Page 48 of A Deal with the Devil

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.”