Brooding, he headed back to Eversby Priory, its intricate roofline silhouetted against the December sky. As he gazed at the proliferation of openwork parapets, arcade arches, and slender chimneys topped with ornamental finials, he wondered grimly which parts of it were likely to fall to the ground first. He passed by outbuildings and neared the row of chalk paddocks behind the stables. A stable boy stood at the post and rail fencing of the largest enclosure, watching a small, slim rider put a horse through its paces.
Kathleen and Asad.
Devon’s pulse quickened with interest. He went to join the boy at the fence, bracing his forearms on the top rail.
“Milord,” the boy said, hastily grabbing the cap from his head to give him a respectful nod.
Devon nodded in return, watching intently as Kathleen rode the golden Arabian around the far side of the paddock.
She was dressed in a severely tailored riding jacket and a small hat with a narrow crown – and on her lower half, she wore trousers and ankle boots. Like the breeches he had seen her in before, the trousers had been designed to wear under a riding skirt, never by themselves. However, Devon had to admit that the somewhat outlandish ensemble gave Kathleen a freedom and athletic ease that heavy draped skirts would never have allowed.
She guided Asad into a series of half circles, her weight transferring fluidly with each turn, the inside hip pushing forward with a deep knee. Her form was so perfect and easy that the hairs on Devon’s neck lifted as he watched. He’d never seen anyone, man or woman, who could ride with such economy of motion. The Arabian was acutely sensitive to the subtle pressures of her knees and thighs, following her guidance as if he could read her mind. They were a perfect pairing, both of them fine-boned, elegant, quick.
Noticing Devon’s presence, Kathleen sent him a brilliant grin. Not above showing off, she urged the horse into a supple trot, the knees elevated, the hind legs flexed. After completing a serpentine pattern, Asad trotted in place before executing a perfect turn on his haunches, spinning in a circle to his right, and then a full spin to his left, his golden tail swishing dramatically.
The damned horse was dancing.
Devon shook his head slightly, watching them in wonder.
After taking the horse around the paddock in a rolling, gliding canter, Kathleen slowed him to a trot and then walked him up to the fence. Asad gave a welcoming nicker as he recognized Devon, and nudged his muzzle between the rails.
“Well done,” Devon said, stroking the horse’s golden hide. He glanced up at Kathleen. “You ride beautifully. Like a goddess.”
“Asad would make anyone look accomplished.”
He held her gaze. “No one but you could ride him as if he had wings.”
Turning pink, Kathleen glanced at the stable boy. “Freddie, will you walk Asad on the lead and then take him to the turn out paddock?”
“Yes, milady!” The boy slipped between the rails, while Kathleen dismounted in an easy motion.
“I would have helped you down,” Devon said.
Kathleen climbed through the fence. “I don’t need help,” she told him with a touch of smugness that he found adorable.
“Are you going into the house now?” he asked.
“Yes, but first I’ll collect my overskirt in the saddle room.”
Devon walked with her, stealing a surreptitious glance at her backside and hips. The clear outline of firm, feminine curves caused his pulse to quicken. “I seem to recall a rule regarding breeches,” he said.
“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?”