The Rake by Mary Jo Putney Page A

extraordinary. It compensates for the fact that most men aren’t,” Alys snapped, then immediately bit her tongue. With his talent for getting under her skin, Davenport made her forget how dependent she was on his goodwill. She, who had always prided herself on her control, was continually skirting explosion with him.
    He laughed, his extraordinary charm visible again. “I suppose your next project is to advance beyond needing the male half of the species? As a stock breeder, you must know that will be difficult, at least if there is to be a next generation.”
    Alys had no doubt that his supply of suggestive remarks could easily outlast her belligerence. With as much dignity as she could muster, she reached for the ale pitcher. “I have never denied that men have their uses, Mr. Davenport.”
    â€œOh? And what might they be?”
    His hand brushed hers casually when they both reached for the handle of the pitcher at the same time. Her nerves jumped, and she dropped her eyes to avoid his gaze. His hands were quite beautiful, long-fingered and elegant, the only refined thing about him. A seductive current flowed from him that made her want to yield, so melt and mold herself, to discover the other ways he could touch, to touch him back... .
    In a voice that seemed to come from someone else, she said, “We’re out of ale. Shall we order another pitcher, or are you ready to see more of the estate?”
    â€œMore ale,” he said, apparently quite unaffected by the fleeting contact between them. “I still have a number of questions. For example, the sixty pounds a year for schoolmasters, books, and other teaching supplies.”
    He signaled for another pitcher, refilling his tankard when it arrived. Alys was four rounds behind him, and knew better than to try keeping up. She didn’t doubt that in a drinking contest he could put her under the table.
    And what would he do with you there? a mocking little voice asked. Nothing, of course. More’s the pity.
    Trying to ignore the lewd asides of her lower mind, Alys said, “The teachers are a married couple. He teaches the boys, she teaches the girls. I require all the children on the estate to go to school until at least the age of twelve.”
    â€œDon’t the parents resent that their children can’t start earning wages earlier?”
    â€œYes, but I have insisted,” she replied. “In the short run, it’s better for the children. In the long run, the estate will have better workers.”
    â€œMiss Weston, did some Quaker or reforming Evangelical get hold of your tender mind when you were growing up?” Davenport asked, his dark brows arching ironically.
    She blinked. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
    â€œWonderful,” he muttered into his ale. “A fanatic.” Grabbing hold of her frayed temper, Alys said with hard-won composure, “Not a fanatic, a practical reformer. You have seen the results at Strickland over the last four years. I would be hard-pressed to say precisely which reforms have produced what results, but the total effect has been more than satisfactory. The estate is prospering, and so are the people who work on it. The evidence speaks for itself.”
    â€œI keep reminding myself of that, Miss Weston,” he said dourly. “I trust you appreciate that you are being treated to a display of open-mindedness and tolerance that none of my friends would believe.” He shook his head. “A female steward, and a reformer to boot.”
    â€œIt’s your income, Mr. Davenport,” Alys pointed out in an icy voice. “If you make sweeping changes, there might be a drop in the profits.”
    â€œI remind myself of that, too.” He poured the last of the ale in his tankard. He’d drunk most of two pitchers himself. “What about the money given to help emigration?”
    She sighed and traced circles on the table in a few drops of spilled ale.