Chapter Twelve
I t occurred to Kitty, too late, that she was not particularly good at this subterfuge business.
She ought to have stayed and taken lessons from the Spinster Society. Lessons in hiding, running. Stabbing. Definitely stabbing.
But here she was, prowling through the private personal rooms of the Portsmouth house with nowhere to hide. There was no time to wedge herself under the bed. She had already been spotted. There was only time to shove the scrolled paper down the front of her stays and then turn around with a startled, innocent expression.
Which froze on her face the moment she realized it was Lord Portsmouth himself who had found her.
Her heart stuttered sickly in her chest before leaping into her mouth, presumably trying to abandon ship altogether. Not that she could blame it. The earl filled the doorway connecting to his rooms. He may as well have been carved from marble: cold, cruel.
This was no way to convince him Evie was merely a young girl suffering from nerves on a trip for her wedding trousseau. Kitty had made a monumental mistake.
She already knew that, but it was quite something else entirely to be presented with it so plainly. Her mind raced and tripped over excuses, apologies. Should she try to laugh it off? Act as though she were lost? What earthly reason could she have to be here?
She tried to smile even though it felt too tight on her face. “I do apologize for intruding,” she said, hoping her voice did not sound as squeaky as it felt forced through a dry throat. “I could not help but want to see where my little sister will be living.”
Lord Portsmouth did not look convinced. But he also did not look like he wanted to toss her headfirst from the window. Much.
She shifted awkwardly. “I should get back.”
“About your sister,” he said coldly.
She halted. “Yes?”
He had not moved, but he made her skin crawl. “We both know she is not in Paris.”
“She…” Kitty trailed off. She did not know how to maneuver through this.
“You are smarter than your father by not insulting my intelligence.”
She had every intention of insulting his intelligence, just as soon as she had a viable escape route. As well as his honor, his face, the scent of his hair pomade…
“She will marry me,” he continued. “In two weeks’ time. I don’t care where she is or how you bring her to me, but she is mine.”
Kitty straightened, cheeks flushing hotly with anger. “She belongs to herself.”
“I think you’ll find that’s not true,” Lord Portsmouth said with careless arrogance. “Don’t antagonize me, Miss Caldecott. I have no patience for spinsters. Or girls who run from their duties.”
The threat sliced between them. Primal instinct made Kitty’s leg muscles twitch with the need to run, as if this were a dark cave with the tide inexorably rising, cold and deadly, instead of a stylish townhouse bedroom with silver candlesticks and boxes filigreed with gilded paper.
“You are nothing,” he added. “Your little shop is vulgar. Your house is rented. And all of it you retain because of my noblesse. Remember that. One match is all it would take.”
Kitty refused to flinch even though her palms went damp.
“In fact, you may just be the incentive I require. Obliging of you to present yourself.”
Run, run, run .
“There you are,” Devil said from the doorway, the light haloing behind him like he were an avenging angel. Or a devil, as the case may be.
He did not belong here any more than she did, but he also belonged anywhere he damn well pleased. It shone from the line of his shoulders, his etched jaw, the glitter in his eyes when he looked at Kitty, head to toe, as if searching for injuries.
When he looked at Lord Portsmouth, there was nothing of the drawing room in his face. He brought the battlefield with him. Invisible swords and daggers whistled free from scabbards between them.
“I’ve come to claim my betrothed,” he said, warning in every syllable.
Lord Portsmouth scoffed. “Her?” Disdain dripped from the word.
Devil smiled, though his eyes stayed hard. “Careful.”
Lord Portsmouth was an earl. But so was Devil. And his reach extended far beyond the usual social power given to the title. Lord Portsmouth knew it. And he didn’t like it.
He bowed mockingly, and Kitty knew full well it was a temporary truce. Not even a truce—a line drawn in the field to be examined and fully tested later.
“Felicitations,” he said.
Devil nodded and offered his arm to Kitty, not taking his eyes off Lord Portsmouth.
Kitty’s pulse was a boat tossed by the waves. She didn’t know what was happening, only that something lurked dark and deep beneath them. She took Devil’s arm, like any fine lady would, because she might be out of her depths, but she was not a fool.
Devil was a different kind of danger. One she welcomed. She did not tuck herself into his body on point of pride, but it was deeply tempting. He had brought air back into a room rapidly shrinking around her.
“Thank you,” she murmured as they made their way down the hall to the main staircase. Guests milled below. “They’ll see us. I should take the back stairs.”
“Too late now,” he said calmly.
He was right. Lord Portsmouth had found her in a bedroom unchaperoned, later located by Devil, who had announced their betrothal. There was no sweeping this particular rumor under the rug. She stifled a sigh.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m just thinking of the mess I’m going to have to clean off the front of the shop.”
“You think the Ladies’ Association for Moral Standards will disapprove of me?”
“Without a doubt.”
“And do you disapprove of me?”
“I am currently more concerned about every single unmarried woman here who wants to marry you. And half the married ones as well.” The glances were starting to find them. Whispers flew back and forth like songbirds finally free of the cage.
“And I chose the only lady who is not interested,” Devil remarked, faintly amused.
She did not correct him. Of course she did not want to marry him.
Other things, absolutely. Most definitely.
A matron raised her quizzing glass. Heads turned.
“Don’t you dare wilt,” Devil said, as though he were suggesting she try the lobster canape.
Kitty glared at him out of the corner of her eye. “I do not wilt.”
The guests parted slowly to give themselves time to stare at Kitty’s hand on Devil’s arm, her thin glove against the rich superfine of his sleeve. The gold button on his cuff cost more than Kitty’s gown. The trio who had insulted her earlier stared, half smirking, half in shock. Devil paused. “I’m sure you wish to congratulate Miss Caldecott,” he said, icily polite. “On our betrothal.”
They blinked. Their entertainment had changed and they did not know the rules. Kitty was supposed to be fair game, too lowborn to be a threat. Beneath them. A woman who sold filth. It occurred to Kitty that Devil had made her feel rage and desire and confusion. He had even made her feel seen and cared for, with a single cup of tea. All of those things and more, but never looked down upon. Not once.
“Well, Lady Ingrid?” Devil pressed lazily. “St John? That is the name you signed that vowel with, is it not? Your father’s courtesy title? It does not suit. You do not strike me as the courteous sort.”
It was a simple question with all the power of a cannonball. No one crossed the Devil. That was one fact embedded into Mayfair society.
And they had offered insult to his fiancée.
The golden prince paled to the unflattering color of soured milk. Kitty nearly chuckled. He bowed to her jerkily, like a puppet with too-tight strings. “Congratulations, Lord Birmingham.”
“Pardon?”
He realized his mistake, he immediately and nearly danced a jig in his haste to bow at Kitty. He looked queasy. “Congratulations, Miss Caldecott.”
His friends echoed the sentiment, wide eyed and nervous. Kitty knew they would babble the story for days to come just as soon as they were out of earshot. Devil had taken on Portsmouth in his own house, and now he was using the gossips to spread the word that Kitty Caldecott was untouchable.
He leaned forward, just slightly. “I heard what you said to my betrothed.”
St. John gulped. He looked queasy enough that Kitty stepped back out of prudence. She did not wish to ruin her best dress. “I… That is…”
Devil simply looked at him, without another word, until he bowed again and stumbled away, sweating.
“You need to teach me how to do that,” Kitty murmured. “Did you really hear what he said to me?”
“No. I guessed. He is not clever enough or creative enough to surprise me.” His forearm tightened under her fingers. “Shall I kill him for you?”
Kitty choked on a laugh.
Devil did not laugh.
They continued through the crowd that parted hastily to let them through. A footman waited with her cloak as if summoned through the sheer magic of Devil’s will. Devil drew her toward his own well-appointed carriage rather than letting her walk toward St. James to hire a hackney. It was simple, clean, and smelled of the oil from the lamps, scented with lemons. The seat cushions were black damask, the walls polished mahogany. The curtains were a deep, full red, like spilled wine. It was a fitting conveyance for someone nicknamed for the Devil. Sin and sensuality.
Kitty took a proper deep breath, the first of the night since she had stepped through the doors of the Portsmouth townhouse. “I think I would have remembered getting engaged.”
“You asked for my help.”
“Not like that!” The gossip would be thick as honey off the comb. Still, it was no doubt preferable to whatever Portsmouth had in mind for her.
“You should have been specific, Miss Caldecott. The first rule of wagering. Always specify terms.”
“I shall have to cry off, I suppose,” she said. “Or you will and ruin my reputation. Well, what’s left of it. Still,” she added. “Thank you.”
“I think you know Portsmouth is not to be trusted.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“And yet you flitted about his bedroom.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was not flitting. Honestly, who flits? And I was in his wife’s bedroom, if you must know.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business, actually.”
“Well, you are going to be my wife.”
She grimaced at him. “Ha.”
“You wound me.”
“You look fine to me.”
“Cut to my very soul.”
She tilted her head. “Do you have one? Being the Devil and all?”
His jaw hardened. “No.”
She narrowed her eyes. She did not like the altered gleam in his gaze. “Don’t be silly—of course you do.”
“You’ve heard the stories.”
“I think I, of all people, know not to believe gossip. Last I heard, I was leading virginal young debutantes into the cellar of my shop for distinctly nefarious purposes. There was also talk of a debutante revolution.”
“Virginal sacrifices should be my lot, don’t you think?”
“I suppose you were taking too long.”
He smiled. It was quick and crooked, and a true smile. It made her feel warm. Strangely vulnerable.
“Now what?” she asked.
His smile lingered like a hot coal on a winter morning. She wanted to keep it safe. She had slid closer to him without conscious thought. He had leaned forward.
“You tell me,” he said, voice rough.
“This is madness.” And not just because she was technically blackmailing him. A gentleman and an earl like Lord Birmingham, a man like Devil, would not think twice about someone like her.
And yet…
There was no denying something heated the air between them, charged until it practically crackled. The memory of their one kiss blazed and burned.
“Perhaps we just need to get it out of our blood,” she suggested. Out loud. Like a cabbagehead. He was no doubt used to considerably sultrier.
“Sounds very reasonable,” he murmured, not looking the least bit put off. She liked him in that moment. Not just wanted him but liked him. “Downright scientific.”
She had read too many novels like this. She knew exactly what she was doing and all the ways it could go wrong. Would go wrong.
But for right now, in this private, dark corner of the world, she did not care.
She leaned closer, hands resting lightly on his thighs, and tilted her head up expectantly. She had initiated their first kiss. Would he initiate this one? Was he only doing this to pass the time? Was she a complete idiot?
Did it matter?
Devil pushed his fingers into the hair coiled at the nape of her neck, tightening until she made a small sound, very much like a moan. His eyes were stern, searching. “This has nothing to do with our trade.”
“Of course not.” Kitty snorted, which was the least alluring sound she could have chosen, but his posture softened slightly in response. “This has everything to do with your pretty face.”
“Pretty?”
He did not smile, but she could still tell he was amused. Why was that, she wondered? And then his thumb stroked the bare skin of her neck and she stopped thinking altogether. She nearly purred. “Unfairly so,” she managed instead. “It’s quite annoying, actually.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His mouth was so close to hers that her lips actually tingled in anticipation.
“Do try not to smolder.” She might go up in flames.
He smoldered. Of course he did. The heroes in books always smoldered.
But the devils?
Kitty might not survive, and she was still wearing every stitch of her clothing. He dragged his mouth across her jawline, across her collarbone, down her arm to loosen the ribbon securing her plain glove above her elbow.
With his teeth.
The scrape of them against her skin, following the glove and nipping gently at her wrist made her head swim. The other glove landed on the seat beside her, and she wasn’t entirely sure how he had managed it. Her breasts pushed against her neckline. He had barely touched her, and was already building and building the tension until she trembled.
She wasn’t strong enough for this.
To hell with it.
She grabbed his cravat and tugged. He chuckled like an ordinary man and not at all like a devil, before scooping her forward in one swift movement so that she straddled him. The devil was never far away. The softness between her legs heated, dampened at the sudden pressure of him against her where she ached the most. His breathing was rough when he finally kissed her, and it made her feel like a queen.
He licked into her mouth slowly, as if she were a delicacy, as if he could kiss her for the next hundred years and not be sated. She rocked against him—or the sway of the carriage did it for her; it hardly mattered. She was made entirely of need and desire and desperation. For him.
That might be a problem.
Later.
This moment was for mouths and hands grasping and heat shooting into her core when his thumbs dug into her inner thighs. She hoped there would be bruises, a mark to remind her that this was not a dream. She kissed him back, wanting, taking. He growled something deliciously filthy into her neck that she did not quite make out. She nearly asked him to repeat it, but his mouth was already at the top of her breasts, sucking at the tender flesh. She squirmed, panting, as sensations bolted into her quim like loosed arrows.
His touch roamed higher, thumbs dragging toward her folds. A gentle stroke, a tease of a promise. “Devil,” she gasped.
“My name is Rhys,” he murmured, stroking deeper into her slickness. “When you scream my name, make it the right one.”
His fingers drew her slipperiness up and around her bud, before delving deep again and robbing her of coherent thought. Of anything but Devil. Rhys.
“Go on,” he said, nipping at her earlobe as he kept stroking, kept rubbing and teasing. Hot tension built inside her, tingling up her thighs, trembling deep in her belly. In and out and around, around and in and out, soft then deep, he built a rhythm that threatened to consume her.
She wanted to let it.
“Go on,” he demanded, rough and soft at the same time. The combination did something to her, snapped whatever last thread kept her tethered to reality and rules and reason.
There was only Rhys and the pleasure he summoned to destroy her.
She knew intimately why one might choose a devil. No one else knew how to make you burn from the inside out. Her climax rocked through her, all trembles and quivers and long spasms that made her whimper. “ Rhys .”
“That’s it.” He sounded so pleased, so hungry for her pleasure, that she clenched around his fingers again, just a little. She wanted him in her hands, inside her body. Now .
But he was a devil through and through.
“Ah ah,” he drawled when she reached for him. “Not until you’re begging for it.”
She was fairly certain she had already begged. She had no recollection of anything she might have said between moans. She rubbed against him wantonly, and he groaned.
It sparked through her, that sound. Made her feel like more than a queen. Made her feel invincible. Frantic.
He eased one breast free, sucking hard. She bucked, sensitive and painfully aroused. She might have moaned. Definitely moaned.
“What was that?” He tormented her with a smug, crooked smile against her skin.
“ Rhys. Please.”
“Better.”
She was beyond embarrassment. Begging was not a wrench of her dignity. It was merely another kind of release, one she had not realized she wanted. Besides, a strange sort of joy bubbled underneath the desperation and the desire. A game she was more than willing to play.
Challenge accepted.
She rubbed against his erection again, harder, driven by primal instinct, wanting to make him gasp the way she was gasping. The friction made her even wilder, the way he canted his hips to meet her. Demanding. Hard.
And then he stopped.
He just… stopped .
Kitty blinked at him, disoriented, wanting to howl at the interruption. Was the carriage being besieged? Was there fire? The king’s army? There had better be considerable threat to life and limb. Why on earth would one stop otherwise?
And then she knew exactly why one would stop.
Devil’s fingers brushed over her nipples as he pulled the little scroll from between her breasts. That would not be enough to stop him, surely. A mere curiosity. Surely women slipped all manner of things into their stays—ribbons, hairpins, a coin for emergencies. He unrolled it, skimming the words. Do not trust Portsmouth. Run.
“Kitty.” The way Devil said her name had her straightening. It was the command of an earl, and of a man who routinely held other men’s fortunes in the palm of his hand and flicked them away like they were dust. Unyielding. No longer the command of simply a lover.
“Devil,” she returned tartly, mostly because it still activated some kind of shivering over her skin. He made her feel coddled and then hunted.
Yes, please.
No. No.
Damn it, Kitty .
His eyes darkened. The lazy snap of his voice—the underestimate-me-if-you-dare languidness of it:
“I think you had better tell me everything, Miss Caldecott. Now .”