by Lisa Kleypas
Devon swore quietly. He flattened his palms on the desk, staring at nothing as she continued.
“For hours after Kathleen had been brought to the ship’s cabin, she screamed and sobbed until the nanny became very cross and said, ‘If you insist on making such a horrid fuss, I shall go away, and you’ll be alone in the world with no one to look after you. Your parents sent you away because you’re a nuisance.’” Helen paused. “Kathleen quieted at once. She took the nanny’s warning to mean that she must never cry again; it was the price of survival.”
“Did her parents ever send for her?”
Helen shook her head. “That was the last time Kathleen ever saw her mother. A few years later, Lady Carbery succumbed to malaria during a return voyage from Egypt. When Kathleen was told about her mother’s passing, she felt the pain of it acutely, but she couldn’t find the relief of tears. It was the same with Theo’s death.”
The sound of hard-falling rain was like the clatter of coins.
“Kathleen is not heartless, you see,” Helen murmured. “She feels very deep sorrow. It’s only that she can’t show it.”
Devon wasn’t certain whether to thank or curse Helen for the revelations. He didn’t want to feel any compassion for Kathleen. But the rejection by her parents at such a tender age would have been devastating. He understood all about the desire to avoid painful memories and emotions… the compelling need to keep certain doors closed.
“Were Lord and Lady Berwick kind to her?” he asked gruffly.
“I believe so. She speaks of them with affection.” Helen paused. “The family was very strict. There were many rules, and they were enforced with severity. They value self-restraint perhaps too much.” She smiled absently. “The only exception is the subject of horses. They’re all quite horse-mad. The night before Kathleen’s wedding, at dinner, they had an enthusiastic conversation about pedigrees and equine training, and rhapsodized about the fragrance of the stables as if it were the finest perfume. It went on for nearly an hour. Theo was a bit annoyed, I think. He felt somewhat left out, since he didn’t share their passion for the subject.”
Biting back an observation about his cousin’s lack of interest in any subject except himself, Devon glanced outside.
The storm had settled over the brow of the high grazing fell, water pouring into the chalk streams and flooding the downs. Now the idea of Kathleen being caught out in that tempest alone was no longer enjoyable.
It was intolerable.
Cursing beneath his breath, Devon pushed back from the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Helen…”
“You’ll send a footman after Kathleen?” Helen asked hopefully.
“No. I’ll fetch her myself.”
She looked relieved. “Thank you, my lord. How kind you are!”
“It’s not kindness.” Devon headed to the doorway. “I’m only doing it for the chance of seeing her ankle-deep in mud.”
Kathleen strode briskly along the dirt path that snaked between an overgrown hedgerow and an expanse of ancient oak woodland. The forest rustled from the approaching storm as birds and wildlife took cover, while leaves descended in pale currents. A bolt of thunder unfurled with ground-shaking force.
Pulling a shawl more tightly around herself, she considered going back to the Luftons’ farm. There was no doubt that the family would provide shelter. But she had already reached the halfway point between the tenant farm and the estate.
The sky seemed to break open, and rain lashed the ground, blanketing the path until it was puddled and streaming. Finding a gap in the hedgerow, Kathleen left the path to head across a sloped field of old grassland. Beyond the downland fields, the chalk soil was mingled with clay, a rich and sticky composite that would make for an unpleasant slog.
She should have heeded earlier signs that the weather would turn; it would have been wiser to delay her visit to Mrs. Lufton until tomorrow. But the clash with Devon had unsettled her, and her thinking had been muddled. Now after the conversation she’d had with Mrs. Lufton, the red mist of fury had faded enough to allow her to see the situation more clearly.
While sitting at Mrs. Lufton’s bedside, Kathleen had asked after her health and that of her newborn daughter, and eventually discussion had turned to the farm. In answer to Kathleen’s questions, Mrs. Lufton had admitted that it had been a long time, longer than anyone could remember, since the Ravenels had made improvements on the estate land. Moreover, the terms of their leases had discouraged the tenants from making changes on their own. Mrs. Lufton had heard that some leaseholders on other estates had adopted more advanced farming practices, but on the Eversby Priory land, things remained as they had been for the past hundred years.
Everything the woman had said confirmed what Devon had told her earlier.
Why hadn’t Theo explained anything to her about the estate’s financial troubles? He had told Kathleen that the house had been neglected because no one had wanted to change his late mother’s decorations. He had promised that Kathleen would be in charge of ordering silk damask and French paper for the walls, new velvet curtains, fresh plasterwork and paint, new carpets and furniture. They would make the stables beautiful, he had told her, and install the latest equipment for the horses.
Theo had spun a fairy story, and it had been so appealing that she had chosen to believe it. But none of it had been true. He had known that she would eventually find out that they couldn’t begin to afford any of what he’d promised. How had he expected her to react?
She would never know the answer. Theo was gone, and their marriage had ended before it had even begun. The only choice was to forget the past and set her life on a new course.
But first she had to face the uncomfortable truth that she had hadn’t been fair to Devon. He was an arrogant cad, to be certain, but he had every right to decide the fate of Eversby Priory. It was his now. She had spoken out of turn and behaved like a shrew, and for that she would have to apologize, even knowing that he would throw every word back in her face.
Glumly Kathleen trudged across the spongy turf. Water seeped through seams and welts of her shoes, soaking into her stockings. Soon her widow’s veil, which she had folded back to hang behind her, was sodden and heavy. The smell of aniline, used in the dye for mourning clothes, was especially pungent when wet. She should have changed the indoor headpiece to a bonnet instead of dashing out impulsively. It seemed she was no better than the twins; a fine example she had set, running about like a madwoman.
She jumped as lightning split the angry sky. Her heart began to thump, and she grabbed up handfuls of her skirts to run faster across the field. The ground had softened, causing her heels to sink deep with each step. Rain came down in violent whooshes, bending the stems of blue scabious and knapweed until bright flower heads were lodged into the grass. The clay soil beyond the field would turn to mud by the time she reached it.
Another lightning bolt struck, the sound so explosive that Kathleen flinched and covered her ears. Realizing she had dropped her shawl, she turned to look for it, shielding her eyes with one hand. The limp mass of wool lay on the ground, several yards away. “Bother,” she exclaimed, heading back to retrieve it.
She stopped with a low cry as a massive dark blur hurtled toward her, too fast to evade. Instinctively she turned and covered her head with her arms. Deafened by the sound of thunder mingled with the roar of the pulse in her ears, she waited, shivering, for whatever would happen. When it seemed that no immediate disaster had befallen her, she straightened and swiped at her wet face with her sleeve.
A huge shape loomed beside her… a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding – he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste.
“Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with
me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter – it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.”
Kathleen stared at him with stunned confusion.
In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with Devon back to the estate. The dray, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching… his arms around her…
No. She couldn’t bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought.
“I… I can’t ride with you.” Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth.
Devon’s lips parted as if he were about to deliver a scathing reply. As his gaze traveled over her drenched form, however, his expression softened. “Then you take the horse, and I’ll walk back.”
Dumbstruck by the offer, Kathleen could only stare at him. “No,” she eventually managed to say. “But… thank you. Please, you must return to the house.”
“We’ll both walk,” he said impatiently, “or we’ll both ride. But I won’t leave you.”
“I’ll be perfectly —”
She broke off and flinched at a bone-rattling peal of thunder.
“Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her.
The dray bobbed its head and pawed the ground with one hoof.
She would have to ride back with him, she realized in despair. There was no alternative. Wrapping her arms around herself, she said anxiously, “F-first I have something to say to you.”
Devon’s brows lifted, his face cold.
“I…” She swallowed hard, and the words came out in a rush. “What I said in the study earlier was unkind, and untrue, and I’m s-sorry for it. It was very wrong of me. I shall make that very clear to Mr. Totthill and Mr. Fogg. And your brother.”
His expression changed, one corner of his mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile that sent her heartbeat into chaos. “You needn’t bother mentioning it to them. All three will be calling me far worse before all is said and done.”
“Nevertheless, it wasn’t fair of me —”
“It’s forgotten. Come, the rain is worsening.”
“I must fetch my shawl.”
Devon followed her glance to the dark heap in the distance. “Is that it? Good God, leave it there.”
“I can’t —”
“It’s ruined by now. I’ll buy you another.”
“I couldn’t accept something so personal from you. Besides… you can’t afford extra expenses, now that you have Eversby Priory.”
She saw the flash of his grin.
“I’ll replace it,” he said. “From what I gather, people at my level of debt never concern themselves with economizing.” Sliding back against the cantle of the saddle, he extended a hand down. His form was large and lean against the rioting sky, the hard lines of his face cast in shadow.
Kathleen gave him a doubtful glance; it would require considerable strength for him to lift her while he was mounted. “You won’t drop me?” she asked uneasily.
Devon sounded insulted. “I’m hardly some limp-wristed fop, madam.”
“My skirts are heavy and wet —”
“Give me your hand.”
She approached him, and his hand took hers in a strong clasp. A nervous shiver went through her.
She hadn’t touched any man since Theo’s death three months ago. Lord Berwick had attended the funeral, and afterward had offered Kathleen an awkward embrace, but she had given him her gloved hand instead. “I can’t,” she had whispered to him, and Lord Berwick had nodded in understanding. Although he was a kind man, he had seldom been disposed to demonstrations of affection. Lady Berwick was the same, a benevolent but self-contained woman who had tried to teach her daughters and Kathleen the value of self-restraint. “Rule your emotions,” she had always advised, “or they will most certainly rule you.”
An icy runnel of rain ran down Kathleen’s sleeve, contrasting sharply with the heat of Devon’s grip, and she shivered.
The dray waited patiently in the thrashing wind and rain.
“I want you to spring up,” she heard Devon say, “and I’ll lift you until you can find the stirrup with your left foot. Don’t try to swing a leg over. Just mount as if it were a sidesaddle.”
“When should I jump?”
“Now would be convenient,” he said dryly.
Gathering her strength, Kathleen leaped from the ground with as much force as her legs could produce. Devon caught the momentum and lifted her with shocking ease. She didn’t even have to find the stirrup; she landed neatly on the saddle with her right leg folded. Gasping, she fought for her balance, but Devon had already adjusted, his left arm enclosing her in a secure hold. “I have you. Settle… easy.”
She stiffened at the feel of being clasped firmly, his muscles working around her, his breath at her ear.
“This will teach you to bring baskets to ailing neighbors,” he said. “I hope you realize that all the selfish people are safe and dry at home.”
“Why did you come after me?” she managed to ask, trying to calm the little shocks that kept reverberating through her.
“Lady Helen was worried.” Once assured of her seat, Devon reached up with his left hand, tugged at her veil and headpiece, and tossed them to the ground. “Sorry,” he said before she could protest. “But that dye smells like the floor of an East End tavern. Here, slide your leg to the other side of the saddle.”
“I can’t, it’s caught in my skirts.” The horse’s weight shifted beneath them. Unable to find purchase on the smooth, flat saddle, Kathleen fumbled and accidentally gripped Devon’s thigh, the surface hard as stone. Gasping, she drew her hand back. It seemed that no matter how much air she took in, it wasn’t enough.
Temporarily transferring the reins to his left hand, Devon removed his felt hat and pushed it over Kathleen’s head. He proceeded to pull at the twisted, bunched layers of her skirts until she was able to unbend her knee enough to slide her leg over the horse’s withers.
In childhood she had ridden double with the Berwicks’ daughters when they had gone on pony rides. But there was no possible comparison with this, the feeling of a powerfully built man right behind her, his legs bracketing hers. Aside from the horse’s mane, there was nothing to hold on to; no reins to grasp, no stirrups for her feet.
Devon urged the horse into a canter, a gait that was impeccably fluid and smooth in an Arabian or Thoroughbred. But it was different for a wide-chested dray, whose legs were spaced farther from its center of gravity, the three-beat rhythm shorter and rounder. Kathleen perceived immediately that Devon was an accomplished rider, moving easily with the horse and communicating with explicit signals. She worked to find the rolling motion of the canter, but it wasn’t at all the same as riding alone, and she was mortified to find herself bouncing in the saddle like a novice.
Devon’s arm latched more tightly around her. “Easy. I won’t let you fall.”
“But there’s nothing for me to —”
“Just relax into it.”
Feeling how capably he maintained the center of their combined weight, she tried to soften her clenched muscles. The slope of her back came to rest exactly against his chest, and then as if by magic, she found the bend and balance of the horse’s motion. As she melted into the cadence, there was a curious satisfaction in the sensation of their bodies moving in perfect tandem.
Devon’s hand splayed across her midriff with supportive pressure. Even through the mass of her skirts, she could feel the robust muscles of his thighs, flexing rhythmically. An unbearable sweet ache began inside her, intensifying until it seemed as
if something might fracture.
As they began up the hill, Devon slowed the dray to a walk and leaned to distribute more weight over the horse’s front legs. Obliged to lean forward as well, Kathleen grasped the dray’s rough black mane. She heard Devon’s voice, muffled by a peal of thunder. Turning her head to hear him better, she felt the electrifying texture of shaven bristle as his jaw brushed her cheek. It sent a ticklish feeling into her throat, as if she’d just bitten into a honeycomb.
“We’re almost there,” Devon repeated, his breath searing against her wet skin.