Page 53 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
And she hadn’t even gotten to all her nieces and nephews yet. “Cynthia,” she said, “has got four children at present. Including one of the Victorias and one of the Williams. Laurence has got a Victoria, a William, a David, and one of the Georges.”
“And two others besides?”
“At least until his wife conceives again.”
A muffled groan. “What is the use in committing any of this to memory when it’s likely to change again ere long?” From beneath the burnished gold of his lashes he cracked one eye open. “Just how many children are born to your family in the average year?”
An odd little laugh bubbled up in her throat. “Do you know, I’ve never considered it. There were two last year, but then four the year prior—”
“Birthdays must come damned close to bankrupting the Toogoods as a whole,” he said. “And that’s to say nothing of Christmases.”
Oh, he was going toloatheChristmas. Hours and hours of children running amok, wading through a drawing room so stuffed with gifts that it was practically impossible to set foot inside. Wrapping paper thick as London fog drifting through the air in shreds. Last year they’d lost track of one of the Williams for at least an hour, only to find the boy curled up behind a stack of presents that had obscured him from view, having a nap.
Probably best not to mention it. Toogood family functions had long had an extraordinary tendency toward chaos, increasing exponentially with each new child added into the mix. She had always enjoyed them—for a few days at a time. Perhapsas much as a week on the outside.
But there was a tangible relief to be found in knowing that when they had concluded, she would return once again to a house of her own which was largely quiet and peaceful.
“God, that feels good,” he said of the delicate scratch of her fingernails, his voice deepened to a husky murmur—almost a purr. His back arched in a stretch as he slid one arm beneath his head, his palm warm against her thigh. “’Ow many books ‘ave I got now?”
“At least several dozen,” she said, though she’d not made a count. “And one more in addition, when you return my copy ofPride and Prejudice. Haven’t you finished it yet?”
“Finished it weeks ago. I’ll give it back when I’m good and ready.” His jaw clenched against a yawn.
“And how did you find it?”
“Somewhat less insipid than I’d expected, but still rather saccharine for my tastes. ‘Ave you got anything that isn’t romantic drivel?” He turned his head to redirect her fingers toward the back of his neck.
“I have gotA Modest Proposal,” she said dryly. “You’d like that one. It’s a satirical essay upon the merits of eating babies.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.” In fact, she had purchased it precisely because it was the sort of thing she’d imagined would amuse him excessively. “Of course, it’s quite old now, but it is still classic example of satire. It would give you something to discuss with the other gentlemen at the club.”
“Ugh.” He pulled a face reminiscent of a child urged to eat his vegetables. “No escaping that, is there?”
“Likely not. But at least you’ll have company.” That, and if he could somehow bring himself to make friends—or at least acquaintances—of the other members of the club, he’d find himself in better standing within society. Probably he had noidea just how much business was done within them, how many relationships had been forged over a game of cards or dice.
“If I have got to have a club,” he said glumly, “I’d prefer it to be Rafe’s. But I suppose if it’s family tradition…” A sigh, half petulant, half exasperated. “Never had those.”
Because he’d never had much of a family, she supposed. At least until recently. “Didn’t Laurence tell you?” she asked. “He and Rafe are members of the same club. Along with Rafe’s brother and brother-in-law.” But it warmed her, somehow, that he would have condescended to join her brother’s club—even if it wouldn’t have been one of his choosing.
“Hm,” he said, and with a gesture of his free hand as he added magnanimously, “I suppose that’s all right, then.” His fingers smothered a yawn. “Read to me,” he commanded. “I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”
“You’d sleep more comfortably in bed,” she admonished lightly, even as she reached for her discarded book.
“I would,” he said in sullen acknowledgment. “I called for you, but you didn’t answer.”
Because she’d been two floors down, on the opposite side of the house, and behind the closed door of the library. And yet, he’d gotten out of bed, gotten himself dressed—if haphazardly, in nothing more than a pair of plain linen trousers and a shirt he hadn’t bothered to tuck in—and come down to find her?
Only toreadto him?
She thought about inquiring of it, and just as quickly dismissed the idea when his shoulders tensed with another yawn. He was asleep within a page, snoring lightly, head nestled comfortably on her lap.
And she hadn’t even had the chance to call him Kit.
∞∞∞
“You’re a damned fool, and you’re going to get shot again.”
