She tilted her head to one side, curiosity making her eyes appear lighter. “You don’t sound as if you approve.”

“Of what? Marriage?”

She nodded.

“I don’t believe in it. At least not for me.”

A faint smile touched her lips, the first one today. For some reason, Devon felt as if the sun shone a trifle brighter just because of that tiny upturn of her generous lips.

“So you aren’t a marrying man.” Her eyes were bright with amusement. “I’m surprised you admit that.”

So was he, though it was the truth. Had he made such a statement to a society miss in London, one with a matrimonial gleam in her eye, he would have been labeled crass and unfeeling. But Kat merely nodded. “I don’t think I believe in it, either. Not anymore.”

A faint hint of sadness touched her smile. Devon knew she was remembering her past, and he was hard-pressed not to ask her about it. He certainly didn’t know her well enough to ask such personal questions, but somehow he knew that if he did, she would answer. There was no pretense or artifice about Kat. There was…just Kat herself.

Thunder whickered in indignation at being made to stand, and he pawed the ground impatiently.

Kat chuckled. “You had better go. He doesn’t look happy.”

“He can stay where he is until I’ve had my answer. Will you ride with me?”

She turned her head to give Thunder a final, lingering glance. Devon knew the instant she made up her mind, for her shoulders straightened.

“Very well. I will ride with you. But it cannot be for long. I’ve work to do.”

“I know that. We’ll make it an hour, no more.”

She raised her brows.

“Half an hour then. Later this afternoon?”

“No. Best make it tomorrow.”

He’d hoped for today, but if he wanted to breach the walls Kat had built, he’d have to let her set their pace. So instead, he took her hand and turned it over in his. “Shall we say morning? At ten?”

“Fine.”

He uncurled her fingers and pressed a kiss to her palm. Her skin was warm and firm beneath his, her fingers roughened. He ran his thumb over hers and smiled into her eyes. “You work far too hard.”

She pulled her hand back, her face shuttering once again. “Work is good for the soul, Mr. St. John. Perhaps one day you’ll try it and see.”

“I may not have cut firewood for a living, but I’ve done my fair share of work.”

“Indeed?”

“I’m solely responsible for various aspects of the St. John holdings. More than any of my brothers other than Marcus, I have safeguarded the family fortune and helped it grow.”

“That’s not work.”