Page 91 of The Devil's Pawn

He’s not in his study, nor in the drawing room. I eventually find him in the main commercial kitchen on the ground floor chatting to Danny, our head chef, about Nicholas’s wedding on October 4th, around eleven weeks from now. Elizabeth isn’t twenty-one until the third week of September, and although marriage is legal from age eighteen, her parents wanted to wait, and my father and Nicholas were happy to agree.

Two weddings in one year. It won’t be long before it’s Christian’s turn.

“Ah, there you are, Alexander.” Dad strolls over to me, motioning for me to walk with him. We enter the drawing room, and he gestures to the couch. “How did the trip go?”

“Fine.” I rub my eyes. “Tiring, though.”

“Why do you think I asked you to go?” He winks at me. “How is Imogen after her fall?”

“She’s fine. No concussion, just a few stitches and a bruised chin where the horse whacked her.”

“I’m glad it’s no worse. She’s lucky.” His eyes meet mine. “And how areyouand Imogen getting along?”

I hold his gaze. “We’re doing better.”

“She needed to settle in, that’s all. She’ll make a fine wife for you, as well as head of this household one day.”

“I’m sure,” I murmur.

“Do I have a grandchild on the way yet?” His eyes sparkle, and my heart twists. Lying to my father isn’t something I’m proud of, but even the debt I owe him for losing Annabel and Mum isn’t enough to force me to father a child. The world we live in is too dangerous, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. My siblings don’t feel the same as Ido about procreation, which means our family name is safe. Nicholas will probably impregnate Elizabeth while the guests are still eating the wedding cake.

“We’re working on it.”

Working, yes. Fulfilling… no.

“Good.Good.”

We fall into silence, which isn’t unusual for my father and me. It’s something we’re comfortable with, but on this occasion, the weight of it is heavy on my shoulders, and I have an overwhelming urge to leave. To return to my sleeping wife and curl up in her arms until morning.

“I should…”—I jerk my thumb at the door—“I should get back to Imogen.”

My father can’t hide his happiness. Beaming, he gets to his feet and shakes my hand. “Go, go. Give her my love.”

Imogen is still fast asleep when I slip back into her bedroom. I get undressed and peel back the covers. She rolls over, makes this adorable, contented sigh, then wraps an arm around my waist.

“Sleep well, my pretty little pawn.” I kiss her forehead and promptly fall asleep.

Getting an uninterrupted night’s sleep isn’t something that happens to me unless it’s a crash after several nights of insomnia, which is why my first thought when I open my eyes the next morning is one of shock.

Hours ago, I climbed into bed beside my wife, but after that, I don’t remember a thing until this moment right here.

Even more surprising is the time. Nine thirty-five. I never sleep this late.

“You’re awake.”

I turn my head. Imogen is beaming at me like I solved world hunger and fixed the climate all before breakfast.

“I’ve been lying here waiting for you to open your eyes. Your snoring is so loud, you could fill in as a trombonist in an orchestra.”

“I do not snore.”

“Oh, Mr. De Vil, I’m sorry to tell you that you do. It must be your advancing years.”

Her teasing lights the dark corners that all too often consume me. Pinning her to the bed, I tickle her. She shrieks and begs for mercy, but I don’t stop. I’m having far too much fun. More fun, in fact, than I have ever had with a lover.

Come to think of it, I’ve never once tickled a bedmate, or laughed with them, or been engulfed by the most miraculous feelings. What if they’re temporary, and tomorrow, I return to the same empty husk I’ve been since I lost my sister and mother within the space of two weeks?

Imogen hiccoughs, her hands flailing as she desperately tries to stop the tickling. “Mercy, please!”

---