Chapter Twenty-Five
D inner at Rochester House was like nothing Kitty had ever experienced.
She was accustomed to her distracted father drifting in and out between high-stakes games, her aunt’s pointed lectures, Evie’s attempts to keep the peace. More often than not, Kitty remained at the shop for a quick meal of bread and cheese and then felt guilty for abandoning her sister.
She missed her sister terribly, but she did not miss her father or her aunt. She wondered if that made her a bad person. If she cared.
The cutlery was silver and a single fork cost more than her wardrobe. The goblets were cut crystal, the tablecloth cream-colored lace. It was a crime to eat on it. Some old woman had likely spent months working on it by the light of a single, awful-smelling tallow candle, her fingers gnarled and aching.
“Daphne Penderghast is half my age and suggested I soak my head in a pail of slop when I asked her if she would rather I find her other work,” Devil said drily, as if Kitty amused him deeply.
She closed her eyes briefly. She really had to learn how to keep her every thought inside her head.
“That sounds dull,” he said.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Reading my mind. I am sure I didn’t say that last part out loud.”
“Are you?”
“Mostly sure.” She made a face. “Probably.”
Tom sat across the table watching them as if they were the most fascinating play ever to grace Drury Lane. Beside him was Yelena, and Macleod, Brutus, and Godric had joined them as well. None of them wore silks or brocades or diamond buckles. It made her feel better about her simple dress, the one she had borrowed from the Spinster Society house. It was nicer than all of hers, with nary an ink stain on the sleeve or bodice. Yet.
“Are you very shocked to be eating with simple soldiers?” Tom grinned at her. He wore diamond buckles and a brocade vest, but it did not make her feel smaller. It only made him happy. She was too used to diamonds and pearls being used as weapons, subtly or otherwise.
Godric looked up, pained. “We can eat in the kitchen. I didn’t think.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Kitty said sharply. “Godric, you are aware by now, I am sure, of the sorts of books I mostly sell and lend?” His cheeks turned ruddy. She took that as an affirmative. “So you see, I should be the one eating in the kitchen.”
“No one is eating in the kitchen,” Devil said in that mild way of his, which was not mild at all.
Kitty liked this table and this room and this group of people eating together. She liked this man. And as she was very aware that their time together was limited, she did not bring up the kitchen again. Except to offer her firstborn child for another serving of the best strawberry trifle she had eaten in her entire life.
“How is your ankle?” Devil asked her as they rose from their chairs to move to the drawing room.
“Barely hurts at all,” she assured him.
“Bet it feels better than that blighter’s ankle does after trying to snatch you away,” Tom said with a vengeful glee.
“Tom…” Devil said.
“What do you mean?” Kitty asked.
Tom grinned. “Look at the time. I’m late to…be somewhere else.” He took off with a jaunty wave.
Kitty narrowed her eyes. “What did he mean? About the man who tried to abduct me?”
Devil shrugged. “He hurt your ankle. So I broke his.”
She gaped at him. “You can’t just—”
He raised an eyebrow. “He hurt you.”
“But—”
“Now he knows better. So does everyone else.”
He shrugged again as if that was the matter settled.
She found herself in the garden some time later wondering what was wrong with her that Devil’s violence on her behalf did not upset her. No one had ever done anything like that for her before.
It was unacceptable, of course. Inappropriate. She should be shocked.
She should be feeling a great many things she was not feeling, and not feeling a great many things she was feeling.
She should not be fighting a secret smile. Not here in this beautiful Mayfair garden where she could only smell mint and roses and not a hint of the Thames. Mayfair did not escape the ubiquitous yellow fog completely, but it hung in wisps, allowing starlight to peek through. She knew in the later weeks of summer the stink of the Thames would reach even here, and the neighborhood would pack up for their country estates. She imagined patchwork hills, stone walls, clear rivers frothing through groves of trees. It would be lovely. But this garden lit by candles with white gravel footpaths and benches tucked under rose arbors was even lovelier.
Because it belonged to Devil. And he was here sharing it with her.
She knew he was there before he made a sound. Her body recognized his nearness. The amber and wood smoke smell of him. Her pulse thrummed in her wrists and throat and belly. He stepped out of the shadows, looming over her.
“I should have guessed that you would not sit on one of the perfectly good benches.”
She had found a soft corner of grass tucked under an arch of red roses. “I like it here.”
“I like you here too,” he said softly, sitting next to her.
She flushed, feeling suddenly shy. She was not used to compliments. His gaze tracked her blush, the heat of it traveling up her throat. She was not used to feeling shy, either. She generally had no time for it.
“Are you planning on sleeping out here?” he asked. “With the grasshoppers and the nightingales?”
“Maybe. I have never slept outside before. You must have done during the war.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever miss it?”
“No.”
“Will I shock the neighbors?” she asked wryly. “It’s a talent of mine, after all.”
“Don’t worry, I have thoroughly shocked them already. They know not to bother us back here.”
“The neighbors might,” she scoffed. “But I am quite certain you have any number of ladies still trying to climb over the garden wall to catch a glimpse of the Devil himself.” When he shifted uncomfortably, she turned to grin at him. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Certainly not.”
“I am! I knew it.” The tiny triumph at catching him out was swiftly replaced with an odd sense of discomfort. Why would he be here with her when debutantes and widows from the length and breadth of England probably daydreamed about him on a regular basis? In fact, there was more than one novel in her circulating library with a dark devil of a hero, usually named something like Hades or Sebastian or Maximillian, who was uncannily similar to Devil, right down to his chilling green eyes. Not that she found them chilling anymore.
At all.
“Do they leave you tokens?” she asked, wondering why she was torturing herself with details that did not matter. “They must be very beautiful,” she added before he could answer, and she sounded a little more wistful than she meant to.
“ You are beautiful.”
Now he was mocking her. She was not long and lithe and beautiful. She did not have fortune or connections or land. She did not even have a proper set of stays that did such interesting things to a woman’s decolletage. She had red hair and freckles and an upper lip that was too big for the rest of her mouth.
And debt. Mustn’t forget that.
When she shifted to move away, his fingers closed around her wrist. “Why do you do that?”
She stilled. “Do what?”
“Doubt me.”
“I…don’t.”
“Have I lied to you?” he asked. He still had not let go of her wrist. He must surely feel her pulse wild under his thumb.
“No,” she admitted reluctantly. She was the one who had lied. And stolen.
“Then why not believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful?”
She swallowed. “I suppose it’s myself I doubt.” She hated acknowledging it out loud. It was embarrassing. Inconsequential.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
He nodded solemnly. “I suppose I shall just have to convince you.”
His hold tightened abruptly and he tugged, sliding her toward him. His leg pressed between hers, pinning her in place. Had anyone else tried anything similar, she would have kicked them. Hard.
With Devil, she could only stare up at him, her entire body tingling hotly.
“Well, firecracker?” he asked against her mouth. “Are you going to let me convince you?”
She nodded.
“I can’t hear you,” he said, tone hardening. Her quim softened and quivered in response. How dare he have this effect on her with just his voice, his words? “Answer me, Catherine.”
The sound of her name, rarely used, in his mouth.
She swallowed. “Y-yes.”
She wanted to feel the weight of his body pressing into her, but he was looming maddeningly above, so close and yet nowhere close enough. His thigh brushed the heat between her legs.
“Yes, what?” he demanded.
She tried to arch closer. “Yes, you can convince me.”
“Not quite.”
She stroked her hand down his strong chest, toward the hardening bulge behind the placket of his breeches. He caught her hand and pinned it beside her in the cool grass. She was surprised steam did not come off her. Surely she had melted clean away by now.
“Yes, you are beautiful ,” he corrected her. “Say it.”
She gave a little laugh. “I’m not saying that. ”
“Oh, I think you will.” He nipped at her bottom lip, and she gasped.
She shook her head mutely.
“Defiant,” he murmured, dragging his open mouth along her neck, sucking at the spot under her ear that made her shiver. Again and again.
When his hardness rubbed the spot between her legs that ached fiercely, she moaned.
“Well?”
“I will concede that you think I’m beautiful,” she said. She could not help adding, “For some reason.”
His eyes flared at her continued defiance, both exasperated and amused. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again— you’re the real devil here.”
He finally lowered himself onto her, pressing her into the grass. She smelled flowers and mint and rich, deep earth. She was cocooned beneath him, suddenly safe enough to give into her own wildness. Protected.
Her eyes stung, and she pulled him down closer to kiss him because it was all she wanted and because she did not want to explain why she was being weepy and ridiculous. No one had ever made her feel protected. And she was very much afraid she would crave it for the rest of her life, the way she knew she would crave his touch. His body. The way he looked at her, like she was a curiosity he meant to keep for himself. And she was equally afraid— more afraid—that if she said any of it out loud, he would feel obligated in some way. And that might actually break her, far quicker than her family, than her sister, than Portsmouth and his men.
“If you are thinking that hard right now, I must be doing something wrong,” Devil said. She shook her head, wrapping her leg around his. He kissed her deeply, slowly, before pulling back. “What’s going on in that little busy head of yours?”
“Nothing.”
He tilted his head. “Now, I know that’s not true, little liar.”
She glanced away. “I do lie.”
“Kitty?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t care. As long as you don’t lie to me .”
“I’ve done worse,” she admitted even as the building heat inside her body shrieked at her to stop talking. Immediately.
Devil’s smile quirked, flashing that single, tiny dimple so few people had the privilege of seeing. “Kitty?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve done much worse than lying too.”
She nearly smiled back. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just is. I’ve never heard of you attacking someone who did not deserve it. They break faith and you punish them. It’s different.”
His eyes flared, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper in her ear. “And do you want to be punished?”
“No!” Yes. Maybe.
He laughed softly and it did things to her, loosened the muscles in her thighs, tightened the muscles inside her quim until it fluttered.
“I’m trying to tell you something,” she said.
“I’m not your confessor, love. But I’ll hear anything you want to tell me.” He wove the fingers of his free hand into her hair and tightened, pulling her head back. “Go on.”
There was no sympathy in his face, no pity.
It helped. It was exactly what she needed.
Even the hint of softness hidden under the stern patience.
“I…blackmailed my only real friend.” She had never said so out loud before. Had never looked at it so starkly.
He searched her face, and she couldn’t tell if he was surprised or disgusted or bored. Or if he already knew about it. “Tell me.”
“I thought she had money to spare and I wanted to take Evie away. I was desperate. Stupid. Selfish.”
“Also loving, loyal. Protective.”
She shook her head. “That’s no excuse. I scared her. I didn’t mean to.” Clara always seemed so self-possessed. Sharp. “I really thought… Well, I guess we all hide parts of ourselves. And I didn’t go through with it,” she rushed to add. She never even went to the spot where she had told Clara to leave the money in exchange for keeping her secret that she was the infamous author known as the Nightingale. “Not in the end. I couldn’t.”
“When was this?”
“At your Devil’s Night.”
“Let me guess, right before you stole from me?”
She nodded, feeling wretched. Lighter for having spoken it, but also wretched. “My aunt had just pushed my sister in front of a carriage to gain the attention of a single gentleman. She damaged her knee, I think permanently, but it could have been so much worse. And then Lord Portsmouth started to pay her calls and I knew it would get so much worse. I was running out of places to hide her. I’m sorry,” she said. “For what it’s worth.”
“Would you do it again?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
“To save your sister?”
“Probably,” she said. “Do you see? I’m not a good person, Rhys.”
He kept her pinned when she tried to look away. “You’re a good sister.”
“Not a good friend.”
“You made a mistake,” he said. “I’ve made a hundred.”
“Are you admitting that you’re not perfect?”
“I’ll deny it if you tell anyone.”
“I…I’ll understand if that…changes things between us. I forced your hand as it was.”
He smiled again, dark and indulgent. “Is that what you think? That you forced my hand?”
“I blackmailed you as well, if you’ll recall.” He made a scoffing sound. She stared at him, a needle of outrage piercing through her guilt. “Are you mocking my blackmail?”
“Sweetheart, if I didn’t want to help you, I wouldn’t have.”
She scowled. “Excuse me, I stole from the Devil . No one else has managed that, thank you very much.”
“That’s true. It did get my attention.” His eyes hardened. “And I suppose you owe me an apology.”
“I’m…sorry?”
“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” He bit her earlobe.
“Rhys.”
“Yes?”
“I… How can you still…”
He caught her gaze, kept it. She felt naked, exposed. “Kitty, I was on the Continent for too many years. My men and I didn’t march with the others. We didn’t fight on the battlefield; we didn’t wear gold braid and medals. We did the things no gentleman would consider doing. And we did it in exchange for thousands not being lost in battles that might not need to be fought. Was it right? Fair? Just?” He didn’t look away. She stroked down his spine as he talked, wanting to touch him. To offer comfort. “I couldn’t tell you. I lost men, but I kept more alive than I lost, and in the end it had to be enough. We were unprepared, untrained. The officers in charge were gentlemen with titles, like me, who didn’t know a maneuver from their own arse. I just wanted to get people home.”
She kept touching him, down his back, the hair at his nape. “I’m sorry you went through that. I’m sorry for all of you.”
“I chose my fate,” he said. “I was young and stupid and only wanted to infuriate my father. After a particularly bad quarrel, I purchased a commission. And I left my brother behind.”
Kitty swallowed. “Your father…”
“Was not a good man. The Rochesters are not easy men. I knew, but even I underestimated it. I was at war, but so was Tom, at thirteen, and he received no medals for it. So I know about feeling remorse,” he added. “Regret. And I also know that if you let it eat at you, it will never be satisfied until it has swallowed you whole. The only thing you can do is do better.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or open a gaming hell.”
“Will a naughty bookshop do?”
“Might. But you still want to be punished,” he said. “And I just want you to have everything you need. Let me take care of you.”
“Why?”
“Because no one else does,” he said severely. “And because it would be my fucking privilege.”