Page 42 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
“No, you aren’t.” Phoebe flicked a page. “Would you like some tea?”
“I’d like toget up.”
“The surgeon was quite clear,” she said lightly. “You’re to be kept still and calm for the foreseeable future.”
“Fuck the damned surgeon,” Chris snarled, and his fingers tangled in the velvet counterpane draped over him.
Phoebe leaned forward and placed one hand upon his chest to press him back down. “You’ll disturb Hieronymus,” she said. “And you’re in no condition to rise at present. I shall beextremely displeased if you tear your stitches.”
“They’re my stitches to tear.”
“Yes, but if you do, I’ll have to summon the surgeon again to replace them. Do you want to be stitched up again?”
Hell. Chris glared at his wife. He glared at the turtle. And then he glared at the damned ceiling, because his head had already begun to swim with the effort it had taken only to shove his elbows beneath him. Probably he’d lost a great deal of blood, then.
“Would you like some tea?” Phoebe repeated as he dropped his head back to the pillow once more.
“Yes,” he grumbled. “And something to eat. A propermeal,” he said. “God help you if you try to feed me beef tea and porridge.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” She rose briefly, setting down her book to give a firm yank to the bell pull, no doubt to summon a servant to bring up something to eat. “The tea’s gone tepid,” she said as she poured a cup from the teapot on a silver tray positioned upon his dresser. “But you’ll have to wait a bit for a fresh cup. I imagine you’re only after something to wet your throat at the moment.”
That much was true; he felt like he’d been gargling sand. She slid one arm beneath his head and supported his shoulders as she placed the cup to his lips, and he drank—and drank—and drank until the cup was empty.
“Emma’s been by to see you,” she said as she reclaimed her seat.
Christ. “Next time,” he said, “don’t let anyone in to see me like this. It’s damned humiliating.”
“How could it be? You weren’t conscious for it. Besides, she’s your sister. Of course she would want to assure herself that you were all right.” She reclaimed her seat, settling in as if for a visit. “How many next times am I meant to expect?” she asked.
He grunted, “As many as it takes to kill me, I suppose.”
“Have you truly got so many enemies?”
Probably he had more than he was even aware of. “Comes with the territory,” he said. “You shake enough desperate men down for what they owe to you, and you’re bound to come up with a few willing to kill to erase that debt.” And that was to say nothing of the men he’d roughed up for one trespass or another, or the ones upon whom he’d informed for the government. “Possibly you’ll be a wealthy widow ere long.”
“Don’t say that,” she chided. “Wealthy widows are much sought-after among fortune hunters. I’d hate to find myself maneuvered into a less friendly marriage.”
Despite the pain in his side, Chris managed a chuckle. “I suppose I could at least put some stipulations upon your widow’s portion,” he said. “Make it a bit less convenient to marry you for it.”
“Or perhaps you could simply endeavor not to perish in an untimely manner,” she suggested. “Does your knee ache?”
“Always does.” It was a pain he’d learned to live with. But one he could do nothing about at present, considering the burn of his side precluded much movement, and the turtle who had wandered down to his stomach showed no signs of vacating his position anytime soon. Hieronymus nuzzled the velvet counterpane with his beak in a manner that suggested he’d mistaken it for something edible and was determining how best he might consume it.
Phoebe slid her chair closer to the bed, fished for the edge of the counterpane, and tossed it up. Cool air rushed over Chris’ legs. At some point between when he’d stumbled home and when he’d woken again, he’d been stripped of his clothing.
Her soft fingers slid across the flesh of his knee. “It must have hurt terribly,” she said, as she found that muscle that tended toward an unbearable tightness, using the tip of herthumb to dig into it and massage away the pain. Gradually, the tightness loosened, relaxed. It wouldn’t last; it never did. But God, it felt good in the meantime. For a moment, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, content to experience a relief he hadn’t had to give himself.
“Do all men have such hairy legs?” she asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. Don’t much go round asking other men to show me their legs,” he grumbled. “Have you never seen a man’s legs before?”
“Of course not,” she sniffed. “A gentleman would never bare any portion of his anatomy usually covered by clothing in front of a lady.”
He might’ve laughed at her prim tone, except now that she’d eased most of the pain in his knee, it was all too easy to imagine those soft fingers elsewhere. Sliding up his thigh. Wrapping around his cock. Just the thought was enough to provoke a rush of blood to his groin, which was rather infuriating when one considered that he’d not been able to sustain an interest in his mistress, who had been willing. And Phoebe was not.
Or at least, not yet. He doubted that the tide of their marriage had turned in the last few hours, and he hadn’t even given her the bracelet yet.
The bracelet. Where the devil had it gone? “Hell,” he said. “I had a box on me—”
