Page 87 of A Deal with the Devil

She nodded, once.

“Get your things,” he said again. “Please.”

It was the please that did it.

The ominous commands and power emanating from him might be enough to fire her senses, but it didn’t cloud her mind completely. Taking orders from Rhys set a bad precedent. Anyone could see that.

But a simple please? From a man who was seething with anger on her behalf?

That, she could not resist.

Which was how she found herself back inside his plush carriage with a beaten-up trunk stuffed with her clothing and all of her books. Priorities. She didn’t own that many dresses anyway. The carriage swayed, the lantern light adding a soft glow as they went from crowded streets across the river to the manicured estates of Mayfair.

She was completely out of place.

She rubbed her breastbone, willing away the burning there, as if she had drunk lemon juice. Evie was facing marriage to Lord Portsmouth, so Kitty could certainly face this. She dropped her hand in her lap.

“Good girl,” Devil said as if he knew how she felt. As if he had learned her mannerisms. As if he knew the hot little shiver that bloomed when he said it, despite herself.

“You broke my front door.”

“I did.”

It should not have been as thrilling as it was. The crack and splinter of the frame, a furious Devil dripping rainwater and rage.

And blood.

She probably ought to be scared of him.

Mostly she wanted to bite his incongruously delicate upper lip. His jawline. The swell of muscles on his forearm.

The carriage drew to a halt before she could embarrass herself. Any more than she already had, that was.

“This is probably a bad idea,” she said. “Even I know this sort of thing is not done. My aunt is right, though I will eat your hat before saying that to her.”

“My hat? Eat your own.” That languid drawl, the spark of something underneath it. Not just something. Everything. “I can take you somewhere else if you prefer. Just don’t ask me to take you back to that house.”

“Why does it bother you so much?” She was genuinely curious. Her family was far from perfect, but they were not the worst in London. They weren’t even the worst on their street.

“You don’t deserve it.”

She thought of Clara and what she had done to her friend. Her smile faltered. “You don’t know me, Devil. Not really.”

He snorted. “Did you commit murder?”

“No.” She paused. He did not look the least bit concerned. “Did you? Tonight?” she clarified.

“No, more’s the pity.”

“Would it matter if I had?”

“No.” He sounded very sure, very nonchalant about her imaginary violence. “In or out, firecracker?”

She worried at her lower lip, told herself she was being a coward and a fool, and then nodded. “I’m in.” She poked him in the knee when his mouth opened to speak. “If you call me a good girl again, I’m going to kick you someplace you will not like.”

“Vicious.” But when he said it, it sounded like a compliment.

Devil’s townhouse was suitably imposing, clearly the work of several generations’ worth of Birmingham earls. It soared five stories high with gleaming white stone and black ironwork. Unlike the more common terraced houses, Birmingham House was bordered by walkways and gardens behind tall fences. Windows gleamed and glittered, not a single one boarded up by his grandparents to save on taxes. The Golden Griffin had several boarded-up windows, as did most of the buildings on the street.