In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  “Oh, you know all the ruffians in London, do you?”

  “I know a good many. So what does he look like?”

  “He wears a large floppy hat pulled low so I’m not certain of his hair color. Dark I think. His features are very rough-looking, difficult to describe because there’s nothing distinctive about them.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Possibly, but you shouldn’t worry about it right now,” she said softly. “You need your pains to go away.”

  He barely nodded before closing his eyes again.

  “Keep talking,” he ordered, so gently that it was more of a plea.

  “About what?”

  “Tell me…how it goes with Frannie.”

  She sighed. She should have expected that he’d want to speak of his love.

  “It goes very well. She is bright as you said. But I think we need to expand the lessons beyond her workplace. I think it might be better to have them here. For example, there is no tea service at Dodger’s. No drawing room. It is not a lady’s world.”

  “Here…is not a lady’s world.”

  “But it will be, once you marry. We’ll discuss it when you’re better.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You don’t like losing arguments.”

  “I didn’t realize we were arguing, but honestly, does anyone want to lose?” She leaned up and whispered near his ear, “Go to sleep now. You’ll awaken to no pain.”

  Her arms were growing tired. She moved up so she could rest her elbows on the bed. She’d hardly given any thought to the notion that her change in position would place her breasts against his chest. But he was too far gone to notice, while she was acutely aware of her nipples tightening. Almost painfully so. Perhaps they’d both be in pain before the night was done.

  Yet she couldn’t deny she was content to remain where she was.

  She continued to rub his temples. With her thumbs she began to stroke his cheeks.

  All the while taking note of the fine lines etched in his face. He was not much older than thirty, and yet strife had chiseled at his features. That first night in the library, she’d studied the portrait of the man who should have been earl before him. It wasn’t difficult to see the similarities. Even though Claybourne claimed she’d find none, she almost imagined that she had. How different the portrait might have looked if the man had lived a life as rough as the man she now comforted.

  She didn’t like acknowledging how worried she’d been, how much she was coming to care for him. As a friend. One friend for another. There would never be anything more between them than that.

  He was in love with Frannie, and Catherine, well, Catherine had yet to meet anyone who could claim her heart. Although she couldn’t deny that something about Claybourne did stir her. His odd honesty. His willingness to defend her. The depth of love he held for another woman and the lengths he would go to in order to have her in his life.

  Catherine couldn’t imagine having a man’s devotion to that extent. Having met Claybourne, she didn’t know if she could settle for less in her own husband—if she were ever to meet a man she thought she could be content to marry.

  She felt the tension slowly easing out of Claybourne, was aware of him drifting off to sleep. She could probably leave now, and yet she had no desire to go. Against her better judgment she laid her head on his chest, listened to the steady pounding of his heart.

  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.

  Chapter 11

  Catherine 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 headaches. 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.”