Page 126 of A Deal with the Devil

She swallowed, refusing to read into the easy way they fell into needling each other. She might miss it, might find it romantic.

He probably found it annoying.

She had made him wait too long for the stolen vowel, and it had made him cross. No one reneged on a deal with the Devil, not even her. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

He looked mollified.

Until she continued.

“You can cry off the betrothal now,” she added. “No one will blame you. They’ll only think you’ve finally come to your senses.”

He stalked around the desk. “What did you just say to me?”

She blinked at the intensity rolling off him. The piercing green of his eyes, like the dark forests that hapless fairy tale characters were lost in. Forever.

“You can…” She waved her hand, feeling out of sorts, miserable, just as cross. Why was he making this so difficult? Wasn’t it difficult enough?

Well, for her. Obviously not for him.

She waved her hand again. “Cry off. Like we planned.” She would not cry. It was ridiculous to cry. Evie was safe. And Kitty had had more time with Devil than could ever have been reasonably expected.

There was silence for a beat. Two.

“Kitty?” he asked silkily, with a hint of danger. Just a hint. Just enough.

“Yes?” Something primal inside her body responded. Aware. Uncertain. Hungry.

“When did I ever say I was going to let you go?”

The air left her lungs, rushed back in. It suddenly felt as though she had not had a proper full breath for the entirety of the last week. “Wh-what?”

“I never said anything about crying off,” he replied darkly.

“We agreed to a pretend betrothal.”

“You said it was pretend,” he corrected her. “And I agreed because you needed me to.”

“Oh. Oh.”

He was closing in, prowling closer. Liquid heat went through her.

Desire.

Hope.

And yet…

“I’m not sure I can be a mistress,” she admitted softly. “It would harm Evie’s chances for a decent match, and I’ve already so thoroughly done that.”

He scowled. “Who the hell said anything about a mistress?”

She scowled back. “Devil, earls don’t marry shopkeepers at whom people throw vegetables.”

“First of all, I can assure you no one will ever throw anything at you again. And secondly, I can marry who I want to marry.” It was the stubbornness of a man who was used to bending Society to his will.

“What about the ancestral lineage, and all that?” she asked, because someone had to be reasonable, and it obviously was not going to be him.

“The earldom can rot. My brother can be earl. I couldn’t care less.” He dug his fingers into her hair. “Kitty, there’s no one else for me. Ever. Maybe you don’t want to marry a devil…”