Page 55 of A Deal with the Devil

Chapter Fourteen

When 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.