Chapter Fourteen
W hen Kitty snuck out of the house far too early the next morning once again in order to avoid her aunt, Devil was waiting on the front step.
For her.
She nearly collided with him, jerked back to stop her nose from smashing into his chest, pulled something in her neck, and then nearly toppled over.
For a woman accused of all sorts of wanton wickedness and immoral deeds, she was proving to be spectacularly unseductive.
She had read enough books to be intimately familiar with the desires of men and monsters, from Minotaurs to winged fairy kings. It seemed unfair that absolutely none of the seductive wiles had rubbed off on her.
She was still just Kitty: red haired, freckled. Short. Not to mention physically catapulting herself off the most sought-after man in London.
He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. “Are you on fire?”
“No. Of course not.” It was possible her pride was going up in flames.
“I just wondered. I’ve seen racehorses run slower.”
She frowned at his pretty face. Why did he have to be so pretty? Sculpted, delicate, rugged. None of those things should work so well together. And wasn’t their very brief interlude in the carriage meant to erase this kind of distraction? His face meant nothing to her. Nor did the warmth of his hands through the thin material of her dress. The smell of incense that clung to him, amber and sandalwood.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted out. It was too early for anyone to expect sonnets and soliloquies from her. She might be able to manage a naughty limerick.
Devil’s mouth quirked. “A naughty limerick?”
Kitty closed her eyes briefly. “Did I say that out loud?” She really needed several more hours of sleep and a trough full of tea.
“I find your forthrightness refreshing.”
“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, doubtingly.
Very doubtingly.
In her experience, men like Devil—of which, to be fair, there were likely very few—still preferred powdered bosoms and red lips and sultry, agreeable smiles. A modicum of grace.
“You’d think so,” he said, still amused. “But you’d be wrong.”
“I said that out loud too?” She groaned. “I really can’t be around people this early in the morning.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he drawled. Like a man who planned to see her early in the morning.
Every nerve ending flared spectacularly awake. It was too early for that , too.
Someone should tell it to her thighs and her belly and that ticklish spot behind her ear.
She took a deep breath, another. Get a hold of yourself . “You are between me and my breakfast.”
He frowned. “You haven’t eaten yet? What about your cook? What does she do in the mornings?”
She did not tell him she was the cook and that some mornings it was just too much hassle to even contemplate. She managed for Evie. For herself, Kitty was fine with tea and a muffin from a cart. Especially at the moment. Poisoning her father and her aunt’s morning tea was likely bad form. And entirely too tempting.
“Why are you here, Lord Birmingham?” she finally asked, gathering the scraps of her dignity around her, such as they were.
His frown deepened; his voice roughened. “I thought I told you to call me Rhys.”
She forbore reminding him that he had said so with his tongue tracing along various parts of her anatomy.
But since he was not giving in and he was still blocking her way, she repeated, “Why are you here, Rhys ?” She’d meant it to be faintly mocking. Wry. But as it immediately conjured up the memory of his hands moving skillfully under her skirts, she’d somewhat missed the mark.
“I’m here for you.”
That conjured up all sorts of new ideas.
Not helping.
He had steered her to his waiting carriage before she quite knew what he was about. Sir Reginald hung nearly halfway out of his window to watch them. He was going to land right on his head if he leaned out any further. A curtain twitched upstairs, over their heads. Her aunt’s room.
Kitty all but leapt into the carriage. “If you want to talk to me, you can drop me at the bookshop,” she said. Devil’s carriage was just as luxurious in the light of day.
“Certainly.”
But when the carriage pulled to a stop, she peered out of the window. “Bollocks.” She turned to glare at him. “ You are not in your right mind.”
Escorting Kitty was like escorting a firecracker. A particularly stubborn, quarrelsome firecracker.
He liked that about her.
These days the people who were brave enough to deny him were generally desperate. Even then, they were just as willing to fall over themselves to gain his favor, to do exactly as he asked in the exact manner in which he asked them. He knew several ladies who would have hurled themselves bodily into this particular shop had he suggested even a hint of interest.
Not Kitty.
She dug in her heels, expression blazingly and adorably mutinous. Her freckles smoldered like sparks. “Are you insane?” she asked again.
Pedestrians glanced at them curiously, as did one of the shop clerks. When he recognized Devil through the glass, he bowed his head in greeting. Carriages continued to trundle along behind them, horses snorting, wheels creaking. A dog barked at them from the end of a braided leash. Still, Kitty did not move. Not one inch.
He’d wanted her before—that was no secret. He wanted her even more now.
She glared up at him. “No.”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb, perfectly willing to wait her out. If he knew anything, it was patience. The clerk stilled at his subtle gesture. “What’s the problem, little firecracker?”
Her glare narrowed further. “Little firecracker?”
“You are practically breathing fire.”
She rolled her eyes. “I have red hair, yes, very clever. And I’m short, well spotted.”
“You have fire in your veins, Kitty. Your hair has nothing to do with it.”
He had confused her, just a little. Good. She bewildered him daily, and it was high time he returned the favor. She was distracting. It was unacceptable.
And yet here he was.
“De—Rhys, you can’t be serious. I’m not setting foot in there with you .”
“You make it sound positively sordid,” he drawled, mostly because he knew the drawl would needle her. And he liked her needled. It made her even more honest. Distracting and refreshing. “It’s just Rundell and Bridge.”
“‘Jewelers to Their Majesties,’” Kitty read from the sign as though Devil had taken a wrong turn somewhere, “‘His Royal Highness the prince regent and the royal family.’”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Why?” she asked bluntly. Suspiciously. It made him want to kiss her until she was soft and warm against him. Breathless.
“I am shattered that you do not remember our betrothal,” he said.
He saw the exact moment she wrestled her expression into something suitable, because before that he had seen more than she wanted: curiosity, temptation. Horror.
Horror.
Why? Because he was the Devil? She had not let that intimidate her one bit yet.
She straightened, still on fire, only this time she was a flaming arrow pulled back in the bowstring. “We had a…moment in your carriage,” she said plainly. “No need to get hysterical.”
Hysterical? Hysterical?
Devil was known for his unruffled calm when assaulted with panic and pleading and outright violence to his person. Even the odd assassination attempt did not faze him overtly.
And here she was accusing him of being overwrought. Like an elderly aunt being sent to the seaside for her nerves.
Someone snorted nearby. Devil did not look away from Kitty. He knew exactly who was hovering like a fretful nursemaid. “Go away, MacLeod.” MacLeod was the one who ought to go to the seaside for his nerves.
MacLeod did not, in fact, go away. Even though he was one of the few men in Mayfair not in debt to Devil, he insisted on acting as though he were, determined to protect him. Even though Devil paid men for that very purpose. MacLeod refused to take payment and refused to accept anyone else would do as good a job as he did.
And the bastard was right.
What was more, if Kitty kept looking at Devil as though he were fretful, he really would pull her into that alley and kiss her senseless. He might anyway.
“I am not hysterical,” he said instead.
“It’s perfectly normal,” she offered. “And I’m sure it’s very gentlemanly of you. But I’m hardly worried about my reputation.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, even as he fought a smile and the very inappropriate urge to slide his fingers under her thin dress until she moaned. “According to all of Mayfair, we are betrothed,” he reminded her. “And a betrothal means a betrothal ring. I don’t make the rules.”
“You’re not exactly known for following them either,” Kitty pointed out drily.
She was not wrong. Earls did not run gaming hells or bacchanals twice yearly. They did not enforce debts. They did not run away to join the army after a fight with their father at the age of twenty-three because war on the battlefield was preferable to war everywhere else all of the time. They didn’t leave their thirteen-year-old brother behind.
“That’s all this is?” she pressed.
“Of course.” Like hell.
“Oh.”
Was that a hint of disappointment? He decided it was, because he wanted it to be.
“Portsmouth is dangerous,” he reminded her. “This way you will be under my protection. You wanted my help, remember? Demanded it, in fact.”
“I don’t need—” Kitty snapped her mouth shut. She might not want his protection, but she needed it. For her sister. She was too clever to deny that.
And he would not have her traipsing about London, kicking over Portsmouth hornet’s nests without him.
Not happening. Ever.
“I supposed it’s just a ring,” she said softly. “But I might have one left at home I can use.”
Something recoiled in him at the thought. That she had sold too many of her belongings to pay her father’s debts. The baron had a lot to answer for.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” He opened the door and nudged her inside. If she was going to wear a betrothal ring, it was going to be his . And that, as far as he was concerned, was that.
The shop was impeccably presented, with glass cases waiting for perusal, catalogues stacked just so, sketches framed on the wall. Most of their work was made to the buyer’s custom specifications, but there were always pieces available. Some were returned because the colors were wrong, the setting not to taste. The buyer suddenly in debt and unable to pay. Devil had been offered so much jewelry he could have opened his own shop. In every city in England. But he wanted something particular for Kitty, something just for her.
Diamonds and pearls were the fashion, available in all shapes and sizes. There were lockets, rings, necklaces, ear bobs. Buckles for shoes. Brooches. All described and detailed in catalogue books, the rest pinned to rich, dark velvet. Even on a bright day, candles burned, glinting and glimmering off a multitude of gems.
“Lord Birmingham.” The clerk bowed. A crystal pin shaped like a sword gleamed from the intricate folds of his cravat. His buttons were inlaid with opals.
“Evans,” Devil returned, more concerned with the way Kitty had stilled, her smile tremulous. She rubbed at her breastbone. She was uncomfortable. Waiting for some kind of insult.
He very much wanted to see London kneeling at her feet. Bloodied, if at all possible.
“Miss Caldecott this is Evans,” he said. “Miss Caldecott is my fiancée.”
Evans did not blink. He was too well trained and too professional for that. “May I offer my congratulations?”
“Thank you,” Kitty said softly.
Devil found he did not like it when she was nervous, quiet. It did not sit right. Not when he had once seen her throw a rancid potato back at a vicar, spewing the kind of profanity that would have shocked several members of the criminal underworld.
She was a veritable force of nature. And he would not have her shrink down for any reason.
“We’re here for a ring,” he said, flattening his hand on her lower back when she shifted to bolt. She stepped on his toe. Hard. He tried not to smile. He did not even try to not feel smug satisfaction. There she was: a flame finding its wick.
“Something simple,” she added, looking utterly horrified when Evans led her immediately to a display box of diamond and pearl rings large enough to give her hand cramps.
“Something beautiful,” Devil corrected her. “Sapphires, I think.”
Her eyes glowed, just a bit, when the new rings were procured. They were as blue as a Scottish loch, ringed with a stormy gray.
“Why sapphire?” she asked him, reaching out to touch one, then jerking back as if she were going to be scolded.
“It’s the color of your bookshop,” he replied with a shrug. “I assumed it was your favorite.”
She stilled, stared at him for one long moment, and then pointed to a ring with barely a chip of blue. “This one, please.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”
She crossed her arms. “What if that’s the one I like best?”
“Then that’s the one you’ll have, but since it’s not the one you like best, try again.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“You’re not the first to say so.”
“It’s very annoying.”
“That has also been said.”
She huffed out a sigh, muttering something under her breath he chose not to hear. Evans folded his lips inward as if trying not to laugh or gasp in shock. Kitty had that effect.
“We also have some lovely lapis lazuli,” the clerk offered tentatively.
“Not nearly good enough,” Devil said.
Kitty snorted. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“If she won’t choose a ring, we’ll take that one.” He pointed to the most ostentatious sapphire, best suited for a dowager duchess who liked to show off. Kitty winced. She physically winced.
“You’re impossible,” she said. When she finally glanced at him, the hunger he felt must have shown in his face, because she stilled. The soft, delectable pink flush deepened, dipped under her neckline and made him think of all the places on her body that same shade.
He hardened instantly and very nearly groaned out loud. He wanted to trap her against the table and chase the pink flush traveling down her neck with his mouth. His tongue.
He was being undone by a modest neckline, a pink blush, and a smattering of freckles. Utterly undone.
He cleared his throat so his voice would not frighten her. Or encourage her. Even Devil ought not parade through London with a cockstand so painful it reminded him of his days as a young man. Where was his infamous indifference now? His cool, calm stoicism?
Crushed under the dainty foot belonging to a dainty woman with the vocabulary of a sailor and the arm of a cricket player.
When Kitty hesitated over a ring featuring a flower with sapphire petals and a pearl center, he pounced. “This is the one.”
She blinked.
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
“We’ll take a pair of sapphire earrings to match as well,” he said to the clerk. “Have those sent to me when they’re ready.”
“Of course, your lordship.”
Kitty widened her eyes at him. He pretended not to know what she meant.
He did not pretend to not be enjoying himself immensely.
Funny that he was known for orchestrating the kind of entertainments that thrilled even bored, jaded aristocrats, from gaming hells to soirees at Vauxhall Garden to week-long house parties. Debutantes, demimonde , dukes to dairy maids. He had seen it all. None of it caught his attention. Not the way Kitty Caldecott did.
“I really don’t need earrings,” she said.
“And a necklace as well,” he decided. “Something striking. Diamonds with sapphires. Impress me.”
Kitty swallowed back a comment. She had clearly realized that every time she protested, he would add something more extravagant. More expensive. She deserved the very best. Sapphires, diamonds. Books would be better, of that he had no doubt, but they would not help protect her. They would not make the statement that needed to be made. “What about a tiara?”
“Absolutely not,” she snorted, forgetting her awkwardness. “Exactly which invitations do you think I am extended that require me to have a diamond tiara?”
Anger tightened in his chest. Anger at the people who dared throw rotten fruit at her door and insults at her person. Never again. She would be invited to the damn palace if she wanted to be.
He knew without asking that she did not want to be.
“A tiara too,” he told the clerk as he ushered her outside before she could protest. “And a gold inkwell, also with sapphires. Etched with a griffin.”
She paused, tempted.
“We do not make inkwells, your lordship,” the clerk said apologetically.
“You do now.” Devil let the door shut behind him, confident in his ability to get what he wanted.
“It’s too much,” Kitty insisted as they stepped onto the pavement, crowded with shoppers and footmen and maids running back from market. The sun picked out the amber threads in her hair and turned them molten. He wanted to toss all of her hairpins into the street.
“You can sell the lot, if you wish,” he told her. “And buy your sister a hundred more hedgehogs. Or settle a dowry on her. Buy her a house.”
“I could? I mean, I couldn’t.”
He had her. She might be uncomfortable accepting luxury for herself, but she would do anything for her sister. She took care of Evie, obviously. Enough to blackmail Devil and go up against Portsmouth. She took care of her useless father. Her acidic aunt.
But who took care of her?
And why did that bother him so much? As did the thought that she still had not had her breakfast. They would stop at a bakery on their way to the Golden Griffin. Ten bakeries.
He was too busy deciding how many loaves of sugared bread she would let him buy her that it was only long experience that registered a shout from nearby and MacLeod suddenly running toward them from the opposite direction. Devil reacted without conscious thought, purely on habit and instinct.
Danger.
It took on a sharper edge when Kitty was in the vicinity.
Unacceptable.