Page 14 of A Deal with the Devil

“Certainly not.” She did not sound quite as firm as she would have liked. It was distracting to have one’s blood rushing all through one’s body as though some dam had broken under her skin. Thinking of chains in a way she really ought not be considering. Not now. Not here.

His boot edged between her feet, leg pressing gently between hers. Another temptation, a promise. A warning.

And then he blinked.

Utterly befuddled.

If nothing else, she could go to her grave knowing she had befuddled the Devil. She did not imagine it was an easy thing to accomplish.

“Your feet…are bare.”

She followed his gaze and blinked herself. “Yes.” She’d forgotten. He was definitely more accustomed to fawning and flattery from beautiful ladies than he was to a woman with all the dignity of a bedraggled cat, with bare, muddy toes peeking out from the dirty hem of her nightdress.

Clearly any possibility of distracting him from her teeny-tiny theft by seducing him with her elegance and grace was entirely off the table.

It was resignation she felt. Triumph, even, at this befuddlement. Not disappointment, thank you very much.

It would be so much easier if he were not so desperately attractive. It was more than the collection of his features: strong but also almost delicate. Impossible to look away from.

It was something else, something primal. Mysterious.

And then Lady Priya stormed around the side of the house, gardening apron streaked with dirt, trowel in hand.

Kitty was relieved at the interruption. Of course she was.

The gold bangles around Priya’s wrist made a merry sound when she pointed the trowel at Devil as though it were a sword. “You.”

“Lady Priya.” He barely looked away from Kitty. As if he couldn’t. It did something to her insides.

Something unhelpful. Distracting. Not to be trusted.

She was not a woman for a man like Devil. Even for a moment in a garden full of rain and lilacs. She was a thief. A problem.

Priya looked like a fairy queen, flower petals caught in her black hair, murder in her eyes. “Lord Birmingham.”

“Devil.”

“I’m not calling you by that ridiculous nickname,” she sniffed. Her spine must be made entirely of steel. “Since I am not permitted at your Devil’s Night, you are not permitted on my property. Shoo.”

Devil straightened, expression mocking and hard. “Shoo?”

“Shoo.”

“Don’t make me shoot you, mate,” an Irishman said calmly from the other end of the path.

“Gallagher.”

“Birmingham.”

The swords, though nowhere to be found, were drawn. Despite the mild way they greeted each other, everything was suddenly sharp. Menacing.

Devil’s gaze found Kitty again, and she felt entirely too much like a moth pinned to a board. Not a butterfly, fluttering and colorful. A moth, all paper wings and darkness. He smiled slightly, and it was not the least bit reassuring. “Until we meet again, Miss Caldecott.”

“No, thank you.” She didn’t know what prompted her to keep poking at him.

He paused at the end of the lane, tone dark and whip-sharp, before stepping back into the damp and shining bustle of London.

“Get her some damned shoes.”