Marrying Winterborne

“Why, may I ask?”

Devon flipped her over, reversing their positions neatly and surprising a giggle from her. “Because,” he said huskily, “I wanted you so much . . .”

She writhed and laughed as he unfastened her nightgown.

“. . . and as lord of the manor,” he continued, proceeding to strip her naked, “I thought it was time to exercise my droit de seigneur.”

“As if I were some medieval peasant girl?” she asked, shoving him onto his back and climbing over him.

Grabbing his marauding hands, she tried to pin him down with her entire weight.

A deep laugh escaped him. “Love, that won’t work. You’re no heavier than a butterfly.” Clearly enjoying their play, he lay unresisting as she gripped his thick wrists more tightly. “A determined butterfly,” he conceded. As he stared up at her, his smile faded, and his eyes darkened to intense blue. “I was a selfish bastard,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have seduced you.”

“I was willing,” Kathleen pointed out, inwardly surprised by his remorse. He was changing, she thought, rapidly gaining maturity as he shouldered the responsibilities that had been forced on him so unexpectedly.

“I would do it differently now. Forgive me.” He paused, frowning in self-reproach. “I wasn’t raised to be honorable. It’s damned difficult to learn.”

Kathleen slid her hands over his until their fingers interlaced. “There’s nothing to forgive, or regret.”

Devon shook his head, not allowing her to absolve him. “Tell me how to atone.”

She bent to brush her lips against his. “Love me,” she whispered.

With great care, Devon rolled until she was caught beneath him. “Always,” he said huskily, and possessed her mouth while his hands slid over her body. He made love to her slowly, with exquisite skill. Long after he’d made her ready for him, he finally nudged her thighs apart and eased inside. She wriggled in frustration as he refused to press deeper, no matter how she tried to urge him.

“Devon . . .” Her breath came in little flurries. “I need more.”

“More of what?” His mouth drifted to the base of her throat.

She scowled and squirmed. “Oh I hate it when you tease me!”

He smiled. “Almost as much as you love it.” Relenting, he slid an inch forward.

“Deeper,” she gasped. “Please, Devon—”

“Like this?” he asked gently.

Kathleen arched beneath him, her lips parted in a silent cry as he took her with fierce, tender urgency, loving her body and soul.

“FERNSBY,” RHYS CALLED out, frowning as he sorted through the sheaf of papers on his desk with a frown.

The private secretary appeared promptly at the threshold of his open door. “Yes, Mr. Winterborne?”

“Come in.” He straightened the paper into a neat stack, replaced it in a cardboard file envelope, and tied the attached string around it. “I’ve just looked through the documents sent by Mr. Severin’s office.” He handed her the envelope.

“The ones pertaining to the block of residential buildings near King’s Cross?”

“Aye. Deeds, mortgages, contractor’s agreements, and so forth.” He gave her a dark glance. “But there’s not one piece of paper in that entire file that bears the owner’s name. Severin knows better than to expect me to buy property without knowing who’s selling it.”

“I would have thought it was legally required for the owner’s name to be listed.”

“There are ways around it.” Rhys nodded toward the file in Fernsby’s hands. “The mortgage wasn’t financed by a bank, but through a loan from a cooperative building society. According to the deed, the property is owned by a private investment company. I’d bet a hundred pounds that it’s being held in trust for an unnamed party.”

“Why would someone go to such trouble instead of buying it in his own name?”

“In the past, I’ve bought property anonymously to keep the asking price from going through the roof when they hear my name. And I have business adversaries who would enjoy putting me in my place now and then, by denying me something I want. Likely this man’s reasons are similar. But I want his name.”

“Would Mr. Severin be willing to tell you, if you asked him directly?”

Rhys shook his head. “He would have told me already. I suspect he knows it would ruin the deal if I found out.”

“Shall I give this information to the same man we hired to research the canning factory purchase?”

“Aye, he’ll do.”

“I’ll take care of it right away. Also, Doctor Havelock is waiting to have a word with you.”

Rhys rolled his eyes impatiently. “Tell him my shoulder is as good as—”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about your shoulder,” came a gravelly voice from the threshold. “I’ve come about a more important matter.”

The speaker was Dr. William Havelock, formerly the private physician to a handful of privileged London families. He had also been a medical journalist with progressive views, writing about poor-law medicine and public health issues. Eventually his wealthy patients had been irked by the political debates he had stirred up, and had turned to other, less controversial practitioners.

Rhys had hired Havelock ten years ago, ever since the store had first broken ground on Cork Street. It had made sense to hire a permanent staff doctor to take care of his employees, keeping them healthy and productive.