Page 22 of A Deal with the Devil

She turned, her heart thumping in her chest in that way only he seemed capable of eliciting. Hopefully he chalked it up to fear or guilt, which he was no doubt accustomed to. Not lust. Which he was also accustomed to.

Never mind that, Kitty Caldecott.

She was a clever, red-haired spinster who was accused of being fierce and immoral and an upstart. She ought to bloody well act like it. “Can I help you?” she asked as calmly as her body would allow.

“You’re wearing shoes, which is an improvement,” he replied. “But you are standing in… What is that, exactly?”

She glanced down. “Cabbage and rotten strawberries. Someone must have been giving it away from a stall at Covent Garden. Definitely eggs. And that might be a fish bone. By your left boot.”

He moved his foot and narrowed one eye at her as if he did not know what to say.

Twice now she had flummoxed the Devil. She felt more than a little bit proud about that.

“My mistake—it’s an eggshell.”

“Powerful smell,” he said.

She couldn’t argue with that. And she refused to consider the kinds of expensive perfumes the women he knew would wear, ensnaring him with subtle amber or lilac or gardenia.

Kitty Caldecott and her Eau of Rotten Cabbage. Parfum de Poisson.

“Why exactly are you painting the sidewalk with this mess?” he asked when she stood there staring at him like a startled frog on a log. He did not touch her, but his voice did—it wrapped around her arms, her waist, her throat. It was sharp, dark. Seething. “Did someone do this to your shop?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “The hazards of a bookshop.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Fine, the hazards of my bookshop, then.”

“That, I can more easily believe. Why exactly this mess?”

“Oh, you know. Books written by women sold to women by a woman? Moral corruption, lewdness, etcetera.” She sounded bored, even to her own ears. It had taken her some time and effort to develop that particular trick, she did not mind admitting.

“Ah yes,” he said. “I am familiar. I am particularly fond of being called licentious. It has a certain flair.”

Kitty would not smile. This was not a moment. This was a soft attack, a first volley.

“You probably should not be seen here,” she added, much more cheerfully. “Can’t be good for your reputation. Good day, Lord Birmingham.”

“Nice try,” he returned mildly. “Inside. Now, Catherine.”

How did he know her real name was Catherine? She rarely used it. And why did the sound of it in his mouth shiver through her? Her thighs actually trembled.

Unacceptable.

Thrilling, but unacceptable.

And then Devil took a step closer, and another, a tall, sinfully handsome earl who could command the king himself, closing in on her until she was being backed into her own shop without even realizing it. Past the shelves, under the gold griffins, over the crooked, uneven floorboards. And right into the edge of her desk. She gasped a little, without meaning to. His gaze dropped to her mouth at the sound, then lifted again. “You have something of mine.”