Charming the Devil Read Free Page B

bloodthirsty little pixie are you?”
    She snapped her eyes to his. Wondering if he could somehow sense the truth in her. Wondering if he was right.
    “Not at all,” she said, and hoped to God he couldn’t hear the terror in her voice. “I am merely interested in the goings-on of the world.”
    “Good God, you’re not one of those dreaded bluestockings, are you?” he asked, drinking again, and at that, she almost did smile. For that was exactly what Les Chausettes were.
    Of course, they were also witches.
    “As I said, I’m merely interested,” she repeated.
    “Well really, lovey, I would think you could find something more intriguing than all those ghastly battles.”
    She raised a brow at him. “Such as?”
    His grin cocked up. He reached for her hand. She was tempted to step back, but there would be little point. The stone wall was only inches away. She had nowhere to go, thus she stood very still, letting him encircle her cold fingers with the heat of his. “Are you certain you were once wed?”
    “Why do you ask? What—” she began, but managed to stop herself. He was only teasing, after all. Thinking himself clever. Therefore, she must stick to the story she’d been told time and again: She was the widow of a wealthy merchant, now self-sufficient, able to make her own way in the world.
    But there were days she could barely manage to piece together two coherent sentences. Today would not be one of those days though. It would not.
    “Quite certain. He was called…” she began, but suddenly the fictional name was gone. Completely erased from her mind.
    “Mr. Nettles?” he guessed.
    “Albert,” she said, remembering suddenly and managing to imbue her tone with a smidgen of wryness for his foolish wit.
    He lifted her hand to his lips. Panic spurred through her as he kissed her knuckles, but she didn’t yank her arm away. Didn’t scream. Didn’t even kick him in the groin, though she had been trained to do just that should the situation call for it. Surely such restraint was a reason for some pride, but she could feel that restraint crumbling, and covered with words.
    “He was seven-and-twenty,” she said. “Born the third day of June in the year of our Lord, 1782. Died on January twenty-first, 1807. He inherited his father’s shipping business five years before. He had no brothers. His sisters were named Edna and Ivadel.”
    “Indeed,” Rennet said, and kissed the underside of her wrist. But there was something funny about the way he spoke. Almost as if he were amused.
    She winced but held steady, stifling the fear.
    “He had fair hair, blue eyes, and stood five feet, nine inches in his stocking feet.”
    He kissed the inside of her elbow and glanced up. “I myself am a bit taller then,” he said. “But that’s hardly the true measure of a man, is it?”
    “I believe one would have to take his mass into consideration as well,” she said, and glanced about, hoping to God that Madeline was near. Or Ella. Or any of her coven sisters. Anyone to wrest her from this pounding misery.
    “I believe we both know what matters to a woman.”
    If only that were true. “Do we?”
    He laughed, low and private. “It’s length, not height,” he said, and, stepping up close, pressed his crotch against her thigh.
    Terror shot through her, paralyzing her throat. She tried to yank away, but he held her arm.
    “Or is it girth that concerns you?”
    “Only if it fastens my saddle,” she said, and he laughed.
    “A witty minx, aren’t you?”
    “Absolutely.” Her voice sounded breathy. “But I fear I must go now.”
    “Go? Don’t be silly. The night is young. Young and beautiful. Like you,” he said, and wrapped an arm about her back.
    “Release me.” She tried to jerk back, but a hedge was to her right, the wall behind her.
    “Come now, don’t be so standoffish. I understand you might be shy after…” He leaned back, but still held her hips to his. “How long has it been since your