Devil's Bargain (10 page)

“Your opinions are written all over you. Can you
not understand that a woman must hide her thoughts? Men do not wish to be thought idiots.”

“Then they should not act as idiots.” They were in the drawing room, practicing inane banter, and a more ridiculous pastime she could not possibly imagine.

“Really, Lynette, you are a minister’s daughter. Have you not had to sit and listen to stupidities all the day long?”

Lynette sighed. “Of course I have.”

“Then why cannot you master it here?”

Lynette threw up her hands in disgust. She was being contrary and she knew it. But she could not stop herself. “I do not understand what this has to do with the getting of a husband. I have no intention of marrying a halfwit. Why should I learn how to converse with one?”

“Good God, Lynette, surely you know by now that one’s intentions and reality are vastly different things.”

“Of course I do,” she answered just as impatiently. “But surely I have some choice in the matter.” In fact, the viscount had promised her just that. “You cannot say this banter is how you caught the baron, can you?”

“I?” the woman gasped. “No, girl, I chose for the most ridiculous of all reasons. I chose for
love.”
She spat out the word as if it were bad meat.

Lynette stilled, surprised as much by the baroness’s words as by her bitter tone.

“I was a silly girl who fancied herself in love. We married, I might add, with my family’s blessing, which goes to show what idiots we all were.” She sighed and leaned back against the cushions of her chair. “Lynette, the union was a disaster.”

“But why? Did he not love you?”

“Goodness, girl, what passes in a woman for love and what a man feels are entirely different things. A man’s love is a thing of the loins. Once that is satisfied, a man’s love focuses on position and power in society. That is what I am trying to teach you. How to be a gracious lady. How to maintain your husband’s position in society.”

Lynette tried to understand, but the questions kept coming. “But if you knew these things, if you did these things for your husband, why was your marriage a disaster?”

The baroness didn’t answer at first. Instead, she took her time setting aside her embroidery, standing and crossing to the bottles of spirits she always kept nearby. “In my case,” she said stiffly, “my husband had additional requirements in a wife. Now,” she said firmly, as she poured herself a glass of sherry, “please say the following phrase in French: Oh, my, sir—you are witty in the extreme!”

So went the rest of her day. They did not stop at dinner. Indeed, if anything, the baroness increased her criticism during mealtime. It made for an inedible dinner and a pounding headache. Added to that were body aches from constantly sitting erect, and Lynette had never been more grateful to see her bed.

It might have been easier if the viscount had been home. Though his opinion on how she might catch a husband could very well add more confusion, she still valued his words more than the others’. She couldn’t say why, but what he thought seemed vastly more important.

Perhaps it was because he had successfully launched
six girls before her. Or it could pertain to his gender and position in the aristocracy.

Unfortunately, he had been distinctly absent throughout the day. It was very late when she at last heard him come home. She was exhausted from head to toe, and yet she remained awake, relieved to hear his measured steps upon the stairs, and then counting the seconds until he entered her bedchamber.

She did not have to wait long. A bare ten seconds passed before he opened her door, standing stock still, as if listening to her sleep.

But she was not asleep, so she shifted, turning to look at him. “My lord?”

“Are you feeling better, Lynette?”

She answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Do you think you will be able to sleep without nightmares tonight?”

She took longer to answer, but when she spoke she was sure. “I should be fine tonight.”

“Good,” he said on a sigh. “Then rest now. You will begin the Season as soon as your clothing arrives. Take your sleep now while you can.”

She blinked, needing a moment to absorb his words. Then, suddenly she was sitting upright in bed, barely remembering to draw the covers up with her.

“So soon?” she gasped, unaccountably torn between excitement and dismay. “Surely there is more for me to learn.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. He looked tired. Perhaps his tutelage taxed his strength more than it appeared. “My aunt feels your manners are still rough but adequate. Your clothing is all that remains.”

“But I cannot begin a Season now! I haven’t learned how to catch a husband.”

He had been turning away but stopped at her last comment. “How to catch a husband?”

She bit her lip. Had she just said that? Seeing his shocked expression, she realized she must have. “That is the whole point, is it not? To catch a rich husband.”

When he spoke, his voice was filled with a rich humor that warmed her. “You need not concern yourself with that, Lynette. I assure you, you will ‘catch’ a husband.”

“But—”

“Enough, Lynette. You are the student. Allow the tutor to plan his lessons in peace.” He left her then, softly closing the door between their two rooms.

I haven’t learned how to catch a husband.

Lynette’s words echoed through Adrian’s mind as he walked to his bed. Good God, what an unusual woman she was. He was not sure how, but sometime between yesterday and today Lynette had accepted her situation. More than accepted it, she had embraced it.

That is the whole point, is it not?

He grinned into the darkness. Yes, it was the whole point, but to have her state it so baldly so soon after her ordeal…Well, he thought, as he stripped off his tie, that boded well for the coming Season.

Yet something about her attitude disturbed him.

He turned and stared at her closed door. True, he had been the one to close it, but suddenly he realized that perhaps she had already begun closing it. Lynette was a very bright girl. The only thing that kept her bound to him was her ignorance. But in
the coming days she would learn quickly, and likely learn very well.

Lord, none of his other girls had even looked at his book on investing until he insisted. But Lynette had not only finished it—in a day, no less—but already taken another. He’d seen it on her nightstand. When had she become so practical? So…eager?

But then, what had he expected? Lynette had come to him of her own free will. She hadn’t been thrown at him by some desperate parent. Only Lynette had been bold enough to inquire as to whether the baroness—for the letter had perforce been addressed to her—would be interested in sponsoring a minister’s daughter for a Season.

So his little Lynette was bright indeed. And practical. And adventurous. What would happen when she learned all she needed to take London by storm? Would he have any control over her? She had already managed to make him promise to give her the ultimate choice of husband. What other concessions would she wrest from him? What concessions would she take whether he allowed them or not?

He settled into his bed with a growing sense of uneasiness. If she was determined upon this course, how would he guide her? How would he stop her if she aimed for her own destruction?

He had seen it before. In Audra. And though Lynette bore little resemblance to his first girl, they were alike in one critical area. When Audra at last accepted her situation, she’d closed him out of her thoughts and fears. She’d no longer confided in him. True, she’d accepted his tutelage, but in the end she made her own way without thought to the cost to her soul.

And of all his girls, she was the one who looked at him with emptiness in her eyes. There was no connection between the two of them, only the bitter loss of innocence.

Though he accepted his failure with Audra, the thought of that coldness between him and Lynette was horrifying. But how could he stop it?

It might already be too late, he realized with a sickening dread. His only hope was to keep her off balance. To push her hard, teaching her more than she could absorb. And, with luck, she would be wed long before she came to hate him.

Sighing, he settled into his bed, the ache in his body in no way comparing to the ache in his soul. Many had accused him of heartlessness, and at times he almost believed it himself. But the truth was that he grieved for each girl, mourning what he had to do to them even as he embarked upon the task. Then, weeks, sometimes months later, he wept at each wedding.

With Lynette, it was different. Their connection had developed faster, ran deeper. He could hold no distance from his task with her. He suffered her every indignity, her every pain, as he had not done with any of the others.

So, if he wept for his other girls, what would Lynette’s wedding bring? What type of pain would he face then?

Depressed, he curled his body around a cold pillow and sighed. It did not matter what he felt. Whatever lay before them, Lynette’s path was set.

As was his own.

We will go to the opera tonight. The baroness will choose your gown.

M

Lynette took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She was to go to the opera tonight? He had told her—three nights ago—that she would be introduced to society soon. But she had thought her clothing would take longer to finish. She had thought that she would learn more about the catching of a husband. But she’d only learned more about deportment, not men.

Beside her, the baroness leaned over her shoulder to read the missive, then grunted as she sat down to her morning tea.

“He’s rushing you. I told him you were not quite ready, but he’s anxious.”

Lynette turned to her companion. “You don’t think I am ready?”

The baroness shook her head. “You are much too
forward, your manners too rough. Good Lord, girl, you still have hair on your legs.” She shook her head, her disgust plain. “But he must rush it.”

Lynette frowned, trying to keep pace with the conversation. “Hair on my legs?”

The older woman waved away her question. “You’ll find out. This afternoon. I had scheduled you a dancing lesson, but he is in a hurry.” She sighed as she took another sip of her tea. “I suppose it’s because you are his last. He’s anxious to get it over with.”

Again, Lynette found herself repeating the baroness’s comment as a question. “His last?”

The baroness didn’t answer at first. She was busy spreading jam on her morning bread. Eventually she spoke, though her attention seemed distracted. “Marry well, Lynette. The money will finally put his lands in order. Or so he says.”

“He has land? Outside of London?”

“Entailed. And a moldering pile of rubbish if there ever was one. But he has been working with it. Doing what he can.” The woman looked up abruptly, her light blue eyes hard as they focused on her. “But only if you marry well. With your money, he plans to quit this wretched bride service and become a proper lord.” She slanted a look at her charge. “Marry poorly, Lynette, and likely we shall all be tossed into debtor’s prison.”

Given the fierceness of the baroness’s expression, Lynette did not doubt the seriousness of their situation. Especially given the state of the larder when she first arrived.

“All his income has gone into his estate?”

“Aye. And don’t forget that when he’s showing you off tonight.” She rose up from her chair. “Come
along. I suppose we should just take care of that hair. I know it sounds odd, but he learned it from one of his foreign friends. Says men like smooth skin, especially on the legs.”

“But I don’t understand—” Her words were cut off as the baroness tugged on her arm, lifting her out of her seat.

“Don’t question. Just endure.”

Lynette knew she ought to feel grateful for the distractions the baroness provided. She ought to be thankful that the woman kept her so busy with beauty tips that she did not have time to dwell on the coming evening.

She ought to, but she didn’t. Right then, as the baroness ripped hot wax and half the skin off her legs, Lynette was completely miserable.

“Aaaiii!”

“Men like smooth, delicate legs.”

Lynette stared down at her reddening flesh. “What are you doing?”

It was a rhetorical question. She completely understood what was happening. The baroness was smoothing more hot wax on her legs. In actual fact, it was quite a pleasant sensation. Smooth. Warming. Delightful.

Then the woman again pressed a sturdy piece of cloth on top of the wax and, without warning, ripped the entire thing off. It took half the skin on Lynette’s leg with it.

“Ouch! Baroness, please, is this truly necessary?”

Grunting from her exertions, the lady glared at her. “Do you think I would do this if it weren’t necessary?” She leaned backward with a huff, brushing the
hair out of her eyes. “Believe me, this has been extraordinarily helpful. Occasionally the suitors like to touch your ankle. You should see their eyes when they realize you have gone without stockings. And that your skin is as a smooth as your…as a baby’s bottom.” She straightened, reaching for more wax. “We’ve cinched many a deal that way.”

“But no man will touch my legs. At least not until after we are wed. Surely it is too soon for you to—Ow!” Lynette huffed, looking down at her reddened legs. Then she frowned as she inspected them more closely. Truly, they did look…nicer.

“Be thankful I am stopping at your thighs. That other hair hurts like the devil when removed.”

Lynette frowned as she tried to think what other hair the lady could mean. Abruptly, she felt her eyes widen. “You cannot mean…”

“I can and I do.” Then the baroness relented, placing her hands on her hips as she stared at Lynette. “As I said,” she commented gently, “some grooms have particular tastes. But not to worry. We will not do that today. Perhaps not ever.” She leaned forward. “But you should be aware of it, Lynette. It is all part and parcel of keeping your husband entertained. Sometimes they like it for variety’s sake.” She returned to her task, applying more wax with a firm stroke.

“I always thought entertainment was singing. Opera. Parties,” Lynette said, her voice sullen. “This”—she gestured to her throbbing leg—“is not at all what I thought.”

“This is for
his
entertainment, girl. Not yours.” The baroness reached for the cloth strip. “You listen to me. Men like change. They like innovation and different
experiences. If you do not wish your husband to look elsewhere for entertainment…” She pinned Lynette with a steady regard. “And believe me, you don’t. Then you must be a thousand different women. Every night he will want something different. Something unique. This is one of your tools.”

“But, still,” Lynette began as she gripped the edge of her bed, “you cannot believe that removing hair…
there…
is necessary.”

“Certainly not for a clergyman’s daughter. But for one of the viscount’s girls? Absolutely. Though not at this moment. Now be silent.” The baroness leaned down and Lynette tried to prepare herself for the pain. “We have not yet started on your face.”

And so it continued. Lynette began to think fondly of the canceled dancing lesson as she was dumped unceremoniously into a cold bath.

“Cold water freshens the skin,” she was told.

Then she was covered in a heavily perfumed oil that made her sick.

“Perhaps you are right. This scent is too strong.”

Re-bathed in cold water.

Had her hair tugged and crimped and pulled by the baroness.

“Your hair is too flat. You must learn to lift it by means of pins, ties, glue, if necessary. But get it up!”

And then, finally, blessedly, allowed to don her dress.

“Dress quickly, Lynette. His lordship does not like to be kept waiting.”

Lynette nodded wearily. She was already exhausted and the evening had not yet begun. But then she saw the gown.

“What is this?” she gasped.

“Your dress, of course.”

Lynette stared, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. “It…it…it is indecent!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” returned the baroness as she held up the slim blue gown. “You picked out the style yourself.”

“Of course I did!” returned Lynette hotly. “The design is lovely. But I wanted the gray silk, not…not pale blue that any candlelight will show through!”

“Gray!” The baroness pulled a disgusted face. “None of the Marlock women have ever appeared in gray. Not even old Great-aunt Matilda. Come, come, put it on. The viscount will be here soon.”

Lynette eyed the thin material with horror. She might as well go out in her shift. The blue fabric was as thin as a poor fisherman’s net.

“Do not be difficult,” the baroness warned. “It is a beautiful color.”

Lynette could not disagree. It was indeed a beautiful blue. Even in the gloomy evening light, the dress seemed to shimmer. By candlelight it would practically glow, drawing every eye to her. Unless, of course, she stood directly in front of a candelabra. In that case, every eye would be watching her naked body.

“Is there not—”

“Put it on,” the baroness said sternly. Her face softened. “Trust me. It’s perfect.”

What choice did she have? Lynette sighed and donned the dress. Her only prayer was that none of her father’s parishioners frequented the London opera. If anyone she knew saw her in this dress, she would die of mortification.

She wore no jewelry. Simply the dress, pale slippers, and her hair piled high upon her head. And the
cosmetics the baroness applied to her eyes, her cheeks, and her lips.

“Perfect,” the baroness at last said, and put away the paint pot. “Now stand.”

Feeling more like a doll than a person, Lynette did as she was bid.

The older woman walked in circles around Lynette, assessing her from all angles. “Just remember to keep your mouth shut. A silent woman is a mysterious woman. And men like quiet girls. Unless, of course, you are complimenting their prowess. They adore that. But for tonight, merely smile and be alluring.”

Lynette abruptly lifted her gaze to the baroness, but the woman forestalled her.

“I know you have no inkling of how to be alluring. That is Adrian’s task. As for my part, I have done all I can.”

And with that, the baroness quit the room. For a moment it sounded to Lynette as if the older woman was washing her hands of her charge. Or throwing her to the wolves, perhaps.

She stood in the middle of the room; finally, blessedly alone. She breathed in deeply, but not too deeply for fear of straining the tight fabric of her bodice. Then she exhaled, trying to relax along with the movement.

Not possible.

She was about to go to the opera! It was a centerpiece of the
ton.
A place where the elite gathered to engage in discourse, to plan the affairs of state, to discuss the latest gown style. And likely, she thought with a slight twitch to her lips, to gossip about who was going to marry whom.

And she would be there!

The thought was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. She would be there! In this dress! Practically naked for everyone to see her many faults.

For the first time she wished she had another year’s worth of lessons. The baroness could not possibly have taught her everything she would need to know. And worse than that, Lynette now realized she remembered a bare fraction of what she had been told. She would be a laughingstock! They would all be thrown in debtor’s prison.

Lynette spun around, wanting to pace the room to ease some of the tension coiling in her belly, but she could not. She might disturb her coif. She could not sit for fear of creasing the Naked Dress, as she had come to call it in her mind. Why, she could not even fan herself for fear of somehow dislodging the cosmetics on skin!

So she stood in the middle of the room and worried.

What if no one saw her tonight? What if they saw her and laughed? What if they were appalled? What if she had nothing to say? Or worse, said the wrong thing? Would there be any bachelors at the opera? Well, of course there would be bachelors, she admonished herself. London was filled with young bucks about the town. But would there be any
eligible
bachelors, ones suited to her purpose?

And what if—

“Good God, you are stunning.”

She spun around at the viscount’s voice. But before she could speak, she felt her hair tip precariously to one side. She quickly raised her hand to hold it in place but did not know how much force to apply. In fact, as the viscount entered her bedroom, her hands
were fluttering about her hair, wondering what, if anything, she could do.

Thankfully, the viscount reached out and grasped her hands, pulling them down to hold before him. “No, no. Your hair is perfect. Don’t touch it.”

“Oh!” she said, her gaze hopping anxiously from his face to the mirror and back again. “I don’t know what to do—”

“Hush,” he whispered. “You are perfect. Step back and let me look at you.”

She did as told, her hands slipping from his grasp as she moved. Her steps were tiny and her gaze firmly downcast. Despite the viscount’s compliments, Lynette felt shy. He was merely saying nice things to bolster her confidence, not because they were true. She worried that with one false move she would shatter the image.

She worried any number of things, but mostly she simply felt strange and awkward, as if her body were no longer her own.

“Look at me.”

It took more self-discipline than she expected, but in the end she forced herself to raise her gaze. She saw first Marlock’s dark trousers, black and crisp, beautifully outlining the corded muscles of his thighs. Her eyes skimmed over his black coat and snowy white cravat. She saw instead his trim waist and his broad shoulders. A few inches more and she noted his black hair curling around his ear, the locks cut in a fashionable style that she could not name. Finally she came to his face. His lips were curved into a soft smile, but it was his eyes that captured her gaze. They seemed to burn into her. It was just a trick of the
firelight, but in truth, it did not matter. His gaze was filled with an admiration that literally glowed.

And it was trained on her.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“You,” she whispered. “Only you.”

His smile grew, curving upward and drawing her gaze to his lips. “And I see only you.” Then he stepped closer, his hand outstretched. She did not even think, but placed her fingers into his. He drew her to the mirror, standing behind her as he turned her to face her reflection. But she did not see herself. Instead she saw him, standing behind her, his hands lightly resting on her arms as his thumbs stroked her skin.

“Do you see it?” he whispered in her ear. “Do you see what all the men will be staring at tonight?”

He reached out and lifted her chin, turning it slightly to the right.

“Do you see the creamy expanse of your skin? Do you see how your breasts are caressed by the fabric, yet still high and full? You are gorgeous.”

She felt it.

“You shimmer, and the merest glance from you will set a man on fire.”

She blushed at his words. She could not help it. The thought that she, a minister’s daughter, could set a man on fire seemed ludicrous. But then his hands stroked her arms, trailing heat along her skin. He leaned even closer, and his lips touched her ear, while his breath skated inside, making her gasp.