Page 51 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
Apologized for his foul temper, as he’d promised, even if by his sour expression she had suspected him of something less than true contrition.
“I just wish—” Phoebe hesitated, reluctant to admit to it. But this was Emma, and whatever allegiance she owed her brother she would also extend to her friend. “I wish I knew whether he has any feeling for me beyond—beyond simple friendship.”
It seemed a strange thing to admit to, when one considered that she had spent roughly a third of her life studiously avoiding matrimony. But she feared she was beginning to like him a little more than was prudent. A little more than that to which they had agreed, strictly speaking.
It wasn’t love. But perhaps it was the stirrings of it. Something which could grow into it, if she allowed it to. If shewantedit to. If it was nurtured, protected, cultivated like a fragile hothouse flower.
Emma smiled over the rim of her tea cup. “Easy enough,” she said. “Call him Kit, and see what he has to say of it.”
Phoebe lifted her brows. “What? Why?”
“Because I’m the only one he allows to call him Kit. So if he lets you do it, it means something.”
Chapter Fifteen
Chris’ fever had passed days ago, so he supposed he must owe the heat that swept over him exclusively to fury. A vein throbbed somewhere about his temple, and it took every ounce of his formidable will to bite back the shout that tightened his throat.
“I have got a cook,” he said to Laurence, who stood at his bedside, “whose eyesight is on a steady decline and whose hearing certainly isn’t what it once was.”
Laurence blinked, placidly ignoring the shrieks and screams of his children, who had been making an utter mess of Chris’ room for night on ten minutes now. “I beg your pardon? What is that meant to signify?”
“It means,” Chris snarled, “that I suggest you remove your—your—” Hell and damnation, Phoebe would skewer him if he didn’t at least attempt to spare their tender ears the worst of his crudity. “Yourprogeny,” he said, “before I inform her that a litter of piglets has invaded my room and she is tempted to serve them for dinner!”
A girl—one of the Victorias, he thought, though he was damned if he could recall which—bounded upon the bed with enough energy to force a grunt from his lungs. “Uncle Christopher,” she said, “what does getting shot feel like?”
Uncle Christopher!
“Now, now, Victoria darling.” With an awkward laugh, Laurence attempted to shuffle his daughter off the bed. “Let’s not trouble Uncle Christopher with such talk. I’m certain he doesn’t wish to relive it.”
He was still living it. The wound might’ve closed, but the muscle beneath was still repairing itself. It’d be another week at least before he was sufficiently recovered. And Laurence had still seen fit to invade his sickroom, inflicting his spawn upon him.
“Laurence,” he said. “Any child not immediately removed from this room is going to receive a puppy. Courtesy ofUncle Christopher.”
“A puppy!” Victoria squealed, bouncing in delight as she turned toward her brother. “David, did you hear? We’re getting a puppy!”
“A puppy each,” Chris corrected, with a snide little notch of his chin.
To his credit, Laurence went just a bit pale. “Children,” he said. “Go find your mother at once.”
“But, Papa!”
“Right now, darling.” But as he was shepherding the children toward the door, Chris thought he heard the man mutter something beneath his breath that had sounded rather like, “Before the curst man throws a pony in as well,” as he shut the door behind them.
Which wasn’t a half-bad idea. “If you’ve come to visit in the spirit of brotherly…something,” Chris said, “consider yourself absolved thereof.”
Laurence snorted. “Not hardly. I’ve told Phoebe already, but I came to share the good news. Cynthia’s with child.”
Chris threw up his hands. “Who the hell is Cynthia?”
“Middle sister,” Laurence said. “Three down from Phoebe.”
Christ. Still more Toogoods, as if there weren’t a damned lotof them already. Chris scrubbed one palm over his face. “My felicitations,” he said. “Get out.”
“And,” Laurence said, stubbornly seating himself in the chair at the bedside. “I’m submitting your name for membership at my club.”
“What the hell would you do that for?”
“It’s more or less a family tradition. My father is a member, his father was a member. Even the men who’ve married in have become members—though those with existing memberships to more exclusive establishments have kept those as well.” Laurence scraped his hand through his tawny hair, a few shades darker than Phoebe’s. “It’s expected you’ll join,” he said. “You haven’t got another club, have you?”
