In Bed With the Devil(32)

“Yes, of course.”

“You took a strap to the boy who polishes your boots because they weren’t shiny enough?” Catherine asked.

“Are you questioning me in my home, Lady Catherine?”

“Yes, I rather think I am.”

He snorted. “You need a man to put you in your place.”

She felt fingers digging into her arm. She knew Winnie was warning her. Do not poke a stick at a tiger. Oh, but it was tempting, so very tempting.

“It’s rather late, my father’s expecting me. I should go”—without seeing Whit. But she knew she was in danger of saying something she shouldn’t.

“I’ll see you out,” Avendale said.

He followed her out to where her carriage waited. Catherine forced herself to place her hand in his when he offered to assist her. His fingers closed painfully around hers.

“I believe you’re a rather bad influence on my wife,” he said in a low voice.

Catherine’s heart thudded against her chest. “Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not, but I’m not certain you understand a wife’s place in the world.”

She met and held his gaze. “On the contrary, Your Grace, I fear it is you who doesn’t understand a woman’s place.”

Before he could say anything further, she stepped up and into the carriage. She tugged her hand free of his.

“Take care, Lady Catherine. You never know what dangers are about.”

Oh, she had a very good idea about the dangers. The carriage moved forward and Catherine took several deep breaths to calm the erratic beating of her heart. Just before the carriage turned onto the street, she glanced over her shoulder.

Avendale was still there, watching her.





Chapter 8




Traveling in his coach, Luke couldn’t help but be irritated by the amount of time he was spending preparing himself for his nightly visits to Dodger’s. He’d never before been on a schedule. Now he was on one every night—not only for when he went to Dodger’s but for when he left. Catherine insisted. Three at the latest.

After all, she needed her beauty rest.

Not that he attributed her beauty to the amount of sleep she indulged in. He had a feeling she could go a week without sleep and still be ravishing. It was more than the alabaster of her skin or the honey of her hair. It was the confidence that she exuded—as though she somehow demanded that when a man looked at her, he would see naught but her perfection.

He’d known a good many beautiful women, but he’d never given much thought to exactly why they were beautiful. Catherine in particular puzzled him. She wasn’t striking, and yet he was hard pressed to think of anyone he found more attractive.

Not even Frannie could compare, and yet, he saw more perfection in her features, and so it stood to reason that she should be the more beautiful of the two. Certainly, gazing at her had always brought him pleasure, but he saw something else there when he looked at Catherine. Something he couldn’t identify, something he couldn’t understand.

But it wasn’t for Catherine that he’d taken to properly preparing himself for his late-night outings. It was for Frannie. He was taking an inordinate amount of time each evening because of Frannie.

Before he’d asked Frannie to marry him, he’d simply gone to Dodger’s whenever he wanted, and while he never dressed as a beggar, he’d certainly never taken the time to shave, bathe, and change into fresh clothing. He brushed his hair, he applied sandalwood cologne. He was always properly decked out.

For several nights now, he’d gone to all this trouble, all this bother. It wasn’t as though Frannie had an opportunity to notice. As soon as he led Catherine through the back doorway into the private hallway where customers were forbidden, she disappeared into Frannie’s office, closed the door, and they were secreted away until Catherine came out, prepared to go home.

Frannie would give him a sweet smile, but by then his breath was tainted with whiskey, his hair was furrowed from the numerous times that he’d combed his fingers through it, and he was no longer in an agreeable mood because for the first time in his life he was losing at the gaming tables. He was distracted, not concentrating on the gents at the table. He wanted to know what was going on behind that blasted closed door.

To further add to his irritation, Jim’s reports were of little use. Today Catherine had again visited with the Duchess of Avendale—apparently she was helping the duchess with a party that she was giving—bought a new fan and a new parasol, gone into a bookshop and come out with a purchase, which Jim, with a few well-placed coins, had learned was David Copperfield. According to the shop owner, Lady Catherine Mabry had a fondness for Dickens.