The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,14

those giant clodhoppers, God love ’er.”

Cecelia was unable to hide a snort of hilarity from behind Francesca as they helped the footmen stuff everything into the carriage to sort out in a less public location.

“Well, sir.” Francesca reached into her purse, extracting a coin. “Please accept this as a gift for Mildred, along with my apologies for the fall.” She didn’t know whose fault it had been, but she was ready to be done with the entire business.

“That’s too kind, my lady, too kind.” He snatched the coin from her and studied it with almost insulting exactitude.

“Not at all,” she murmured. “Good day, Mr.…”

“Thatch, Mr. Edward Thatch.” His hand snaked out with astonishing speed and plucked her gloved fingers for a kiss.

“Mr. Thatch.” She suffered the kiss, which lingered a bit too long, before pulling her hand back.

“You enjoy your ball, my lady,” he said, tipping his cap.

“Thank you.” Francesca batted away her footman’s hand, sending him up to the driver before mounting the first carriage step.

“Dead men tell no tales,” came Thatch’s raspy voice from behind her, lowered to an intimate whisper. “But watch the shadows for ghosts, they’ll spill your secrets quick enough.”

A chill pinned her, paralyzing her spine for a breathless moment before she whirled around. “Why would you say—?”

Life teemed on the street, but the rheumatic Mr. Thatch was nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER FIVE

No matter how the Devil of Dorset scrubbed at himself, he couldn’t wash away the imprint of Francesca Cavendish. Not from his nostrils. His hands. His lips.

And not for lack of trying. He’d stripped off the wig and prosthetic nose first upon bursting into his Knightsbridge row house. He’d cleaned the black polish from his teeth before shucking everything else and diving into the shallow bath he’d ordered.

She’d only touched his shoulder through ridiculous layers, and he’d only kissed her glove.

But she lingered all over him. God, did she stay with him. In every conceivable way. Her fragrance remained long after she’d gone. Not a perfume, but something softer, more honest: laundered linen and citrus. It stripped away the stronger scents of the city in favor of her pleasant one.

The sound of her. A voice so wry, it rasped with deviant mischief, woven from moonlight’s melody juxtaposed with a confident derision not often found in a female.

And then there was the feel of her. Not that he’d sampled enough of that to know. She’d helped lift him from the ground, which was no mean feat as he quite possibly doubled her weight.

Such strength for a woman with no more physical substance than a weeping willow strap.

What did she taste like?

The question struck him with such longing, such unabashed hunger, he swallowed twice.

The Devil of Dorset ran slick, soapy fingers over his chest, cresting the ridges of his ribs and angling south, to where his cock pulsed beneath the water, swelling for the umpteenth time at the very thought of her.

Francesca Cavendish.

They’d shared a space before. He’d been introduced to her earlier that year at the Duke of Redmayne’s spring soiree. He’d kissed her glove then, and that contact had electrified him. So much so that he’d almost let his guard, and his act, slip.

Almost.

This time, he’d prepared himself. Or so he’d thought. He tried all he could to mentally talk himself out of his attraction. The woman possessed none of the sexual characteristics attributed to a temptress. No curves to speak of, only long, supple limbs. She was neither demure nor submissive, but often indecorous to the point of rebelliousness. Her smile was wide, her jaw sharp, and her gaze assessing. She spoke with conviction and unrestrained, forthright confidence.

No man listed such things when discussing the perfect mistress.

And yet … she was a woman passed around from man to man like a delicacy to be sampled only by the most fortunate.

The thought released some heat and pressure from his cock like a valve, dispersed it through his veins in a parody of … of what? Anger? Possession?

The hand low on his belly curled into a fist before it ever reached its wicked destination.

Francesca Cavendish was dangerous. Who’d have ever guessed?

The last time they’d interacted, he’d been Vincenzo de Flor, the Count Armediano of Italy. Black-haired and swarthy from months in the sun. He’d carried himself as a descendant of Roman gladiators and gods naturally would. Cocksure and foolhardy. Overly so. He’d been investigating Cecelia Teague’s intended, Lord Ramsay, in regard to the Crimson Council.

Subsequently he’d found that Ramsay’s superior, the Lord Chancellor, had