Cold-Hearted Rake

Done.

After one last luxurious inhalation of her scent, Devon released her slowly, knowing that for the rest of his life, a single breath of a rose would bring him back to this moment.

Kathleen set aside the knife and pencil, and turned to face Devon.

They were very close, not quite touching, not quite separate.

She looked uncertain, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t think of what it should be.

Devon’s control began to fray, thread by thread, in that electric silence. He found himself leaning forward by degrees until his hands were anchored on the desk on either side of her. Kathleen was forced to lean back, gripping his forearms to maintain her balance. He waited for her to protest, push him, tell him to move back.

But she stared at him as if mesmerized, her breath coming in fits and starts. Her grip began to tighten and ease on his arms like a cat kneading her paws. Lowering his head, he touched his lips to her temple, where a faint whisk of blue veins was visible. He could sense her bewilderment, the force of her unwilling attraction to him.

Dimly aware that he was burning through the last few shreds of self-control, he forced himself to straighten and take his hands from the desk. He began to move away, but Kathleen stayed with him, still clinging to his arms, her gaze unfocused. God… this was how it would be, her body following his without effort, while he lifted and filled her…

Every heartbeat drove him closer to her.

His hand lifted to the side of her face, tilting it upward, while his other arm drew around her.

Her lashes lowered, settling in dark crescents against her pink skin. Confusion had etched a delicate apostrophe of tension between her brows, and he kissed the fine notches before bringing his mouth to hers.

He expected her to protest, to push him away, but instead she went pliant, making a little pleasured sound that sent burning chills down his spine. Both his hands came to her face, gently adjusting the angle of her jaw as he coaxed her lips to part. He began to search her, wringing sensation and sweetness from her innocently responsive mouth… but her tongue retreated instantly at the first touch of his.

Burning with lust and tender amusement, Devon slid his mouth to her ear. “No,” he whispered, “let me taste you… let me feel how soft you are inside…”

He kissed her again, slow and ruthlessly gentle, until her mouth clung to his and he felt the answering touch of her tongue. Her hands inched up his chest, her head tilting backward as she surrendered helplessly. The pleasure was unimaginable, as unfamiliar to him as it must have been to her. Suffused with an agony of need, he moved his hands over her, caressing and trying to grip her closer. He could feel the movements of her body within the rustling dress, firm sweet flesh trussed in all those stiff layers of starch and laces and boning. He wanted to tear it all from her. He wanted her vulnerable and exposed to him, her private skin naked beneath his mouth.

But as he took her face in his hands so his thumbs could stroke her cheeks, he felt a smudge of moisture.

A tear.

Devon went still. Lifting his head, he stared down at Kathleen while their panting breaths mingled. Her eyes were wet and bewildered. She raised her fingers to her lips, touching them tentatively as if they’d been burned.

Silently he berated himself, knowing that he’d pushed her too far, too soon.

Somehow he managed to let go and back away, putting a crucial distance between them.

“Kathleen —” he began gruffly. “I shouldn’t have —”

She fled before he could say another word.

The next morning, Devon took the family coach to meet West’s train. The market town of Alton was bisected by a long main street lined with prosperous shops, neighborhoods of handsome houses, a bombazine cloth factory, and a paper mill. Unfortunately the sulfurous stench of the paper mill announced itself well before the building came into view.

The footman huddled closer to the station building, taking refuge from the biting November wind. Feeling too restless to stay still, Devon paced along the platform, his hands shoved in the pockets of his black wool greatcoat. Tomorrow he would have to return to London. The thought of that silent house, so crowded with furniture and yet so empty, filled him with revulsion. But he had to stay away from Hampshire. He needed distance from Kathleen, or he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from seducing her long before she was ready for it.

He was playing a long game, and he couldn’t let himself forget that.

Bloody mourning period.

He was obliged to curtail his pacing as the platform became crowded with people holding tickets, and others waiting to greet the arriving passengers. Soon their conversation and laughter were drowned out by the approach of the locomotive, a thundering, hissing beast that sped forward with impatient clattering and chugging.

After the train had stopped with a metallic screech, porters carried trunks and valises off the train, while arriving and departing passengers milled in a roiling crowd. People collided as they headed in a multitude of directions. Objects were dropped and hastily retrieved; travelers became separated and searched for each other; names were called out in the cacophony. Devon pushed past the confluence of bodies, looking for his brother. Not finding him, he glanced back at the footman, wondering if he had caught sight of West. The servant gestured and shouted something, but his voice was lost in the clamor.

As Devon made his way to the footman, he saw him talking to a stranger wearing baggy clothes, the kind of good quality but ill-fitting castoffs that a clerk or tradesman might wear. The man was young and slim, with heavy dark hair that wanted cutting. He bore a striking resemblance to West in his days at Oxford, especially the way he smiled with his chin tilted downward, as if reflecting on some private joke. In fact…