The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,27

with her archery.”

“Fine. Five o’clock.”

“Excellent. Looking forward to it.”

So was she. Surprisingly eager to see Ramsay’s daughter and Cecelia’s ward. She’d never been what she would call a motherly sort, but she enjoyed the precocious girl a great deal.

Francesca replaced the receiver and did an awkward little dance of victory. Ramsay, as canny as he was, didn’t realize he’d just revealed to her the exact way to get to the Lord Chancellor. And she’d do it, the very next evening. Tonight, she had to dress for dinner at Cecelia’s. Alexandra would be there, with her duke, and they mentioned they’d an exciting announcement to share.

A pregnancy, no doubt, judging by the way they’d been carrying on. Redmayne could barely be in a room with his wife without his hands upon her; she could only imagine what they were like alone.

A child was happy news, most especially where Alexandra was concerned.

So why did she feel so despondent? Because the world felt as though it was moving on without her? As much as her friends had said it was impossible, that they were forever a female family, she realized she’d been so naive to think it could be so indefinitely. Cecil and Alexander would be each other’s lawful relations, as Redmayne and Ramsay were half brothers.

They didn’t have another brother for her, not that Francesca wanted one. She categorically didn’t.

She was happy for them. Really. Because they were happy, her Red Rogues. Happy and hopeful for the future, having children, and making plans for adventures with them, with one another.

And of course, they always made room for her at their tables.

But … what would she be after all this business with the Crimson Council was over?

She knew she was being maudlin, but she allowed herself to wallow in this moment of self-pity.

For a young woman—well … young-adjacent—she suddenly felt very old. She’d been so many places, enjoyed so many experiences and suffered through others. She’d trained with masters of almost every kind of art, from the physical to the mental, visceral, and aesthetic. She’d climbed to the top of things. Ridden to the edge of other things. Crossed nearly every border and pushed the boundaries allowed to a woman in almost all but one arena.

Sex.

Huffing, Francesca bucked her hips away from her perch on the desk and flicked at a tassel on her bronze window drapes. Perhaps it was time she actually slept with one of the men she marked as her unwitting informers rather than drugging them. Biting her lip, she paused. In order to succumb to a man’s advances, she’d have to mark a man worth seeing in the nude. She’d have to find hands worth touching her. A mouth worth kissing.

A body worth allowing inside her own.

Now, that did pose something of a problem.

Oh, of course she was kidding herself.

Every time her mind followed this path, its destination was invariably Lord Drake. His kiss had kindled a fire inside of her that’d taken days to quench, one that had addled her into a puddle of quivering female desire. As far as she knew, he was no one to the Crimson Council. And no one of consequence to her.

Except that he’d promised to take her to heaven.

Francesca bit her lip at the memory of his voice sliding down her body like velvet and vice.

No, no, best to pick someone else. Someone less lethal. Less suspicious. For something told her that the man who lived behind Drake’s gaze was too dangerous even for her to handle. And that wasn’t something she readily admitted.

Besides, he claimed to have known Francesca. And she had no real way of repudiating that claim.

Which made him dangerous on an entirely different level.

She touched the healing wound on her thigh, the one she’d inflicted weeks ago that would be a scar in a matter of days. She was still furious with herself for forgetting it had existed. When she’d been so careful to take on every slice of Francesca’s persona since childhood.

No, the judicious thing to do would be to stay away from Preston Bellamy, Lord Drake.

Drake was another name for dragon, and this city had room enough for only one of those.

Francesca swept out of her study and into the damask-papered hall, calling for a footman. She nearly collided with an older woman as she shuffled around a corner.

“Serana!” She steadied the woman, who was still more elegant than aged, though rheumatic bones kept her from moving like she used to. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see