Page 12 of The Devil in Her Bed
“Yes, but—”
“I’m no shrinking violet.” Cecelia stood to her full height, appearing, even in her corset and drawers, a broad-shouldered Valkyrie. Beautiful, strong, and devastating to any man who would cross her. Her lashes, however, swept down over shy cheeks. “Not anymore, at least.”
Her argument might have meant more if she weren’t wearing violet, which happened to be her favorite color. But no, nothing about Cecelia was shrinking; in fact, her figure had become fuller than ever now that she’d been applying herself to enjoying life with her Lord Chief Justice fiancé, a monstrous large man with determination and appetite to match.
“Not all men are the grotesque goblins you consort with, Frank,” Alexandra, the Duchess of Redmayne, teased from where she selected an assortment of chocolates from a dish.
Francesca’s mouth twisted wryly. “You know, I’m no great hater of men. I just…”
“Detest them?” Cecelia proffered helpfully.
“Despise them?” Alexandra chimed in.
She rolled her eyes at them both. “Distrust them.”
“As you well should, of course.” Alexandra bustled over to Francesca to pluck at a ribbon that had become tangled in her chemise. “However, it’s interesting to note that all of us have been betrayed by women, as well as men, and have learned they can be twice as vicious if need be.”
“An excellent point,” Cecelia agreed. “Women make just as fine heroes as men, but I daresay the inverse is true as well. They are fantastic villains.” She turned to the mirror, smoothing hands over her curves. “I’ll take this moment to remind you both that many women gossip and talk about frivolous things whilst being fitted for an engagement ball, rather than secret societies, villains, and suspicion.”
Alexandra, her wealth of dark curls shining auburn in the spectacular sunlight, squeezed Francesca’s arm with gentle reproof. “We are sorry, aren’t we, Frank?”
“Yes,” she muttered as the modiste swept in with a few of her assistants, pouring a confection of cream silk and lace over Cecelia and molding it to her curves.
“You do look like a goddess,” Francesca marveled. “I’m an utter ass.”
Cecelia’s sapphire eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile. “You’re a dear to worry for me.” She turned to Alexandra. “Ramsay’s your brother-in-law, Alexander. You don’t share Francesca’s worries about him, do you?”
“It’s not that I worry about the man,” Francesca cut in before Alexandra could reply. “It’s only… are you certain you want to marry so soon? That you can keep both your husband and the business he so detests without him forcing you to choose between them?”
Alexandra twisted her perfectly formed lips into a contemplative posture, guiltily glancing down at the floor. “Not to be a hypocrite, Cecil, but youdohave the luxury of a long engagement if you need it.”
Cecelia glanced back and forth from Alexandra, who’d had all but a daylong engagement to her duke, and then to Francesca, who never slept in the same bed twice. “Do you two doubt me?”
“Of course not!” Alexandra reached for her.
“I do not doubt your ability, your brilliance, or your heart, dear,” Francesca clarified, “only I—weworry that your expectation to both live in marital bliss and maintain your personal sovereignty is a bit… optimistic, that’s all.”
Cecelia pouted, an unintentionally sultry gesture. “Naive, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“She didn’t say that out loud,” Alexandra corrected helpfully.
“When didoptimisticandnaivebecome synonymous?” Cecelia huffed. “Can a woman not hope for happiness, fulfillment, and love without being made to feel that she isn’t cynical enough for the trends of the day?”
“I don’t want you to be cynical,” Francesca argued. “Just… careful. In the span of a few months, you found out you had a wealthy aunt who owned the mostsuccessful gambling hell in London and half of the ton’s darkest secrets. You’ve been shot at, kidnapped, betrayed by a close friend, and your business burned to the ground.” She ticked these recent events off on her fingers. “You made an enemy, and then a fiancé, of one of the surliest, most unyielding, ill-tempered Scots in the empire—”
“Let us not forget handsome, loyal, rich, and generous—” Cecelia cut in, defending her lover.
“And then you’ve agreed to marry him even though he still does not want you to rebuild the establishment—”
“—as well as a school and employment placement program for displaced women—” Cecelia corrected.
“Also, the investigation into who imprisoned those girls in your cellar isn’t exactly tied up, if you’ll pardon the expression. I mean we’ve found the procurer of the children, but not who intended to buy them. Don’t you think a wedding on top of all that is too much too soon?”
Cecelia shook her head vehemently. “It’s too little, too late, if I’m honest.”
“How do you figure?”
