Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1)

by Lisa Kleypas

“I apologized!” “Never apologize to women. It only confirms that you were wrong, and incenses them further.”

“Hold still.” He pushed handfuls of the crepe back over the little headpiece that anchored it. “No, don’t pull away. The two of us are going to stand face-to-face and attempt a civilized conversation. Good God, you could rig a merchant ship with all this—” Devon broke off as her face was uncovered. He found himself staring into a pair of amber eyes that tilted at the outer corners in a catlike slant. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, while all his senses struggled to take her in. He had never seen anything like her. She was younger than he had expected, with a fair complexion and auburn hair that looked too heavy for its pins. A set of wide, pronounced cheekbones and a narrow jaw imparted an exquisite feline triangularity to her features. The curves of her lips were so full that even when she pressed them together tightly, as she was doing now, they still looked soft. Although she was not conventionally beautiful, she was so original that it rendered the question of beauty inconsequential.

“I suppose you’d have ten wives if you could.” “I’d be sufficiently miserable with one. The other nine would be redundant.” She shot him an incredulous glance. “My lord, I am a widow. Have you no understanding of appropriate conversation for a woman in my situation?” Apparently not, judging by his expression. “What does one discuss with widows?” he asked. “No subject that could be considered sad, shocking, or inappropriately humorous.” “That leaves me with nothing to say, then.” “Thank God,” she said fervently, and he grinned.

“But I hope to love them someday. Sometimes one must love something before it becomes lovable.”

“I asked Kathleen if she could ever remember crying. She said yes, when she was a little girl, on the day she left Ireland. Her parents had told her they were all traveling to England on a three-masted steamer. They went to the docks and made as if to board the ship. But as Kathleen and her nanny stepped onto the gangplank, she realized that her parents weren’t following. Her mother told her that she was going to stay with some very nice people in England, and they would send for her someday when they didn’t have to travel abroad so often. Kathleen became quite frantic, but her parents turned and walked away, while the nanny dragged her aboard.” Helen sent him a sidelong glance. “She was only five years old.” 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.”

“Kathleen is not heartless, you see,” Helen murmured. “She feels very deep sorrow. It’s only that she can’t show it.”

Devon half pushed, half carried Kathleen into the windowless room lined with match-boarded walls. She grappled with him, flailing like a drowning woman. He said her name repeatedly, patiently, his arms tightening to contain her. The more she struggled, the more firmly he held her, until she was gathered against his chest in a nerveless bundle. Trying to swallow back the shuddering sounds that came from her throat only made them worse. “You’re safe,” she heard him say. “Easy . . . you’re safe. I won’t let go.” Dimly she realized that she was no longer trying to escape but fighting to press closer and hide against him. Her arms clutched around his neck, her face against his throat as she sobbed too hard to think or breathe. Emotion came in a deluge, impossible to separate into its parts. To feel so much all at once seemed a kind of madness.

He stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight. The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before. She approached him with abashed tentativeness, and he held very still as she reached up to pull the little wisp of hay from his hair. The dark locks were invitingly disheveled, a cowlick on the right side, and she was almost tempted to smooth it. “How long is the mourning period?” he surprised her by asking abruptly. Kathleen blinked, disconcerted. “For a widow? There are four mourning periods.” “Four?” “The first one lasts a year, the second for six months, the third for three months, and then half mourning lasts for the rest of one’s life.” “And if the widow wishes to marry again?” “She may do so after a year and a day, although it is frowned upon to marry so quickly unless she has children, or lacks income.” “Frowned upon but not forbidden?” “Yes. Why do you ask?” Devon shrugged casually. “I’m merely curious. Men are required to mourn only for six months—probably because we wouldn’t tolerate anything longer than that.” She shrugged. “A man’s heart is different from a woman’s.” His gaze turned quizzical. “Women love more,” she explained. Seeing his expression, she asked, “You think I’m wrong?” “I think you know little of men,” he said gently. “I’ve been married: I know all I wish to.” She went to the threshold and paused to loo...

Anything was worth having her. Anything. He couldn’t explain his obsession with her, even to himself. But it seemed as if it had always been there, woven through the fabric of his being, waiting to be discovered.

But the cleverest people sometimes caused the worst trouble for themselves.

“I have no talent for sincerity,” West muttered. “It’s not a talent,” Kathleen said. “It’s a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive.”

“You needn’t have come to Hampshire in such a hurry.” “The threat of lawyers and Chancery Court impressed me with the need for haste,” he said darkly. Perhaps her telegram had been a bit dramatic. “I wasn’t really going to bring lawyers into it. I only wanted to gain your attention.” His reply was soft. “You always have my attention.”

“The purpose of society is to prevent natural behavior,” Devon said dryly.

But Kathleen . . . She would never know what she had meant to him. That pierced his failing awareness. Dear God, why had he waited, assuming he had time at his disposal? If he could have had five minutes to tell her . . . bloody hell, one minute . . . but it was too late. Kathleen would go on without him. Some other man would marry her . . . grow old with her . . . and Devon would be nothing but a faded memory. If she remembered him at all. He struggled and flailed, a silent howl trapped inside. Kathleen was his fate, his. He would defy all the hells that ever were to stay with her. But it was no use; the river bore him steadily away into the darkness.

“Your affection for Lord Trenear is impossible to miss.” Kathleen’s smile faltered. “Oh, it’s not affection, it’s only . . . well, my concern for the family, and the estate, and . . . I couldn’t become . . . fond . . . of a man when I’m still in mourning. That would be very wrong indeed.” “My lady . . .” Dr. Weeks contemplated her for a long moment, his eyes weary and kind. “I know many scientific facts about the human heart—not the least of which is that it’s far easier to make a heart stop beating entirely than to keep it from loving the wrong person.”

“My life . . . didn’t pass before my eyes. All I saw was you.” His lashes fell and his hand slipped from her face. He managed one more whisper before he fell asleep. “The last moment, I thought . . . I would die wanting you.”

Kathleen paused at the threshold. As tense silence filled the distance between them, a wave of excruciating shyness caused her to blush. It didn’t help that he was staring at her in a way he never had before . . . bold and vaguely proprietary. Something had changed, she thought. A faint smile touched Devon’s lips as he glanced over her, his gaze lingering at the colorful shawl. Kathleen closed the door but hesitated, feeling nervous about approaching him. “Why are you awake so early?” “I woke up hungry, and I needed a wash and shave, so I rang for Sutton.” “Are you in pain?” she asked in concern. “Yes,” he said emphatically. “Come here and make me feel better.”

No longer able to maintain the position, Devon dropped back to the pillows with a pained sound, his weight pinning her hands. “Sorry,” he managed. Kathleen tugged at her imprisoned arms. “Not at all . . . but if you wouldn’t mind . . .” Recovering his breath, Devon was slow to respond as he took stock of the situation. She was torn between amusement and outrage as she saw the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let me up, you rogue.” His warm hands came up to the backs of her shoulders, caressing in slow circles. “Climb into bed with me.” “Are you mad?” As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out. Kathleen went still, her eyes widening. So he did remember.

“Will you hold her, milord?” the young mother asked hopefully. “For luck?” Obviously she knew nothing about the injuries that Devon had sustained during the train accident. “Oh, please let me hold her,” Kathleen exclaimed before he could reply. She reached out for the cherub, feeling a bit awkward since she knew little about young children. But the baby relaxed contentedly in her arms and stared up at her with eyes as round as buttons. Kathleen smiled down at the infant, marveling at the delicacy of her skin and the perfect rosebud shape of her mouth. Turning to Devon, she lifted the baby and suggested, “A kiss for luck?” He complied without hesitation, bending to press his lips to the infant’s head. As he stood, however, his gaze traveled from the baby to Kathleen’s face, and for one brief moment his eyes were the flat, frozen blue of glacier ice. The expression was deftly concealed, but not before she had seen it. Instinctively she understood that the sight of her with the baby had opened a door on emotions he didn’t want to confront.

“This isn’t an affair,” she said, more to herself than to him. “It’s only one night.” Devon lay on his side, a lock of hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at her. “What if you want more than that?” he asked huskily. “It still won’t be an affair.” His hand caressed her over the covers, charting the shape of her hips and stomach. “Why does the word matter?” “Because affairs always end. So calling it that would make it more difficult when one of us wants to leave.”

“You’re coming to London,” he said flatly. “You’ve become a habit. If you’re not with me, I’m afraid of what I may start doing to replace you. Tobacco. Knuckle cracking.” Kathleen twisted in his lap to face him more fully, her hands coming to the shoulders of his morning coat. Her smiling gaze locked with his. “You could take up an instrument,” she suggested. Slowly Devon brought her forward and whispered against the sweet, full curves of her mouth, “But you’re the only thing I want to play.” Her arms reached around his neck.

One thought was paramount: None of this mattered without Kathleen. He had to go to her at once, and somehow make her understand that during the past few months, he had changed without even being aware of it. He had become a man who could love her. God, how madly he loved her. But he had to find a way of convincing her, which would not be easy. On the other hand . . . he wasn’t a man to back down from a challenge. Not any longer.

“I don’t think I like kisses at all.” Kathleen dampened a fresh white cloth, folded it, and laid it across Helen’s forehead. “You will. With the right man, kissing is wonderful. Like falling into a long, sweet dream. You’ll see.”

“Devon,” she eventually said, “when it comes to love . . . neither you nor I can trust your promises.” She couldn’t see through the glittering film of misery, but she was aware of him moving, bending to pick up the coat he had tossed aside, rummaging for something. He came to her, catching her arm lightly in his hand, drawing her to the bed. The mattress was so high that he had to fit his hands around her waist and hoist her upward to sit on it. He set something on her lap. “What is this?” She looked down at a small wooden box. His expression was unfathomable. “A gift for you.” Her sharp tongue got the better of her. “A parting gift?” Devon scowled. “Open it.” Obeying, she lifted the lid. The box was lined with red velvet. Pulling aside a protective layer of cloth, she uncovered a tiny gold pocket watch on a long chain, the casing delicately engraved with flowers and leaves. A glass window on the hinged front cover revealed a white enamel dial and black hour and minute markers. “It belonged to my mother,” she heard Devon say. “It’s the only possession of hers that I have. She never carried it.” Irony edged his voice. “Time was never important to her.” Kathleen glanced at him in despair. She parted her lips to speak, but his fingertips came to her mouth with gentle pressure. “Time is what I’m giving you,” he said, staring down at her. His hand curved beneath her chin, compelling her to look at him. “There’s only one way for me to prove that I will love you and be faithful t...