Cold-Hearted Rake

Kathleen had been shocked but intrigued by the statue, marveling at how the delicacy of the sculpting had made cold marble look like flesh: veined, vulnerable, smooth everywhere except for the little scruff of hair at the groin. The shy, unobtrusive bud hadn’t seemed worth the fuss Lady Berwick had made.

On Kathleen’s wedding night, however, she had glimpsed and felt just enough of Theo’s body to realize that a living, breathing man was endowed far more substantially than the marble sculpture at a museum.

And just now, the pressure of Devon’s body against hers…

She wished she’d been able to look at him.

Instantly she chastised herself for the thought. Still… she couldn’t help being curious. Would it do any harm if she took a quick peek? This was the only chance she would ever have to see a man as God had made him. Before she could talk herself out of it, she inched to the edge of the door and looked around it cautiously.

What a startling sight… a healthy, virile male in his prime. Strong and complexly muscled, barbaric and yet beautiful. Fortunately he was facing partially away from her, so that her surveillance went unnoticed. He toweled his hair until the thick locks stood on end and worked down to his arms and chest, scrubbing vigorously. His back was powerful, the line of his spine a pronounced groove. The broad slopes of his shoulders flexed as he draped the towel across and began to dry himself with a sawing motion. A plentitude of hair covered his limbs and the upper portion of his chest, and there was far more at his groin than the decorative tuft she had expected. As for the glimpse she’d had of his male part… it was scaled similarly to her husband’s, except perhaps even more prodigious. It appeared decidedly inconvenient to have such an appendage. How in the world did men ride horses?

Red-faced, she shrank back behind the door before Devon could catch her spying on him.

Soon she heard him approach, the floor creaking beneath his feet, and a dry Turkish towel was extended through the partially open doorway. She took it gratefully and wrapped it around herself.

“Are you adequately covered?” she brought herself to ask.

“I doubt anyone would call it adequate.”

“Would you like to wait in here?” she offered reluctantly. The bathroom was warmer than the drafty bedroom.

“No.”

“But it’s as cold as ice out there.”

“Precisely,” came his brusque reply. Judging from his voice, he was standing just on the other side of the door. “What the devil are you wearing, by the way?”

“My riding habit.”

“It looks like half a riding habit.”

“I leave off the overskirt when I train Asad.” At his lack of response, she added, “Mr. Bloom approves of my breeches. He says that he could almost mistake me for one of the stable boys.”

“Then he must be blind. No man with eyes in his head would ever mistake you for a boy.” Devon paused. “From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.”

“What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?”

“Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.”

“You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?”

“I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.”

“No, from your brother,” she shot back.

“I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.”

Unable to restrain herself any longer, Kathleen went to the open gap in the doorway and glared at him. “You were the one who hired the plumbers!” she hissed.

“The plumbers are the least of it. Someone needs to take the situation in hand.”

“If you’re foolish enough to imagine you could take me in hand —”

“Oh, I’d begin with you,” he assured her feelingly.

Kathleen would have delivered a scathing reply, but her teeth had begun to chatter. Although the Turkish towel had absorbed some of the moisture from her clothes, they were clammy.

Seeing her discomfort, Devon turned and surveyed the room, obviously hunting for something to cover her. Although his back was turned, she knew the precise moment that he spotted the shawl on the fireplace chair.

When he spoke, his tone had changed. “You didn’t dye it.”

“Give that to me.” Kathleen thrust her arm through the doorway.

Devon picked it up. A slow smile crossed his face. “Do you wear it often?”

“Hand me my shawl, please.”

Devon brought it to her, deliberately taking his time. He should have been mortified by his indecent state of undress, but he seemed entirely comfortable, the great shameless peacock.

As soon as the shawl was within reach, Kathleen snatched it from him.

Casting aside her damp towel, she pulled the shawl around herself. The garment was comforting and familiar, the soft wool warming her instantly.

“I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it,” she said grudgingly. She was tempted to tell him that even though the gift had been inappropriate… the truth was, she loved it. There were days when she wasn’t certain whether the gloomy widow’s weeds were reflecting her melancholy mood or causing it, and when she pulled the brilliant shawl over her shoulders, she felt instantly better.

No gift had ever pleased her as much.

She couldn’t tell him that, but she wanted to.

“You look beautiful in those colors, Kathleen.” His voice was low and soft.