Cold-Hearted Rake

by Lisa Kleypas

  “They’re not breeches, they’re trousers.”

  He arched one brow. “So you think you’re justified in breaking the spirit of the law as long as you keep to the letter?”

  “Yes. Besides, you have no right to make rules about my attire in the first place.”

  Devon fought back a grin. If her impudence was intended to discourage him, it had the opposite effect. He was a man, after all, and a Ravenel to boot.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “there will be consequences.”

  Kathleen shot him an uncertain glance.

  He kept his expression impassive as they headed through the stables to the saddle room.

  “There’s no need for you to accompany me,” Kathleen said, her pace quickening. “I’m sure you have much to do.”

  “Nothing as important as this.”

  “As what?” she asked warily.

  “Finding out the answer to one question.”

  Kathleen stopped near the wall of saddle racks, squared her shoulders, and turned to face him resolutely. “Which is?” She tugged meticulously at the fingers of her riding gloves and pulled them from her hands.

  Devon loved her willingness to stand up to him, even though she was half his size. Slowly he reached out and removed her hat, tossing it to the corner. Some of the defiant tension left her slight frame as she realized that he was playing with her. She looked very young with her cheeks flushed and her hair a bit mussed from the ride.

  He moved forward, crowding her back against the wall between two rows of empty racks, effectively pinning her into the small space. Gripping the narrow lapels of her riding jacket, he lowered his mouth to her ear and asked softly, “What do ladies wear beneath their riding trousers?”

  A breathless laugh escaped her. The gloves dropped to the floor. “I would think an infamous rake would already know.”

  “I was never infamous. In fact, I’m fairly standard as far as rakes go.”

  “The ones who deny it are the worst.” She strained as he began to kiss along the side of her neck. Her skin was hot from exertion, a little salty, and her scent was divinely arousing: horses, fresh winter air, roses. “I’m sure you caused no end of mayhem in London, with all your drinking, gambling, carousing, chasing lightskirts…”

  “Moderate drinking,” he said in a muffled voice. “Very little gambling. I’ll admit to the carousing.”

  “And the lightskirts?”

  “None.” At her skeptical snort, Devon lifted his head. “None since I met you.”

  Kathleen drew back, her perplexed gaze lifting to his. “There haven’t been women since…”

  “No. How could I take someone else to bed? In the morning I would wake up still wanting you.” He moved closer, his large feet bracketing her small ones. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  She shrank from him until her head pressed against the wood-planked wall. “You know I can’t.”

  “Then I’ll have to find out for myself.” His arms slid around her, one hand traveling beneath the hem of her riding jacket to the small of her back. His fingertips drew across the ribbed surface of her riding corset, shorter and lighter than the usual ones. Exploring beneath the waist of her trousers, he encountered thin, silky fabric where he would have expected linen or cotton. Fascinated, he used one hand to unfasten the row of buttons at the front of her trousers, while the other eased into the back. “Are these drawers? What are they made of?”

  She began to push at him, but remembering his injury, she stopped. Her hands were suspended in midair as Devon pulled her hips against his. Feeling how hard he was, Kathleen drew in a quick breath.

  “Someone will see,” she hissed.

  He was far too occupied with her drawers to care. “Silk,” he said, his hand wandering deeper inside the trousers.

  “Yes, so they don’t bunch up beneath the… Oh, do stop…”

  The legs of the undergarment were hemmed so that they only just covered the tops of her thighs. As Devon continued to explore, he discovered that there was no split-seam opening in her drawers. “They’re sewn shut.”

  A nervous giggle broke through Kathleen’s indignation as she saw his genuinely perplexed expression. “One wouldn’t want an opening there while riding.” She shivered as one of his hands slid down her front to caress her over the silk.

  He traced the delicate swells of feminine flesh, the heat of her radiating through the fabric. His fingertips played over her, tickling and soothing, and he felt a change in her body, the way she began to soften against him. Returning his mouth to her neck, he kissed the smooth curve down to the collar of her jacket. Very gently he used his knuckle to stroke into the furrow between her thighs, the knobbiness drawing a moan from her.

  She began to say something on a desperate breath, but he took the words into his mouth, kissing her with avid hunger. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, and she clung to him with an agitated sound. Her reluctance was collapsing, melting deliciously, and he didn’t allow her one second of respite, only kissed and stroked until a little seep of dampness came through the silk.

  Kathleen struggled until he let go of her and stepped back. Holding the front of her trousers closed, she went to snatch her overskirt from the hook on the wall. She grappled with the heavy mass of fabric, unable to find the fastenings.

  “Would you like me to —” Devon began.

  “No.” Huffing with frustration, she gave up and bundled the skirts in her arms.

  Instinctively Devon reached out for her. She hopped back with an anxious froth of laughter.

  The sound aroused him unbearably, heat bolting from nerve to nerve.

  “Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.” He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, “And I’ll make you come for me again.”

  Her eyes turned huge.

  He took a deliberate step forward. She bolted across the nearest threshold and fled to the carriage room. Devon was at her heels instantly, following her past the workshop with its long carpenter’s benches and tool cupboards. The carriage room smelled pleasantly of sawdust, axle grease, lacquer varnish, and leather polish. It was quiet and shadowy, illuminated only by a row of skylights over massive hinge-strapped doors that could be opened onto the estate’s carriage drive.

  Kathleen darted through rows of vehicles used for different purposes; carts, wagons, a light brougham, a landau with a folding top, a phaeton, a hooded barouche for summer. Devon circled around and intercepted her beside the family coach, a huge, stately carriage that could only be pulled by six horses. It had been designed as a symbol of power and prestige, with the Ravenel family crest – a trio of black ravens on a white and gold shield – painted on the sides.

  Halting abruptly, Kathleen stared at him through the semidarkness.

  Taking the overskirt from her, Devon dropped it to the floor, and pinned her against the side of the carriage.

  “My riding skirt,” she exclaimed in dismay. “You’ll ruin it.”

  Devon laughed. “You were never going to wear it anyway.” He began to unbutton her riding jacket, while she sputtered helplessly.

  Quieting her with his mouth, he worked on the row of buttons. After the sides of the jacket had listed open, he took the back of her head in his hand and kissed her more deeply, ravishing her mouth, and she responded as if she couldn’t help herself. A shock of pleasure went through him as he felt her suck on his tongue with a shy little tug, and he reached out to fumble for the ring-shaped handle of the carriage door.

  Realizing what he intended, Kathleen said dazedly, “You can’t.”

  Devon was more aroused and entertained than he’d ever been in his life. After tugging the door open, he pulled down the folding step. “Here’s your choice: Out here, in full view of anyone who passes by… or in the carriage, where no one will see.”

  She blinked and stared at him, seeming aghast. But
there was no concealing the deep flush of excitement on her face.

  “Out here, then,” he said ruthlessly, and reached for the waist of her trousers.

  Galvanized into action, Kathleen turned with a whimper and climbed into the carriage.

  Devon followed instantly.

  The interior of the carriage was luxuriously upholstered in leather and velvet, with lacquered wood inlays, compartments for crystal glasses and wine, and silk-fringed damask curtains framing the windows. At first it was too dark to see, but as Devon’s vision adjusted, he could make out the pale gleam of Kathleen’s skin.

  She moved uncertainly, sliding her arms from the riding jacket as he tugged it from her. He reached around her to unfasten the buttons at the back of her blouse, and felt her trembling. Catching the rim of her ear with his teeth, he nipped softly and soothed the little spot with the tip of his tongue.

  “I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he whispered. “Until then, we’ll play by my rules.” He moved to strip off his coat with a grimace of effort. He pressed a smile against her head as he felt her hands go to the knot of his necktie.

  With each item of clothing that was removed… waistcoat… braces… shirt… he began to seriously question how much self-control he would be able to maintain. As he eased Kathleen against his naked chest, she slid her arms around him, her palms coming to rest on the backs of his shoulders. Groaning, he kissed his way down to the upper curves of her breasts, where the corset had plumped them high. He longed to unhook her corset, but there was no way he would be able to refasten it in the darkness.

  Searching beneath the loosened waist of her trousers, he found the drawstring of the silk drawers, and untied it with a deft tug. Kathleen stiffened, but she didn’t protest as he eased the garments down past her hips, and lower still, with hands that weren’t quite steady. His heart pounded in a rough staccato, every muscle knotted with craving. Kneeling on the carpeted floor, he ran his palms over the smooth curves of her bare hips and along the length of her thighs. The riding trousers had caught on her short boots, bunching at her ankles. Thanks to the gussets on the sides, and the leather tabs at the backs, the boots were easily removed. After divesting her of the trousers, Devon drew a single fingertip along the line of her clenched thighs.

  “Open for me,” he whispered.

  She didn’t.

  Sympathetic and tenderly amused, Devon caressed her legs with patient hands. “Don’t be shy. There’s no part of you that isn’t beautiful.” His hand moved to the top of her thighs, his thumb sliding into the delicate fleece of curls. “Let me kiss you here,” he coaxed. “Just once.”

  “Oh, God… no.” She reached down and weakly pushed his hand away. “It’s a sin.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it feels like one,” she managed to say.

  He laughed quietly and pulled her hips farther toward him with a decisiveness that drew a little yelp from her. “In that case… I never sin by half measures.”

  Chapter 25

  “W

  e’re both going to hell,” Kathleen said as he kissed along the seam of her clenched thighs.

  “I’ve always assumed I would.” Devon didn’t sound at all troubled by the prospect.

  She squirmed in violated modesty, wondering wildly how she had come to find herself half naked in a carriage with him. The air was cold, the velvet upholstery chilled beneath her bare bottom, and his warm hands and mouth raised gooseflesh all over her body.

  His hands gripped her legs, not forcing them apart, only squeezing the locked muscles, and it felt so deliriously good that she moaned in despair. His thumbs worked into the top of the soft triangle, kneading gently. A quivery pleasure awakened at the pit of her stomach, and she let him tease her legs apart. She was lost, unable to think, all her senses focused on the kisses that pressed along her inner thigh, straying where the skin was thin and sensitive. Her knees jerked as he reached the tender seam of closed lips and licked upward, parting them with his tongue. He stopped just before he reached the soft bud at the top. Panting, she reached for his head and slid her fingers into his hair, uncertain whether she wanted to push him away or pull him closer. He nibbled the edge of an outer fold, his breath hot and tickling. He searched slowly, never quite reaching the place that ached the most.

  A devil whisper sifted through the darkness. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  “No.” A half second after that, she took a sobbing breath and said, “Yes.”

  A quiet laugh vibrated against her wet flesh, and she nearly swooned at the feel of it. “Which is it?” he asked. “Yes or no?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  It was not pleasant to discover that one’s moral resolve had all the strength of wet cardboard.

  “Show me where,” he murmured.

  Breathing hard with excited misery, she made herself do it, reaching down to expose the tiny peak. His mouth covered her slowly, tenderly, the flat of his tongue resting against the intimate throb. Her hands fell away and groped for the velvet cushions beneath her, fingertips digging tightly. His tongue slid over her. Once. Trembling and half fainting, she let out a plangent moan.

  Another languid stroke, finishing with a flick. “Tell me you need me.” His breath tickled her softness as he waited.

  “I need you,” she gasped.

  He used his tongue in a wickedly teasing circle. “Now say that you’re mine.”

  She would have said almost anything, the desire was so consuming. But she’d heard a subtle change in his tone, a note of possessiveness that warned he was no longer playing.

  When she didn’t reply, he insinuated a finger into the entrance of her body… no, two… nudging past sensitive tucks and pleats of flesh. The sense of fullness was uncomfortable but exquisite. She could feel her inner muscles pulsing, striving to pull his fingers even deeper. As he searched, he touched something inside her, some acutely tender place that made her knees draw up and her toes curl.

  His voice lowered… darkened. “Say it.”

  “I’m yours,” she said brokenly.

  He made a sound of satisfaction, almost a purr.

  Her hips arched, begging him to touch that soft inner spot again, and she jerked as he found it. All her limbs went weak. “Oh. Yes, there, there…” Her voice dissolved as she felt his lips open over her, sucking, teasing. He rewarded her with a steady rhythm, his free hand sliding beneath her writhing bottom, guiding her, rocking her more firmly up against his mouth. With every ascent of her hips, he licked upward, the tip of his tongue catching wetly just beneath the little pearl of her sex, again and again. She heard herself breathing in sobs and moaning out words, and there was no controlling anything now, no thought or will, only a terrible need that raced higher and higher, until the wrenching spasms began. With a low cry, she jerked against him, her thighs clamping uncontrollably on his shoulders.

  After the last long, helpless shudders had faded, Kathleen fell back on the velvet cushions like a rag doll that someone had tossed aside. Devon kept his mouth on her, easing the pleasure into relaxation. She summoned just enough strength to reach out and caress his hair.

  That might have been worth going to hell for, she thought, and didn’t realize she had mumbled it aloud until she felt him smile.

  A few guttural words caused Helen’s steps to slow as she neared the upstairs parlor. The sounds of Welsh curses had become quite familiar during the past week, as Mr. Winterborne grappled with the limitations of his injuries and the heavy leg cast. Although he never shouted, something about his voice carried farther than the average man’s: It had a deep timbre like bronze bell metal. His accent fell pleasantly on her ears, with singsong vowels and tapped R’s that carried the hint of a burr, and consonants as soft as velvet.

  Winterborne’s presence seemed to fill the household, no matter that he was still confined to the upstairs rooms. He was a vigorous man, easily bored, chafing at any restrictions. He craved activity and noise, having even gone so far as to insist
that the carpenters and plumbers resume their daily cacophony of work, despite the fact that Devon had told them to stop while Winterborne recovered. Apparently the last thing Winterborne wanted was peace and quiet.

  So far he had kept her father’s old valet running on constant errands, which would have been a cause for concern, except that Quincy seemed to be thriving in his new position as Winterborne’s manservant. A few days ago, Quincy had told the news to Helen as he had been on his way to the village with some telegraph dispatches from Winterborne.

  “I’m so very pleased for you,” Helen had exclaimed, after the initial surprise had worn off. “Although I confess, I can’t imagine Eversby Priory without you here.”