sit in an upholstered chair by the fire and discovered that her ombré shawl had been draped over the back of the chair. She pulled it over her lap, snuggling beneath the soft cashmere. Her gaze went to the stately bed, with its carved wooden canopy mounted on four elaborately turned posters.

One glance was enough to destroy all the good the bath had done.

She had refused to sleep in that bed with Theo after the debacle of their wedding night. The sound of his slurred, angry voice emerged from her memories.

Do what you’re told, for God’s sake. Lie back and stop making this difficult… Behave like a wife, damn it…

In the morning, Kathleen was exhausted, her sore eyes undercut with dark shadows. Before she went out to the stables, she went to find the housekeeper at the spice cupboard. “Mrs. Church, forgive me for interrupting you, but I’d like to make certain that you’ll have a new bedroom readied for me by this evening. I can’t stay in that master bedroom ever again – I’d sooner sleep in the outhouse with a herd of feral cats.”

The housekeeper glanced at her in concern. “Yes, my lady. The girls have already begun cleaning a room overlooking the rose garden. They’re beating the carpets and scrubbing the floor.”

“Thank you.”

Kathleen felt her spirits improve as soon as she reached the stables. A morning ride always seemed to restore her soul to rights. Entering the saddle room, she removed the detachable skirt of her riding habit and hung it on a wall bracket.

It was customary for a lady to wear chamois or wool breeches beneath a riding skirt, to prevent chafing. But it was not at all proper to wear only the breeches, as Kathleen was doing.

However, she hadn’t yet broken Asad to sidesaddle. She had chosen to train him while riding astride, which would be far safer if the horse tried to unseat her. A picturesque riding skirt, with its masses of flowing fabric, was apt to catch on tack or low tree branches, or even become entangled with the horse’s legs.

Kathleen had felt more than a little embarrassed the first time she had walked out to the paddock in breeches. The stablemen had stared at her with such astonishment that one might have thought she’d walked out there in the altogether. However, Mr. Bloom, who was more concerned with safety than propriety, had instantly given her his approval. Soon the stablemen had grown accustomed to the sight of Kathleen’s unconventional appearance, and now they seemed to think nothing of it. No doubt it helped that her figure was so slight – with her lack of womanly curves, she could hardly be accused of tempting anyone.

Asad was supple and responsive during their practice, moving in half circles and serpentine patterns. His transitions were seamless, his focus perfect. Kathleen decided to take the Arabian outside the paddock for a ride in an enclosed pasture, and he did so well that she extended the morning session.

Glowing and pleasantly tired after the exercise, Kathleen returned into the house and bounded up one of the back staircases. Nearing the top, she realized she had forgotten her detachable skirt at the stables. She would send a footman to fetch it later. As she headed toward the master bedroom, she was obliged to stop and flatten against a wall as a trio of workmen proceeded through the hallway, their arms laden with copper pipes. Noticing Kathleen’s breeches, one of the workmen nearly dropped the pipes, and another told him curtly to put his eyes back in his head and carry on.

Blushing, Kathleen hurried into the master bedroom and went directly to the open door of the bathroom, since Clara was nowhere to be seen. Despite her objections to the expense of indoor plumbing, she had to admit that it was lovely to have hot water without having to ring for the maids. After entering the bathroom, she closed the door firmly.

A startled yelp escaped her as she saw that the tub was occupied.

“Dear God!” Her hands flew up to cover her face.

But the image of Devon Ravenel, wet and naked, had already been burned into her brain.

Chapter 11

It couldn’t be. Devon was supposed to be in London! It was a trick of her imagination… a hallucination. Except that the air was hot and humid, spiced with the fragrance that was unmistakably his… a spicy, clean incense of skin and soap.

Apprehensively Kathleen parted her fingers just enough to peek through them.

Devon was reclining in the copper tub, looking at her in sardonic inquiry. Hot mist rose around him in a smoke-colored veil. Droplets of water clung to the tautly muscled slopes of his arms and shoulders, and sparkled in the dark fleece of hair on his chest.

Kathleen whirled to face the door, her thoughts scattering like the pins in a game of skittles. “What are you doing here?” she managed to ask.

His tone was caustic. “I received your summons.”