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He’d never been jealous over a woman.
Cursing beneath his breath, Devon stood and raked his hands through his damp hair. Brooding over the past wouldn’t change the fact that Kathleen had belonged to Theo first.
But she would belong to Devon last.
Gathering his wits, he walked through Eversby Priory, investigating the changes that had taken place since his last visit. Activity was rampant in the house, with many rooms in various stages of disrepair and construction. So far, repairs on the estate had required a small fortune, and it would take ten times that before all was said and done.
He ended up in the study, where ledgers and bundled papers had been piled high on the desk. Recognizing his brother’s precise, compact handwriting, he picked up a report of what West had learned about the estate so far.
It took two hours to read the report, which was more thorough than Devon would have ever expected – and it didn’t appear to be finished by half. Apparently West was visiting every tenant farm on the estate, making detailed notes about each family’s problems and concerns, the conditions of their property, their knowledge and views of farming techniques.
Sensing a movement, Devon turned in his chair and saw Kathleen in the doorway.
She was dressed in widow’s weeds again, her hair pinned in a braided coil, her wrists encircled with demure white cuffs. Her cheeks were very pink.
Devon could have devoured her in one bite. Instead, he gave her a neutral glance as he rose to his feet. “Skirts,” he said in a tone of mild surprise, as if it were a novelty to see her in a dress. “Where are you going?”
“To the library for a lesson with the girls. But I noticed that you were in here, and I wondered if you’d read Mr. Ravenel’s report.”
“I have. I’m impressed by his dedication. Also rather astonished, since West advised me to sell the estate, lock, stock, and barrel, just before he left London.”
Kathleen smiled and studied him with those tip-tilted eyes. He could see tiny rays in the light brown irises, like gold threads. “I’m very glad you didn’t,” she said softly. “I think perhaps he might be too.”
All the heat from their earlier encounter came rushing back so fast that it hurt, his flesh rising with a swift ache beneath the layers of his clothes. Devon was profoundly grateful for the concealment of his suit coat.
Kathleen reached for a wood-cased pencil on the desk. The graphite lead had worn down to a dull stub. “Sometimes I wonder…” Picking up a pair of scissors, she began to sharpen the pencil with one blade, scraping off thin layers of wood.
“What is it?” Devon asked huskily.
She concentrated on her task, sounding troubled as she replied. “I wonder what Theo would have done with the estate, if he hadn’t passed away.”
“I suspect he would have turned a blind eye until there were no decisions left to make.”
“But why? He wasn’t a stupid man.”
A latent impulse of fairness moved Devon to say, “It had nothing to do with intelligence.”
Kathleen paused and gave him a puzzled glance.
“Eversby Priory was Theo’s childhood home,” Devon continued. “I’m sure it was painful for him to confront its decline.”
Her face softened. “You’re confronting it, though, aren’t you? You’ve changed your entire life for it.”
Devon shrugged casually. “It’s not as though I had something better to do.”
“It’s not easy for you, however.” A faintly apologetic smile whisked across her lips. “I don’t always remember that.” Lowering her head, she resumed her work on the pencil.
Devon watched, helplessly charmed by the sight of her scraping away like an industrious schoolgirl.
“At this rate,” he said after a moment, “you’ll spend all day doing that. Why don’t you use a knife?”
“Lord Berwick would never allow it – he said scissors were safer.”
“Just the opposite. I’m surprised you never lost a finger. Here, set those down.” Devon reached across the desk to retrieve a silver penknife resting in the inkwell tray. He unfolded the blade and gave it to Kathleen handle first. “Hold the knife like this.” He rearranged her fingers, disregarding her protests. “Always direct the pencil away from your body as you sharpen it.”
“Really, there’s no need… I’m better with scissors…”
“Try. It’s more efficient. You can’t go through life doing this the wrong way. The wasted minutes could add up to days. Weeks.”
An unexpected giggle escaped her, as if she were a young girl being teased. “I don’t use a pencil that often.”
Devon reached around her, his hands engulfing hers. And she let him. She stood still, her body wary but compliant. A fragile trust had been established during their earlier encounter – no matter what else she might fear from him, she seemed to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her.
The pleasure of holding her washed through him in repeated waves. She was petite and fine-boned, the delicious fragrance of roses rising to his nostrils. He’d noticed it when he’d held her earlier… not a cloying perfume, but a light floral essence swept with the sharp freshness of winter air.
“All it takes is six cuts,” he said near her ear. She nodded, relaxing against him as he guided her hands with precision. One deep stroke of the blade neatly removed an angled section of wood. They rotated the pencil and made another cut, and then a third, creating a precise triangular prism. “Now trim the sharp edges.” They concentrated on the task with his hands still bracketed over hers, using the blade to chamfer each corner of wood until they had created a clean, satisfying point.