In Bed With the Devil (11 page)

He'd been in intense agony and yet he'd still been considerate enough to send her a missive.

Considerate. She'd not expected that of him.

Kind. Honest. Courageous. Gentle. Caring.

She'd thought she'd be dealing with the devil. And he was very slowly, in her eyes at least, beginning to resemble an angel.

A dark angel, to be sure, but an angel nonetheless.

 

“Mummy!”

“Shh, darling, shh, we have to be quiet. We're playing a game. We're going to hide from Papa.”

“Scared.”

“Shh. Don't be frightened, darling. Shh. Mummy will never let anything bad happen—”

Luke awoke with a start, a weight pressing down on his chest. The dream was bringing back the headache that he'd been fighting all day, ever since leaving Marcus Langdon's. But it wasn't Langdon he kept thinking about. It was being in the alley—the knives, the clubs, the viciousness of the attack. Luke kept seeing Catherine, as he had last night, out of the corner of his eye, defending him, raising her arm to take the blow meant for him.

He usually had his coachman take a circuitous route home, because on more than one occasion they'd been set upon. But ever since he'd begun his association with Catherine, he'd become reckless. He wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. He didn't want to spend any more time than necessary in the coach inhaling her sweet fragrance, carrying on conversations, coming to know her, to see her as more than the spoiled daughter of a duke.

He'd avoided the aristocracy because he didn't want to see the similarities. He didn't want to see them as people he could respect. Through Catherine, he was beginning to understand that they had fears, dreams, hopes, and burdens. They had troubles like everyone else and they faced them head on—like everyone else.

If he saw them as they truly were, the actions he'd taken to become one of them would shame him more than they already did. He'd been brought up to take what wasn't rightfully his in order to survive. If he declared that he wasn't the Earl of Claybourne, would they forgive him his sins? Or would he find himself dancing in the wind?

When he'd rather dance with Catherine.

He jerked out of the lethargic place where he'd been drifting. Why was he thinking of Catherine, dreaming of Catherine…why was her scent so strong?

Opening his eyes, he looked at the weight upon his chest.

Catherine. What is she doing—

Then he remembered: her arrival, rubbing his
temples, and sending him into a deep slumber. Had he ever slept that soundly?

Until his dream. When he tried to recall it, his head began to pound unmercifully, so he let it go. The headaches weren't nearly as frequent in London, but when he was at his country residence, they were an almost daily occurrence. Something in the air there was disagreeable to him. He was almost certain of it.

He turned his head slightly and saw Catherine's bandaged hand, marred with blood, resting on his pillow where it had no doubt fallen after she'd succumbed to sleep. It
had
hurt her to rub his temples, and he should chastise her for it.

But it had felt so comforting not to be alone with his pain. He could think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn't be here. The worst of which was that she tempted him as he'd not been tempted in a good long while.

It was because he'd been so long without a woman. He told himself that. He wanted to believe that—as much as the old gent had wanted to believe that Luke was truly his grandson, Luke wanted to believe that what he was beginning to feel for Catherine was just lust, was just his bodily needs, that she called to his desires of the flesh and nothing more.

Because a man couldn't love two women. And his heart was Frannie's. It had always belonged to her. And Catherine was just…brave, strong, determined. Irritating.

Even as he thought about how annoying she was, how she'd never bend to a man's will, he took several loosened strands of her hair between his
thumb and forefinger, stroking gently and imagining setting it all free and feeling the silkiness cascading over his chest. How he'd like to bury his face in it. How he'd like to feel more than the silkiness of her hair. How he'd like to feel the velvetiness of her flesh. How he'd like to plunge himself deep inside her, be surrounded by her heat, her scent, her softness.

The groan of desire came unbidden.

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him, innocent to the torment raging through his body.

“How's your head?” she asked, as though waking up in a man's bedchamber was as natural as sipping tea at breakfast.

“Much better.”

“Good.”

She eased up, and he realized with alarm that the tent in the middle of his bed was going to make it impossible for her to miss his reaction to having her so near. Any other unmarried woman might not know what it meant, but hadn't she told Jack that she fantasized about men? And if she fantasized, then she knew…

Reaching up, he cupped her cheek to prevent her from turning her face in a direction that would no doubt cause embarrassment for them both. “Give me a moment.”

She furrowed her brow.

“To make certain the headache's not going to return.”

She skimmed her fingers over the hair at his temple. “It shouldn't, at least not for a while I shouldn't think.”

That wasn't helping at all. If anything it was making the tent rise higher.

“How did you know what to do?” he asked, searching for a distraction, for anything to keep her occupied and to give himself a chance to regain control of his rebellious manhood.

“I told you—my father had headaches.”

“I've heard that he's ill.”

Nodding, she sat up a little straighter and put her hands in her lap. “Yes, he was struck with apoplexy.”

He lowered his arm, so he was no longer touching her. “I'm sorry. That's quite a burden for you to carry. Shouldn't your brother be here?”

“My brother doesn't know. He and Father had a row and Sterling left. I don't know what it was about. I heard only the shouting. I'll wager you didn't know that.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Everyone thinks Sterling is irresponsible, a cad. I've thought about writing to tell him, but Father gets so agitated whenever I mention it. But of late, I've been thinking about what you said about the previous earl wanting you to be his grandson so badly…what if it's Father's deepest desire to see his son once more before he dies, but he's just too proud to admit it? Will Sterling forgive me if I don't write him, if I don't tell him the truth of the situation? Would you do it?”

Her words took him aback, enough so his body had returned to a more normal state.
Thank God. Thank God.
“You want me to write your brother?”

She smiled sweetly. “No, of course not. But should
I
—even knowing that Father doesn't want
me to? If he was your father, would you want to know?”

“I think you have to seek your own counsel on this matter. Do what your heart tells you to do.”

She released a very short burst of laughter, and he sensed that she was amused with herself. Did he know any woman who was as comfortable in her skin as Catherine? When he killed for her, what inside of her would he also murder? How would his actions affect her? He thought doing anything to change her would be a worse crime, an unforgivable sin.

“Do you know, before the night I showed up in your library, I thought you were a man without a heart?”

“You thought correctly.”

She shook her head slightly. “No, I don't think so. You're a very complicated man. I'm not even sure you appreciate how complicated you are.” She skimmed her fingers over his shoulder. “How did you get these scars?”

His body reacted with a swift vengeance. He grabbed her hand, her injured hand. She gasped. He swore.

“I'm sorry.” He brought her curled fingers to his lips and pressed as gentle a kiss to them as he could. “You just really shouldn't…you just shouldn't.”

Her eyes widened as though she'd only just fully awakened and realized—

“Oh, good Lord, of course I shouldn't. I'm in a man's bedchamber. Oh, forgive me, whatever was I thinking. I shall leave now.”

She came off the bed quickly and hurried to
the door. He rolled to the side, away from her, but twisted his head back to look at her. “Catherine?”

She stopped at the door, her hand on the knob, her face averted.

“Tell me you didn't have your carriage deliver you to my front door.”

She shook her head. “To the park, but I told the driver not to wait.”

“Then give me a few moments to make myself presentable, and I'll escort you home.”

Nodding, she opened the door and slipped out.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the velvet canopy over his bed. He'd never had a woman in his bedchamber, in his bed, without making love to her. It seemed inconceivable that he had last night, but what was even more amazing was the immense satisfaction he felt in simply having had her here. It was enough.

Oh, he wanted more, he wanted a great deal more, but what she'd given him was enough.

He loved Frannie, he'd always loved Frannie. But of late, it seemed he was only capable of thinking of Catherine.

C
atherine was mortified. Quite simply and completely mortified.

She sat on a bench in the hallway and fought to quell her trembling. She'd been carrying on a conversation with a man in his bedchamber—worse than that! In his bed!—as though they were sitting in the garden sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits. With nothing except a thin sheet hiding the treasures of his body.

Oh, how she'd wanted to explore those treasures.

Falling asleep on his chest had been lovely. He had such a magnificent chest. Even the scars didn't detract from his rough beauty. She couldn't imagine that he'd gained any of them after he came to live here. No, he would have acquired them when he was a lad living on the streets. She wanted to weep for what he must have endured.

Who could blame him for turning to deceit in order to gain a better life?

She wanted to hold him close, stroke him, and take away all the bad memories that must surely haunt him. No wonder he had debilitating head
aches. Who wouldn't with the horrendous memories with which he no doubt lived?

Was she adding to his burden by asking him to kill for her? When he gave up the last of his soul, would he give up the last of his humanity?

She'd not expected him to be kind. She'd not expected him to be tender.

If someone had asked her who would be the worst man in all of England to marry, who would beat his wife and terrorize his children, who would selfishly care about only his own needs, wants, and desires, who would put himself first above all others—if someone had asked her, she'd have said Claybourne without hesitating. She'd come to him because she'd believed he was worse than Avendale—and one didn't ask an angel to destroy the devil. One asked another devil.

But he was not at all as she'd envisioned him to be.

Good God, he hadn't even taken advantage of her being in his bed, and that gentlemanly behavior, to her everlasting shame, disappointed her.

His bedchamber door opened, and he stepped out. Clothed. Fully clothed. Thank the Lord for small favors, even if they did provide a measure of regret.

“I feel like such a ninny,” she said. “Really there's no reason for you to escort me home. If you'll just provide the carriage—”

“You can't possibly believe after our encounter with those ruffians and your belief that
you're being followed that I'm going to put you in a carriage and not ensure your safe return home.”

Before she could frame her argument, his stomach made a rumbling noise, and Catherine thought he was blushing. Who would have thought the Devil Earl would be so easily embarrassed? She might have considered it precious if he weren't so masculine, so much a man. He was so very different from what she'd thought. Oh, he could be formidable when he wished to be. She'd never forget how he'd made her tremble in his library and doubt her wisdom in going to see him. But he could be equally gentle.

“My apologies,” he said. “I can't eat when a headache is upon me, and now that I'm feeling better, I have an appetite.” He glanced at the hallway clock. “We have a couple of hours before daylight. Will you join me for a bit of breakfast?”

She had every intention of being proper and saying no, but she heard herself say, “Yes.”

Thank goodness, her mouth was wise enough to snap shut before she added that she'd enjoy it very much. As his butler didn't seem to know who she was, she thought she'd be spared from inciting gossip.

To her surprise, after he escorted her to the kitchen, he didn't wake the cook. Instead, he sat Catherine in a chair at the servant's table, found some cloths, and took her hand in his.

“I thought we were going to eat,” she said, while he unwrapped the bandage.

“We will.” When he'd removed the wrapping,
he studied her hand. “It doesn't look too bad. Does it hurt?”

“It aches a bit, but nothing I can't live with.”

He raised his eyes to hers and she was struck by the force of his gaze, as though he had the power to peer into her heart.

“Last night you lied to me when you said it wasn't hurting.”

“It wasn't that bad, truly.”

“It was bad enough to bleed.”

“It seems rather ungrateful to be put out with me after I worked to make your pain go away.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “I suppose you make a valid argument.”

Very gently, he began to wrap a clean strip of cloth around her hand.

“We'll be alike now,” she said. “Both of us with a scar on our hand. Yours is from prison, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“I noticed that Mr. Dodger has one. Yours is very different.”

“Mine shamed me. I tried to slice it off. Only served to make it more noticeable.”

Her stomach grew queasy at the thought of him taking a knife to himself. How desperately he must have wanted to be rid of it. “Were you in prison long?”

“Three months.”

“What was your offense?”

He gave her a cocky grin. “Getting caught.”

He stood and she grabbed his wrist. “What did you do?”

“I stole some cheese. It's not easy to run with
a block of cheese. Lesson learned: steal smaller items.”

Turning away, he said, “I'm very skilled at making a ham and cheese omelet. Interested?”

“As stealing it was your downfall, I wouldn't think you'd care much for cheese.”

“I'm very fond of cheese. Why do you think I tried to steal some?”

She watched as he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He began rolling up his sleeves.

“You're really going to cook it yourself?” she asked.

He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I keep odd hours. I often can't sleep. It would be unfair to ask my cook to maintain the hours I prefer keeping.”

“But that's the whole point in having servants. They're supposed to be at your beck and call.”

“They're available when I need them. Presently, I don't.” He lit the wood already stacked in the stove. “You see? My cook keeps things ready for me.” He looked at her, lifted a brow. “Omelet?”

“Yes, please. What can I do to help?” She started to rise but he stilled her actions with the raising of his hand.

“You've done enough, Catherine. Now it's my turn to do something for you. Relax and enjoy the pampering.”

She watched as he moved about the kitchen. He knew where everything was. Leaning forward, she put her elbows on the table and her chin in her unwounded palm.

“Is that a hint of a smile on your face?” she asked, thoughtfully. It transformed him.

“I actually enjoy cooking.” He broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them around. “Brings back good memories.”

“Of your home? Before you were orphaned?”

He stilled for a moment, shook his head, and went back to preparing the eggs. “No, as we got older, Frannie began to do the cooking. I took pleasure in watching her. She was like a little mother.”

“When you were living with that man? Feagan was it?”

“Yes, Feagan.” He added the ham and cheese, then whisked the eggs some more, before pouring the batter into the skillet that had been warming on the stove.

“Your punishment for stealing cheese seems a bit harsh,” she told him.

“I thought so as well, and I was determined to never get caught again.”

“What was it like, truly, growing up as you did?”

He studied the eggs cooking in the skillet. She thought he wasn't going to respond, but then he said, “Crowded, very crowded. We lived and slept in a single room, spooning around each other for warmth. But we weren't hungry. And we were made to feel welcome. The first time I walked into Feagan's was a very different experience from the first time I walked into a ballroom.”

“I suspect your age had something to do with the way you were greeted. Children are always more eager for new playmates than adults.”

“Perhaps.”

“I've been reading
Oliver Twist
to my father. It's the story—”

“I've read it.”

“Did Dickens have the right of it?”

“He painted a very accurate portrait of life in the rookeries, yes.”

“It wasn't a very pleasant life.”

“Who would you die for, Catherine?”

It seemed an odd question. He looked at her over his shoulder, as though he were truly expecting an answer.

“I've never given it any thought. I suppose…I don't really know. My father, I think. My brother. I don't know.”

“The thing about the way I lived as a boy is that it gave me friends for whom I would die. So as awful as some moments were, overall, it was not such a horrible way to live. It bound us together in a way that living an easier life might not have.”

He slid the omelet onto a plate. Joining her at the table, he set the plate between them, handed her a fork and knife before giving her a wry grin. “I only know how to make one at a time. We either let this one get cold while I cook another or share.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to answer. Sharing seemed so intimate, but then she'd shared his bed, in a way.

“I'm perfectly fine sharing,” she said.

He grinned as though he found her answer amusing. “Would you like some milk?”

“Yes, please.”

He removed a bottle from the icebox, poured milk into a glass, and set the glass on the table. He rolled down his sleeves and slipped his jacket back on, before sitting at the table with her.

“Try it,” he ordered.

She sliced off a bit of omelet and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. Then she smiled at him. “It's rather good.”

“Did you think it wouldn't be?”

“I've never known a lord to cook.”

“But then we both know I'm more scoundrel than lord.” He cut off a much larger piece and ate it.

“I was having tea with some ladies the other afternoon,” Catherine began, “and one mentioned that you didn't think children should obey the law.”

“Where would she get an idea like that?”

“She said from a letter you'd written in the
Times
.”

“No, what I argued in my letter was that children, even if over the age of seven, should not be held accountable for understanding the law and, therefore, shouldn't be punished as though they had the reasoning power of an adult.”

“But the law should apply to all people.”

“Indeed it should. But a child doesn't realize he's breaking the law.”

“But if he's punished, he'll learn the difference between right and wrong.”

“You're assuming that he's taught what is right and what is wrong and that he is making a willful decision to do wrong. But that's not the way it is if you're a child growing up on the streets.
You're told it's a game. Do you see that cart with the apples on it? You're to take an apple without being seen. And if you're seen, you must run as fast as you can and not get caught. Bring me a dozen apples and your prize will be one of the apples. And you'll not go to bed hungry. They believe the carts are there for their games. And when they're caught they're punished as though they knew better. Recently I learned about an eight-year-old girl who was sent to prison for three months for stealing peppermints, for stealing sweets, which were probably valued at no more than a penny.”

The longer he spoke, the more his voice took on an edge of outrage that astounded her. She'd not have thought he'd care about children or prison reform. She'd thought he was a man who cared only for his own pleasure.

She no longer felt like eating, but he'd gone to such trouble to make it for her. “Is that how it was for you?”

He slowly shook his head. “No, I knew better. I don't know how I knew, but I did.”

He sliced off more of the omelet and studied it on the end of his fork before looking at her. “You're a charming conversationalist during meals. I do hope this isn't what you're teaching Frannie.”

No matter in what direction the conversation went, it always came back to Frannie. Catherine couldn't imagine having a gentleman care for her so much that she was forever on his mind. She'd never really envied anyone, and she didn't think what she felt toward Frannie was envy, but
she did find herself longing for what the young woman had—what she had and was afraid to embrace.

“Have you spoken out on the matter in parliament?” she asked.

“No. I've yet to earn the acceptance of my peers, and until that happens they'll not listen to anything I say or give it any credence.”

“You can hardly blame them. You don't attend balls or social functions—”

“I can't see that they serve any purpose.”

“Is that the reason you ignored my invitations?”

“You sound as though you were wounded.”

“No one likes to be rebuffed.”

He placed his elbow on the table and leaned toward her. “
Why
did you invite me?”

She angled her chin haughtily. She wasn't about to reveal that he'd always intrigued her. “It seemed the polite thing to do.”

He had the audacity to laugh, and she was struck by how joyous a sound it was. As though he were truly amused, as though he suspected she'd not told the entire truth.

“Here I thought you invited me because you possessed a touch of wickedness and wanted to play with the devil. You believe it important to be polite?” he asked.

“I do. At all times. For example, it's very rude to place your elbow on the table while we're eating. I have to question whether or not you, as well as Frannie, need lessons in manners.”

“I promise you. When the situation warrants it, I have impeccable manners.”

“So you say. Perhaps I need proof. Do you think
it would be possible for the three of us—you, Frannie, and me—to have dinner here one evening? Are your servants familiar with all that is necessary to serve guests?”