Cold-Hearted Rake

“Has she? Did Mrs. Church enlighten you as to why Lady Trenear has invaded my room?”

“The plumbers are installing pipe beneath the floor in her bedroom. I’m told that Lady Trenear was none too pleased by the situation. One of the footmen said he heard her vow to do you bodily harm.”

“How unfortunate.” Subtle amusement wove through Devon’s voice. She felt his jaw nudge against her hair as he grinned. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced her.”

“It wasn’t merely an inconvenience, my lord. Lady Trenear quitted the master bedroom immediately after the late earl’s passing, and hasn’t spent a night there since. Until now. According to one of the servants —”

Kathleen stiffened.

“I don’t need to know why,” Devon interrupted. “That is Lady Trenear’s concern, and none of ours.”

“Yes, sir,” the valet said. “More to the point, the footman conveyed your luggage to one of the upstairs rooms, but no one seems to know which one.”

“Has anyone thought of asking him?” Devon suggested dryly.

“At present the man is nowhere to be found. Lady Pandora and Lady Cassandra recruited him to assist them in searching for their pig, which has gone missing.”

Devon’s body tensed. “Did you say ‘pig’?”

“Yes, my lord. A new family pet.”

Devon’s hand slid gently from Kathleen’s lips, his fingertips grazing her chin in a whisper of a caress. “Is there a particular reason why we’re keeping livestock in the —”

Kathleen had turned to glance up at him just as his head bent. His mouth collided against her temple, the accidental touch causing her senses to reel in confusion. His lips, so firm and smooth, his hot, tickling breath… She began to tremble.

“— house?” Devon finished, his voice roughening. He reached out to grasp the door’s metal edge plate, preventing it from closing again.

“I needn’t point out that such questions do not arise in most well-appointed households,” Sutton said primly. “Shall I hand the towels past the door?”

“No, leave them on the other side. I’ll retrieve them when I’m ready.”

“On the floor?” Sutton sounded appalled. “My lord, allow me to set them on a chair.” There were sounds of objects being moved within the room, the thump of a light piece of furniture.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, Kathleen saw that Devon’s grip had tightened on the door until the tip of his thumb had turned white. His wrist and arm were corded. How warm he was, and how firmly his chest and shoulders supported her. The only place they didn’t quite fit was the place low on her spine, where the pressure of his body was inflexible and stiffly prodding. She squirmed, seeking a more comfortable position. Devon inhaled quickly and reached down to grasp her right hip, forcing her to stay still.

Then she realized what the hard ridge was.

She tensed, her throat closing against a whimper. All the tantalizing heat fled, her flesh turning to ice, the trembling breaking into continuous shivers. She was about to be hurt. Attacked.

Marriage had taught her that men forgot themselves when aroused. They lost control and turned into beasts.

Desperately she calculated how much of a threat Devon might pose, how far he might go. If he hurt her, she would scream. She would fight back, no matter what the consequences to herself or her reputation.

One of his hands came to the side of her waist – she felt the pressure of it even through her corset – and he rubbed in slow circles, the way one would calm a spooked horse.

Through the blood pounding in her ears, Kathleen heard the valet ask if the luggage should be conveyed to the master bedroom. Devon replied that he would decide later, for now just bring some clothes and be quick about it. The valet agreed.

“He’s gone,” Devon said in a few moments. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he reached around the edge of the door to tamper with the latch mechanism, bending the thumb-lift bar so it wouldn’t close. “Although no one has asked my opinion about the pig,” he said, “I’m against any house pet that will eventually outweigh me.”

Having braced herself for attack, Kathleen blinked uncertainly. He was behaving so unlike a lust-crazed beast that it gave her pause.

In response to her frozen silence, Devon lifted a hand to her jaw and nudged her to look at him. Unable to avoid his calm, appraising glance, she realized there was no immediate danger of him forcing himself on her.

“You’d best look away,” he advised, “unless you want a big eyeful of Ravenel. I’m going to fetch the towels.”

Kathleen nodded, her eyes squeezing shut as he left the bathroom.

She waited, letting the chaos of her thoughts settle. But her nerves still reverberated with the feeling of him against her, the details of his aroused body.

Once, not long ago, she had gone with Lord and Lady Berwick, and their daughters, to visit the National Museum. On their way to view a display of South Seas objects that had been collected by the legendary explorer Captain James Cook, they had passed by a gallery of Italian statuary, where a pair of nude male sculptures had been positioned by the doorway. One of the detachable plaster fig leaves devised by a museum director to conceal the statues’ genitals had dropped to the floor and scattered in pieces. Lady Berwick, appalled by what she had considered no less than a visual assault, had whisked Kathleen and her daughters past the offending marble flesh… but not before they had seen exactly what the fig leaf had been intended to cover.