“I know Haven has a duchess. Whom he loves beyond reason.”
“She demanded a divorce,” Felicity said. “Do you not read the papers?”
“I cannot articulate how little I care for the marital strife of the aristocracy.”
She stilled at that. “You’re serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You really don’t care what happened? It was in all the gossip pages. I was quite famous for a bit.”
“I don’t read the gossip pages.”
One mahogany brow rose. “No, I don’t imagine that you do, what with how very busy and important you are.”
Devil had the distinct impression she was teasing him. “My interest extends to how it is relevant to you, Felicity Faircloth, and barely that far.”
She cut him a look at the last. “Last summer, the Duchess of Haven demanded a divorce. There was a competition to become the second duchess. It was all foolish, of course, because Haven absolutely loved her beyond reason. Which he told me. While in his dressing gown and nothing else.”
“He was unable to dress before telling you that?”
She smiled, soft and romantic. “I shan’t allow you to make it sound ridiculous. I’ve never seen anyone so undone by love.”
Devil’s gaze narrowed. “And so we get to the heart of the impossible things you wish for.”
She paused, myriad emotions passing over her face. Embarrassment. Guilt. Sorrow. “Don’t you wish for such a thing?”
“I told you, my lady, passion is a dangerous play.” He paused. “So, Haven kept his duchess and what happened to the rest of you?”
“One of us left mid-competition to marry another. One of us became a companion to an aging aunt and is on the Continent, looking for a husband. The final two—Lady Lilith and I—we remain unmarried. It’s not as though we were diamonds of the first water to begin with.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “We weren’t even diamonds of the second water. And now, our mothers’ desperation to get us matched has become something of a vague black mark.”
“How vague of a black mark?”
“The kind that makes us vaguely ruined.” Another drink. “Not that I wasn’t vaguely ruined before that.”
It had always struck Devil that women were ruined either entirely or not at all. And she did not look ruined.
She looked perfect.
“Is that why your unfortunates passed you over for no apparent reason?” he asked. “Because that seems like a reason. An idiotic one, but one that the aristocracy would happily cling to in order to roast one of its own.”
She looked to him. “What do you know of the aristocracy?”
“I know they like to drink bourbon and play cards.” And I know there was a time when I wanted very much to be one of them, just like you do, Felicity Faircloth. He leaned back in the bath. “And I know it’s better to be first in hell than simpering in heaven.”
Her lips flattened into a straight, disapproving line. “Either way, your end of our bargain is more than a challenge. The Duke of Marwick might not care for a wife with such a sullied reputation.”
The Duke of Marwick had no interest in a wife, period.
Devil did not tell her that. Neither did he tell her that her sullied reputation would be in tatters soon enough. He was suddenly uncomfortable, and he stood, water sluicing off him as he came to his full height.
He would be lying if he said he did not enjoy the way her eyes went wide or the little squeak she made as she hopped off the bed to turn her back to him. “That was very rude,” she said to the far wall of the room.
“I’ve never been known for my politeness,” he said.
She gave a little snort. “What a surprise.”
He shook his head, amused. Even now, she remained smart-mouthed. “Are you regretting your earlier bravery?”
“No.” The word cracked on its high pitch. She drank again. “Keep talking.”
It was his turn to be suspicious. “Why?”
“So that I can be certain you are not approaching to take advantage of me.”
“If I were going to take advantage of you, I would approach from the front, Felicity Faircloth. In full view, so you would have the joy of expecting me,” he said. “But I shall talk, with pleasure.” He moved to dress, watching her the whole time. “We are going to begin with a gown.”
“A—a gown?”
He pulled on his trousers. “I promised that Marwick would be slavering after you like a dog, did I not?”
“I didn’t say I wanted that,” she said.
He grinned at the distaste in her words as he lifted a black linen shirt and pulled it over his head, tucking it in before fastening the stays of his trousers. “No, you said you thought him the handsomest man you’d ever seen, did you not?”
A pause. “I suppose.”
Irritation flared, and he dismissed it. “You said you wanted him to come after you like a moth to a flame. You do know what happens to moths when they get to the flame, don’t you? You may turn around.”
She did so, her eyes immediately finding him and tracking his clothing from shoulders to bare feet. The excitement in her gaze as she gave him her frank perusal sent a thread of awareness through him—and he shifted his weight at the sudden heaviness in his freshly pressed trousers.
“What happens?” He blinked at the words, and she added, “To the moths.”
“They combust.” He pulled on his waistcoat.
Her gaze was on his fingers as he worked the buttons of the coat, and he could not resist slowing his movements, watching her watch him. Devil had always loved the female gaze upon him, and Lady Felicity Faircloth watched him with pure, unadulterated fascination, making him want to show her everything she wanted.
“Combustion sounds better than slavering,” she said, the words breathier than before.
“Says the woman who is doing neither.” He finished the buttons and smoothed the waistcoat over his torso. “Now. If you’ll let me finish . . .”
“By all means, slaver away.”
He barely resisted the huff of laughter that threatened at her smart retort. “If you want him to desire you beyond reason, you must dress the part.”
She tilted her head. “I am sorry. I am to dress for him?”
“Indeed. Preferably something with skin.” He waved a hand at her high-necked shell pink gown. “That won’t work.” It was a lie. The gown worked quite well, as far as Devil’s body was concerned.
She put her hand to her throat. “I like this gown.”
“It’s pink.”
“I like pink.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“What’s wrong with pink?”
“Nothing, if you are a mewling babe.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “A different gown will do what, exactly?”
“Ensure he shan’t be able to keep his hands off of you.”
“Oh,” she said. “I was unaware that men were so entirely susceptible to women’s clothing that it rendered them unable to control their hands.”
He hesitated, not liking the direction of her words. “Well, some men.”
“Not you,” she said.
“I’m more than able to control my urges.”
“Even if I were to wear . . . what was it you suggested? Something with skin?”
And like that, he was thinking of her skin. “Of course.”
“And is this a particularly male affliction?”
He cleared his throat. “Some might argue that it is a human affliction.”
“Interesting,” she replied, “because it could be said that you were just moments ago wearing something with skin, and my hands somehow, remarkably, remained quite far from your person.” She grinned. “I slavered not at all.”
The words were like a flag to a bull, and he wanted, immediately, to rise to the challenge and tempt Felicity Faircloth to slavering. But that way lay danger, because he was already far too intrigued by the lady, and that had to stop before it started.