Page 31 of Devil to Pay (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #4)

CHAPTER THIRTY

FOUR IN THE MORNING

T he house was silent in the way only the long deep of night could inspire.

Beatrix had lain stubbornly awake in her bed for hours, waiting for the last tendril of the evening’s laughter to flutter away into the indigo ether.

She’d waited another quarter hour, just to be sure.

Only then did she slip from between the covers and make her way through the still house on quiet cat feet, a single destination in mind—the kitchens. Her infallible nose had led her straight to the desserts table. No sweet was ever entirely safe from her.

Now, she sat alone at a square, knife-scarred table, a feast of confections arrayed before her. Profiteroles…macarons…shortbread…trifles…truffles…bon bons…eclairs…pies…cake . She nibbled a macaron— mmm , strawberry—as she contemplated which sweet to sample next.

Her eye kept returning to her heart’s true desire— chocolate cake .

She sliced a wedge twice the size she could reasonably consume in one sitting and took a slow, savoring bite, her eyes drifted shut in a moment’s bliss. A good chocolate cake was a perfect symphony of complimentary textures—the moist density of the sponge…the sugary slick of icing that lit up the tongue… Scrumptious .

Her mouth had just closed around her third bite when a voice sounded, “Are the sweets up to your standards?”

Beatrix’s gaze startled open to find Dev, his large form filling the doorway, one shoulder propped on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth curled into half a smile—watching her.

“What in the blazes are you doing here?”

Her righteous indignation would’ve commanded more authority had it not been muffled by a too-large bite of cake.

He chuckled.

The blasted man had the nerve to chuckle.

She swallowed with no small amount of struggle, before, at last, she was able to say, “If you start suggesting suitors again, I shall launch a pie at your bloody head.”

Dev held his hands wide in apology, its sincerity questionable. “Peace.”

The threat had been an empty one, for she had no intention of wasting a perfectly innocent pie in such a manner. In fact, she fully intended to enjoy a heaping slice of it later. But her point was made, and she was able to experience a modicum of relief. She could have her cake and her peace, too.

When Dev pushed off the doorjamb and crossed the room, her relief proved short-lived.

He pulled out a chair and sat beside her.

There was her peace gone.

“Cut me a slice, will you?”

She couldn’t very well refuse the man, now could she? This was his kitchen—and his cake.

As he sank his fork into dense sponge and took a bite, she gauged his reaction. He nodded with well-considered appreciation. He even moaned. “Delicious.”

She offered a smile of agreement, and they ate in silence, a measure of the tension pulsing between them dissolved into companionability. None could doubt the sure diplomatic capability of a shared sweet.

He put his fork down and met her eye. “Can we talk as we once did? Like friends?”

As we once did.

He was referring to that period of between time.

The specific time that ranged from after they’d made their arrangement to the time before …

The time before they’d become something more .

“What would you like to talk about, friend?”

That pulled a smile from him. She just had it in her to resist that same pull. “The guests seem to be enjoying the entertainments.”

It was bland, as conversation went—and safe, too.

She could tolerate the former, if it meant having the latter.

“Well, they would,” she replied.

His head cocked with interest. “You make it sound predetermined.”

A dry laugh escaped her. “In a way, it is. This party is a confluence of everything the ton lives for. A beautiful house. Myriad entertainments. Delicious food. Flowing champagne and spirits. And a perfect host willing to indulge their every whim.”

He nodded, slowly, as if giving the matter deep consideration. At last, he said, “You think I’m perfect?” A teasing light shone in his eyes.

She liked it.

“As a host,” she teased back.

His smile turned devilish. “I must be perfect in other ways, too.”

She felt her brow lift.

“One who achieves perfection in one way would surely seek to achieve it in all others.”

Beatrix saw what he was so openly saying beneath his words. It was a tease, of course. But it was the truth, as well—and they both knew it.

He was perfection in other ways, too.

“You’re being incorrigible.”

It was what a friend would say.

A friend most definitely would not pick up that thread and follow it.

A friend would not tell him, for example, that he was, in fact, perfect at something more .

So perfect, in further fact, that her body hadn’t stopped singing from it…hadn’t stopped craving it with every cell of her being.

No, a friend wouldn’t say that.

“You’re not the first to make that observation,” he said, as if he hadn’t taken note of all she hadn’t said.

She must turn the conversation in another direction.

It was four in the morning and it was only them in this kitchen and he was so very, very attractive, sitting here and eating cake and smiling wickedly with that very, very beautiful mouth of his.

His beautiful mouth… It would taste of chocolate cake.

Perfection.

“Your factory,” she began, abruptly, only remembering an instant later that his factory was yet one more attractive thing about him.

His head angled with interest. “What about it?”

“It’s an example of your perfection.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take credit for the perfection of the factory,” he said. “It’s all Shaw’s handiwork.”

Beatrix wasn’t letting him off that easily. “Those machines… They’re your vision come to life. I find that amazing.”

“I amaze you?”

“You do.”

“In addition to interesting you.”

“Indeed.”

It was the truth, but she felt strangely caught out.

As if she’d somehow become ensnared in her own truth.

“A man might like that.” He lifted his brow and took another bite of cake.

Beatrix shook her head, stifling the laughter that bubbled up. Being Dev’s friend… It was too easy.

It was too easy to want more.

Another question came to her—one that would prickle… “Did you enjoy the game of charades?”

“You didn’t stay.”

“No.”

They both knew why.

She’d become superfluous to needs.

The countess was all but his.

Beatrix hadn’t needed to stay to see it play out.

Dev watched her, closely, as if he saw all this behind her eyes. At last, he spoke, “Do you know what I like about charades?”

She shook her head. She was about to take another bite of cake, but found only crumbs. Another slice would be necessary—and perhaps another after that—even as she suspected there wasn’t enough chocolate cake in the world to see her through the next few minutes…the next few days…the next eternity of years.

“When you play charades, you can be anyone.”

That rasp in his voice…

She knew it.

But more importantly— more urgently —her body knew it, as it slipped beneath skin and slid through veins with every beat of her heart.

Before her no longer sat a friend—but temptation personified.

“ Anyone? ” she asked. “Like us playing at being friends?”

His head cocked. “Aren’t we friends?”

“I think you know what we are.”

And there it was.

The telling rasp in her own voice.

Dev detected opportunity.

An opportunity to turn this conversation into one more to his liking…

Into something more .

And, simply, he wasn’t above it.

“We could be anyone.”

Her tongue swiped across her bottom lip. “Anyone?”

“We could even be…” He let the incomplete thought tease through the air. Unconsciously, she swayed forward, as if afraid to miss a single syllable of its resolve. “We could even be two lovers who want nothing more than to ravish one another.” He allowed that to sink in before he asked, “Lady Godiva Gallop, I presume?”

Her right eyebrow lifted a questioning increment. He supposed the eyebrow of the daughter of a marquess would. Yet…interest flickered within her eyes.

He managed as good a bow as one could while seated. “Lord Devil, at your service.”

Surely, she saw it, too— freedom .

Tonight, they didn’t have to be themselves, but rather these fictions of themselves.

But that was the thing about fiction.

Sometimes, it could speak the truth with more eloquence than reality.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Her voice had gone low and throaty.

“Does it now? You have a slight reputation yourself, my lady.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, I’ve had my eye on you, you naughty, little minx, and you’ve been indulging in the forbidden.”

She swallowed, as if her mouth had become suddenly parched.

“There’s no perfect crime,” he continued. “And you’ve left one telltale sign.”

“But I’ve been so very discreet,” she protested, slipping more fully into the role.

He angled forward, closing the distance between them, then reached up and rubbed the corner of her mouth with his thumb, taking a small, dark smudge of icing with it. He didn’t shift back, but rather sucked at the sweet. Her pupils flared, she watched, transfixed.

“I’m not sure my thumb was thorough enough.”

“One must be thorough,” she said in a breathless whisper.

He moved further forward, easing away the inches between their lips, and swiped his tongue across the corner of her mouth— soft…warm…sweet .

She shifted subtly, and her mouth was pressed to his.

Like kindling lit into flame, urgency seized him as he cupped the back of her head, silky hair threading through his fingers, and deepened the kiss that was taking on a momentum of its own. He needed to touch her… feel her … He reached for her waist and lifted her as he stood and hoisted her onto the kitchen table. Fumbling hands were opening her nightrobe and pushing it aside, her night chemise offering a teasing view of creamy thighs. Her knees parted, and he was stepping between that sweet flesh.

A primal feeling, this.

This necessity to plant himself between her legs.

He pulled her forward so her bottom was just on the edge…so his cock could push against her soft quim, its demand clear. She groaned into his mouth and squirmed. Down her neck, his lips trailed as he reached between them and felt her —so slick…so hot… so ready .

He needed to be inside her— now .

Fingers shaky with need fumbled at the falls of his trousers. Her head arched back, and his name escaped those kiss-crushed lips of hers. “What is it, my naughty sweet?” he growled.

“The servants,” she said in a breathless rush. “They’ll be in to start their day soon.”

Dev froze—and not for worry about the servants.

She’d spoken with more than a hint of Beatrix—not as the naughty Lady Godiva Gallop. She was only a few words away from becoming herself altogether.

And he couldn’t have that.

He shifted back and met her eyes. “Come upstairs with me.”

The longest three seconds of Dev’s life ticked past. She knew what upstairs meant.

No turning back.

Then she nodded, and he could breathe again.

It was with great reluctance and dint of will that he shifted back so she could hop to her feet. He didn’t want to be separated from her, not even for a few minutes. “This set of servants’ stairs lead to the master’s bedroom,” he said, pulling open the correct door.

They hadn’t made it halfway up the dark, narrow staircase, Beatrix a step ahead, when he reached up and took her hand, twining his fingers through hers. It was imperative that he touch some part of her.

But the next instant, it wasn’t enough.

He tugged, and she glanced over her shoulder, a saucy smile curled about her mouth. On a low growl, he slipped his other hand around her waist and had her back pushed against the wall, his mouth covering hers with a near desperate need. He could kiss her all night, except…

“Do you have the faintest idea what exquisite torture it is to observe you all day and not be able to do this ”—a hand stole around and cupped her sweet bottom—“and this ”—his mouth trailed lower and nudged her robe aside so he could suck her taut nipple through muslin—“and most definitely this .” He reached beneath the hem of her chemise and found the soft curls of her cunny—slick and swollen with desire…ready for him. “I could ravish you here and now,” he muttered against her breast.

“Oh,” she exhaled on a pleasured groan. “But…”

“ But? ”

She angled back, her mouth formed into a playful pout. “You promised me your bed, Lord Devil.”

With great difficulty, he dragged himself away from her and continued up the stairs. When they entered the bedroom, he reached for her hand, but it was she who took his and led him toward the bed that was much too grandiose to be considered tasteful. Eyes glinting with mischief, she pushed him to a seat on the edge of the mattress. Clearly, Lady Godiva had a few ideas of her own. Anticipation quickened through his veins.

“You’re the sort of lover who derives pleasure from giving,” she said.

“I am.”

No sense in denying it.

Denial only deprived one of pleasure.

“Now, it’s my turn to give.”