A Revel with the Devil (Courting Kisses and Chaos #2)

Chapter 1

Lady Louisa Pembroke endured the evening’s parade of debutantes and matrons with the patience of a woman surviving a symphony of matchmaking—smiling through each relentless note.

She barely survived a dinner notable only for the speed at which the soufflé collapsed and the greater haste with which her mother’s friend, Lady Featherstone, deflated the hopes of the younger set.

By the time the clock in the gallery tolled eleven, Louisa’s cheeks ached from smiling, and her mind felt muddled by the evening's nonsense.

She slipped from the drawing room between rounds of matchmaking, feigning a need for restoration after the shock of Miss Billings’s engagement.

The corridor beyond was cool and dim, a welcome relief from the heat.

Louisa inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of beeswax and old paper that signaled her approach to the only room in the house free from whispers and the clink of sherry glasses.

If her mother’s house party was designed to showcase the Pembroke daughters before eligible men, it had underestimated Louisa’s ability to evade unwanted attention.

She knew all the escape routes. The servants’ stairs, the gallery behind the family portraits, and, most importantly, the hidden passage that connected the library to the conservatory.

Even as a child, she had discovered that the library offered both solace and mischief.

She pushed open the door, expecting the familiar sight of polished wood, velvet drapes, and rows of books, her true confidantes. Instead, a scene so improbable nearly stopped her heart.

A scrape of paper and the warm bite of brandy reached her before she saw him.

A man, lounged in the window seat with the ease of a housecat.

Not just any man, but the Earl of Foxmere, known for his disregard of etiquette.

He had his muddy boots propped on an inlaid Chippendale, a glass of Pembroke’s best brandy dangling from one long-fingered hand, and, worst of all, her book open in his lap.

Her book. Not some dry treatise on Roman law or a volume of tedious poetry, but her hidden copy of A Scoundrel’s Redemption.

The one she reached for when the world grew to loud and virtue felt like a cage.

She’d reread the ending whenever she needed proof that even the worst men could choose better.

She had cleverly tucked teh novel behind the ten-volume edition of Clarissa.

The Earl appeared immune to both the embarrassment of being caught and the sanctity of private reading.

Louisa froze, one gloved hand still on the door.

Her mind stalled. The initial shock of his presence gave way to curiosity.

Would he, too, blush at being discovered with such a notorious novel?

Did he even understand what he held? Or was he so irredeemable that the escapades of ‘Lord Rakewell’ would not even raise an eyebrow?

The answer came quickly. Foxmere, with a casualness that suggested he cared little for social convention, glanced up from the page and met her gaze.

“Lady Louisa,” he drawled, straddling insolence and invitation. “I had not expected company at this hour, let alone such literate company.”

She might have retreated, perhaps even squeaked, if she were the sort to squeak, which she was not. Instead, Louisa summoned a composure that could have frozen a lake in March.

“My lord,” she said. “You seem to have made yourself at home.”

He didn’t move, not even to adjust his boots. “I find the library has a civilizing effect, even on the most incorrigible reprobates. And the brandy, of course, helps.”

Louisa surveyed the scene: a leather-bound volume cracked open, a decanter half-empty, and the sacrilege of Foxmere’s posture against her father’s prized furniture. His languid smile was irritating, as if inviting her to join his rebellion against decorum.

“May I have my book, my lord?” she asked, her voice soft but sharp.

He lifted it as if it were a lady’s garter rather than a book. “A Scoundrel’s Redemption. I confess, I am shocked, Lady Louisa. One might suspect you of a taste for the forbidden.”

She approached the nearest table, her spine straight. “I prefer to keep my tastes private. Some of us find that more appealing than public spectacle.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “Surely the purpose of a good scandal is to be enjoyed in company?”

Louisa, ignoring the bait, reached for the book. He held it just out of reach, turning it so the cover faced her.

“It is instructive,” he mused, “how often the most upright heroines conceal a taste for wickedness. One wonders if real life is not much the same.”

She scowled. “If you wish to discuss literature, Foxmere, I recommend you acquire your own copy.”

He raised his glass. “Or perhaps we might read together, Lady Louisa. I am told the real pleasure of these stories is in the sharing.”

There was no safe answer. Every possible retort sounded either self-righteous or agreeable. She settled for a glare.

“Lady Louisa,” he said, his voice smooth like a caress. “Or should I address you as the authoress of A Scoundrel’s Redemption, so thoroughly have you embodied the role?”

She reached for the book again, determined not to dignify his impertinence with more than a brief acknowledgment. “You are trespassing, Lord Foxmere. Even your audacity should not extend to occupying your hostesses private library uninvited.”

He turned the book over carefully, making her want to snatch tif only she could get close enough.

“On the contrary, Lady Pembroke suggested I avail myself of the family’s literary treasures.

” He glanced at her over the rim of his glass, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Might you specify which I should find most illuminating.”

Louisa advanced, arms folded. “If you’re hoping to blackmail me for my reading habits, you’ll be sorely disappointed. My sister has read it twice and underlined all the filthiest passages. You may address your ransom notes to her.”

He chuckled, a rich sound that filled the room. “I would never stoop to blackmail. Extortion, perhaps. Or the simple pleasure of watching you squirm.”

She ignored the invitation. “Is there anything you require, my lord? Or is this merely a rehearsal for your next public scandal?”

He held up the book. “I was hoping for an autograph.”

She glared, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed more than irritation. He had a knack for seeing through her defenses, making her words feel dangerously close to the truth.

“I shall have to decline,” she said, “as I have not yet mastered your flair for forgery.”

He set the book aside, his boots defiantly propped up. “A pity. I had hoped we might stage a reading together. The conclusion promises such catharsis.”

She snorted. “You seem to believe that life, like literature, revolves around your amusement.”

“And you, Lady Louisa,” he countered, “seem to believe the world is a stage designed exclusively for the display of your moral superiority. Why not let it be both?”

She was, infuriatingly, at a loss for a reply. The room hummed with energy, that was, against her better judgment, exhilarating.

He regarded her over steepled fingers. “You are not what I expected.”

She arched a brow. “No? What did you expect, Lord Foxmere? A shrieking wallflower, mortified into submission?”

He shook his head, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I expected someone who would pretend not to care. You, Lady Louisa, have the audacity to care quite a lot.”

The observation struck closer than she wished. For a moment, silence enveloped them, and it was not entirely uncomfortable.

She broke the tension by nodding at the book. “May I have it, please? Or will you require a blood oath to ensure my silence?”

He picked up the novel, turned it in his hands, and closed it with a final click. “Only if you promise to lend me the sequel. I hear the duke becomes even more depraved.”

She reached for it, but he didn’t release the book until their eyes met. “You know, Primrose,” he said, his tone suddenly softer, “it would not be so terrible if people knew how passionately you read. Or lived.”

She wrested the book free, barely resisting the urge to strike him with it. “Heathen,” she muttered.

He gave a genuine smile, quick and bright, then gone. “You wound me, Lady Louisa. I only flirt with worthy opponents.”

With that, he withdrew his boots, stood, and executed a bow so flamboyant it bordered on indecent. As he swept past her, the scent of sandalwood and brandy lingered, and she realized she was grinning.

She was certain he’d noticed.

Louisa stepped beyond the library door and muttered a soft expletive, careful to keep her voice low lest the footman in the corridor report her to her mother.

She clutched the book like a shield, unable to wipe the grin from her face.

The true danger of Foxmere lay not in his disregard for rules or his rakish smile, but in how alive he made her feel, as if the world had burst into color after a long, gray season.

Only when she reached her chamber did she notice the book's peculiar feel. She opened it to the marked page. He had dog-eared it—and gasped. The last chapter was gone. No, not gone. Excised. Torn out with unnerving precision. The story’s infamous conclusion, her favorite part, the only part she constantly read, was missing, as cleanly as if it had never existed.

For a moment, she could only stare at the mutilated binding. Then a soft thump from beyond her window caught her attention. Foxmere, leaning against the balcony rail, casually twirling a sheaf of paper between his fingers.

How the devil had he gotten on her balcony? She scowled even has her heart thrummed a peculiar beat.

“Lost something, Primrose?” he called, his voice low enough for her alone.

She marched to the door and threw it open. “Are you mad?”

He cocked his head. “Frequently. But I find it improves my mood.” He tucked the missing pages into his breast pocket. “I’ll keep this for now. Collateral, you understand.”

She gritted her teeth. “Return it, or I shall—”

“Inform Lady Pembroke that her guest is a thief?” His eyes sparkled. “You know as well as I do that you cannot. There would be awkward questions.”

She made a sound that was half growl, half laugh. “You are despicable.”

“And you,” he said, stepping closer, “are remarkable.”

His unexpected and direct words unsettled her more than the theft. Louisa had been called many things—clever, difficult, even pretty—but never that. She didn’t trust it, but she wanted to.

He bowed again, more restrained this time. “Perhaps we’ll negotiate its return at supper,” he murmured, “if you can tolerate my company that long.”

She slammed the door closed, but not before catching the genuine warmth in his eyes—something that looked, alarmingly, like respect.

Louisa soon found herself re-reading the novel, savoring the tension even in its incomplete form. It was, after all, more interesting this way, contemplating alternate endings.