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He lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “Tell me why you don’t think he’d be thrilled to find himself affianced to you.”
She smirked. “First, he hasn’t any idea who I am.”
One side of his mouth twitched, and she wondered what it would be like to receive the full force of his smile.
Putting the wild thought to the side, she added, “And, as I said, exceedingly handsome men have no use for me.”
“That’s not what you said,” the man answered. “You said you weren’t sure of the use for exceedingly handsome men.”
She thought for a moment. “Both statements are true.”
“Why would you think Marwick would have no use for you?”
She frowned. “I should think that would be obvious.”
“It’s not.”
She resisted the question, crossing her arms as if to protect herself. “It’s rude of you to ask.”
“It’s rude of me to climb your trellis and invade your quarters, too.”
“So it is.” And then, for a reason she would never fully understand, she answered his question. Letting frustration and worry and a very real sense of impending doom pour over her. “Because I’m the epitome of ordinary. Because I’m not beautiful, or diverting, or a stellar conversationalist. And though I once thought it impossible to believe I’d land myself an aging spinster, here we are, and no one has ever really wanted me. And I don’t expect that to start now, with a handsome duke.”
He was silent for a long moment, her embarrassment raging.
“Please leave,” she added.
“You seem to be fairly stellar at conversation with me.”
She ignored the fact that he hadn’t disagreed with her other assessments. “You’re a stranger in the darkness. Everything is easier in the dark.”
“Nothing is easier in the dark,” he said. “But that’s irrelevant. You’re wrong, and that’s why I’m here.”
“To convince me that I’m good at conversation?”
Teeth flashed and he stood, filling the room with his height. Felicity’s nerves thrummed as she considered the shape of him, beautifully long, with a hint of broad shoulders and lean hips.
“I came to give you what you want, Felicity Faircloth.”
The promise in his whisper coursed through her. Was it fear she felt? Or something else? She shook her head. “You can’t, though. No one can.”
“You want the flame,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “I don’t.”
“Of course you do. But it’s not all you want, is it?” He took a step closer to her, and she could smell him, warm and smoky, as though he’d come from somewhere forbidden. “You want all of it. The world, the man, the money, the power. And something else, as well.” He came closer still, towering over her, his warmth flooding her, heady and tempting. “Something more.” His words became a whisper. “Something secret.”
She hesitated, hating that he seemed to know her, this stranger.
Hating that she wanted to reply. Hating that she did. “More than I can have.”
“And who told you that, my lady? Who told you you could not have it all?”
Her gaze fell to his hand, where the silver handle of his walking stick tucked between his large, strong fingers, the silver ring on his index finger glinting up at her. She studied the pattern of the metal, trying to discern the shape on the cane. After what seemed like an age, she looked to him. “Have you a name?”
“Devil.”
Her heart raced at the word, which seemed somehow completely ridiculous and utterly perfect. “That’s not your real name.”
“It’s strange, how we put such value on names, don’t you think, Felicity Faircloth? Call me whatever you like, but I am a man who can give you all of it. Everything you wish.”
She didn’t believe him. Obviously. Not at all. “Why me?”
He reached for her then, and she knew she should have stepped back. She knew she shouldn’t have let him touch her, not when his fingers ran down her left cheek, leaving fire in their wake, as though he were leaving his scar upon her, a mark of his presence.
But the burn of his touch was nothing like pain. Especially not when he replied, “Why not you?”
Why not her? Why shouldn’t she have what she wanted? Why shouldn’t she make a deal with this devil, who had appeared from nowhere and would soon be gone?
“I want not to have lied,” she said.
“I cannot change the past. Only the future. But I can make good on your promise.”
“Spin straw into gold?”
“Ah, so we are in a storybook, after all.”
He made it all sound so easy—so possible, as though he might work a miracle in the night without any effort at all.
It was madness, of course. He could not change what she’d said. The lie she’d told, bigger than all of them. Doors had closed all around her earlier that evening, locking her out of every conceivable path. Shutting out her future. The future of her family. Arthur’s helplessness flashed. Her mother’s desperation. Their twin resignation. Unpickable locks.
And now, this man . . . brandishing a key.
“You can make it true.”
His hand turned, the heat of him against her cheek, along her jaw, and for a fleeting moment he was a fairy king. She was in his thrall. “The engagement is easy. But that isn’t all you wish, is it?”
How did he know?
His touch spread fire down the column of her throat, fingers kissing the swell of her shoulder. “Tell me the rest, Felicity Faircloth. What else does the princess in the tower desire? The world at her feet, and her family rich once more, and . . .”
The words trailed off, filling the room until her reply burst from her. “I want him to be the moth.” He lifted his hand from her skin, and the loss was keen. “I wish to be the flame.”
He nodded, his lips curling like sin, his colorless eyes dark in the shadows, and she wondered if she would feel less in his thrall if she could see their color. “You wish to tempt him to you.”
A memory flared, a husband, desperate for his wife. A man, desperate for his love. A passion that could not be denied, all for a woman who held every inch of power. “I do.”
“Be careful with temptation, my lady. It is a dangerous proposition.”
“You make it sound as though you’ve experienced it as such.”
“That’s because I have.”
“Your barberess?” Was the woman his wife? His mistress? His love? Why did Felicity care?
“Passion cuts both ways.”
“It needn’t,” she said, feeling suddenly, keenly, strangely comfortable with this man whom she did not know. “I hope to eventually love my husband, but I needn’t be consumed by him.”
“You wish to do the consuming.”
She wished to be wanted. Beyond reason. She wished to be ached for.
“You wish for him to fly into your flame.”
Impossible.
She answered him. “When you are ignored by the stars, you wonder if you might ever burn bright.” Immediately embarrassed by the words, Felicity turned away, breaking the spell. Cleared her throat. “It does not matter. You cannot change the past. You cannot erase my lie and make it truth. You cannot make him want me. Not even if you were the devil. It’s impossible.”
“Poor Felicity Faircloth, so concerned about what is impossible.”
“It was a lie,” she said. “I’ve never even met the duke.”
“And here is truth . . . the Duke of Marwick shan’t deny your claim.”
Impossible. And yet, there was a tiny part of her that hoped he was right. If that, she might be able to save them all. “How?”
He smirked. “Devil’s magic.”
She raised a brow. “If you can make it so, sir, you will have earned your silly name.”
“Most people find my name unsettling.”
“I am not most people.”
“That much, Felicity Faircloth, is true.”
r /> She did not like the warmth that spread through her at the words, and so she ignored it. “And you would do it out of the goodness of your heart? Forgive me if I do not believe that, Devil.”
He inclined his head. “Of course not. There’s nothing good about my heart. When it is done, and you have won him, heart and mind, I shall come and collect my fee.”
“I suppose this is the part where you tell me the fee is my firstborn child?”
He laughed at that. Low and secret, like she’d said something more amusing than she’d realized. And then, “What would I do with a mewling babe?”
