Devil's Bargain (12 page)

She did not for one minute believe that her family would condemn her. No, indeed, if she returned home with a rich, titled husband, her uncle certainly, but most likely her entire family would absolve her of any sin, real or imagined.

No, the father with her in hell was the man of her childhood. The man who was all powerful, all seeing,
and all knowing. He’d known when she was stealing blueberry tarts and beat her severely for it. He’d seen when she smiled at a handsome street boy with impish blue eyes; he had locked her in her room for three days for that. And when she watched him return from London drunk and broke, he’d glared at her and begun parading her in front of the sons of the rich parishioners—young men Lynette knew to be both spoiled and cruel.

It was only a chance discussion with the Earl of Songshire that had given her any other option. And yet, in her mind’s eye, she still saw her father condemning her, ordering her to be a good girl, a helpful girl, a silent, obedient slave to his desires. And beside him stood Lady Karen, equally condemning, as she whispered unfounded gossip into her father’s ear and then pointed an accusing finger right at Lynette’s breasts.

The very breasts that tingled every time her earbobs brushed against her shoulder.

This was hell.

But Lynette knew how to survive it. In truth, she had spent much of her life hiding her thoughts from her father’s parishioners, her family, her father. She simply told herself she was right and they were wrong. But because they were adults and, more often than not, they were men, not a one would listen to her. She had to accept being right in silence. In the end, she would be proved correct.

And usually she was.

But not this time. She couldn’t reach for that absolute faith, the certainty of her own position. Because she did not know her position.

Was she sinful, so steeped in shame and degradation
that even the most forgiving, most saintly among them would run screaming from the sight of her? Or was what she was doing, what she was experiencing, as glorious as it felt?

She had never been the center of such marked male attention before. Never had she seen such open admiration in men’s eyes. She even believed that some of the more foolish among them would leap to the heights of folly on her word alone.

It was a heady experience, having so much power.

That the women disdained her was equally amazing. Uncomfortable as it was, a part of her reveled in it. So much of her life had been spent in invisibility. Perhaps they looked at her askance, but for the first time in her entire life they actually
saw
her.

And there were enough men smiling at her to make up for the women’s envious glares. Or so she told herself.

So which was it? Was she right that these feelings, these sensations were as wonderful, as wholesome as singing in the meadow on a summer day? Or had she accepted the devil’s temptation, sliding down the black path into the maw of hell?

She didn’t know. So she sat, feeling the delicious whisper of her skirt along her legs, experiencing the tightening of her body as her earrings teased her shoulders, and all the while she smiled. It was her angelic smile, the one she put on for her father.

While inside she felt dark. Dirty. Shamed.

If nothing else, that alone told her this was wrong. She couldn’t continue. She didn’t care what happened to her. Even if her uncle barred the door to her, she would not continue with this plan. She could not.

The decision felt good somehow. Not wholesome
as much as solid. A settling of her future. Come what may, she had made a decision, taken control of her life. And that felt right. With that thought firmly planted in her mind, she focused on the stage, telling herself to enjoy the evening before telling the viscount of her decision.

She managed partially, and in the end she survived. And as they drove home in darkness, she closed her eyes, only too happy to shut out the baroness’s sullen grousing about the performance, the gentlemen, the lack of attention paid to older women. Then finally, blessedly, she climbed the stairs to her room, welcoming the silence that wrapped around her. At last she came to her bedroom window, staring out at the night as she pondered her decision.

What would it be like to live out there, on the street? If her uncle truly did bar the door to her, where would she go? What would she do? She didn’t know. Yet she was still determined. Even fear of becoming one of the lost women, starving in the streets, did not deter her. It was better than the hell she suffered now.

She turned away from the window, pacing the confines of her room. She had removed her gown and the earbobs, seeing them as part of her problem. She would not fully undress to go to bed, so she paced her room clad in her shift. A single candle burned on her nightstand, and as it flickered in the breeze, weird and terrible shadows danced upon the walls.

She stared at them, thinking of hell and wondering how she would tell the viscount what she had decided. He had put a great deal of money and time into her. Apparently there was even more riding on her excellent marriage for him.

Would he bellow? Would he strike her? She did not think so. And yet she was afraid. Afraid to stay. Afraid to tell him. And afraid to leave.

Hell.

“You are not in bed.”

She spun around, facing Marlock where he stood in the doorway between their adjoining rooms. How did he do that? she wondered. How did he slip into her room without the slightest sound?

“You did beautifully tonight,” he added. “Soon all the world will be at your feet.” He came forward, a warm smile on his face. He was always doing things like that. Reaching out to touch her for one reason or another. To congratulate her. To comfort her. To teach her.

She spun away, her voice tight and urgent. “My lord, we must speak.”

He stopped, his hand still outstretched. Slowly he let it fall to his side. “Has something upset you?”

She straightened, steeling herself to simply say it. “I find, my lord, that I cannot continue.” Then, before he could speak, she rushed onward, her words tumbling one after the other. “I understand that you have already spent an enormous amount of money on my upcoming marriage. My clothing alone”—she gestured to her full wardrobe—“is worth a small fortune. In addition, the baroness has spent a great deal of time training me.”

“Not to mention my time in preparing for your introduction into Society.” His voice was low and controlled, and she peered at him, wondering at his mood. His voice gave nothing away.

“Yes, of course,” she continued, though more
slowly. “I would offer to repay whatever funds you have expended. But…” Her voice trailed away.

“Neither you nor your family have near enough.”

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “Of course, whatever funds I can manage, I shall gladly give over to you.”

He nodded, but that was the only movement. “So,” he said, his tone almost casual, “you mean to leave? Without a rich husband? Without a way to help your sister or brother?”

She bit her lip, then nodded, her movement firm and decisive.

“Will your uncle take you back? You have been severely compromised, you know.”

“I know.” Then she did turn away, needing to hide how much her hands shook. “I shall have to find employment somewhere. At general labor, as you said. I can sew tolerably well. And my arithmetic is most excellent. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, I did. But no shop will employ a woman to cipher.”

She looked back at her hands, now gripped tightly together. “I was afraid of that. I suppose a governess position—”

“Unavailable to compromised women,” he interrupted.

She nodded, knowing he was correct. “Of course,” she said softly. “No one wants a fallen woman to teach moral rectitude, I expect.”

“No.”

She shrugged, wandering toward the window, once again looking out and wondering what it would be like out there. Alone.

Though her gaze remained on the darkened window,
her thoughts inevitably returned to the man behind her. He had not moved. Or so she thought. Then she heard him speak, his low tones originating from directly behind her left ear.

“You are quite determined in this?”

She did not hesitate. “It is the best thing for me.”

“Why?”

She bit her lip, wondering how much she could tell him. It was hard enough explaining this decision to herself, much less phrasing it in such a way that he might understand.

“Lynette,” he continued softly, “I believe I have promised to answer any of your questions honestly, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You may also say anything to me. Honestly. And you have my word I shall take whatever you have to say quite seriously. I can see you are upset.”

She shook her head. “No. I am determined. Determined that this should end.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Her voice trailed off, then suddenly the words exploded out of her. “Because it is wrong!”

There. She had said it. She waited a moment, but he did not respond. Indeed, the air was so thick with his silence that she turned around, needing to assure herself that he hadn’t quit the room.

He was there. A bare foot behind her, and his expression was so somber, his body so still, that for a moment she thought he was ill. Rarely had she seen him so…lacking in animation.

“My lord?”

“Why do you think it is wrong? Is this because of Lady Karen?”

For a moment she was tempted to answer yes.
Yes, because she embarrassed me when she was once my friend. And that hurt.
But that was not the real reason, and above all other things, the viscount required honesty.

“No, my lord—”

“Please call me Adrian,” he interrupted. “I weary of the formality between us.”

She hesitated but did not argue the point. “Very well, A-adrian.” She took a moment to refocus her thoughts. “That an old friend shunned me is painful, but my decision is based on something entirely different.”

When she stopped speaking, he merely raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue. In the end, she stopped struggling with her words. She simply dropped down in defeat on her bed, her words tumbling out as they would without censure from her mind.

“I feel wrong.” She gestured to her room and his. “
This
feels wrong.”

He nodded, coming down upon the bed to sit near her without touching her. “Feelings are very important. Many soldiers rely on their instincts to warn them of danger. Countless love sonnets have been written to immortalize adoration—”

“I am not looking for love,” she interrupted.

Lifting his chin, he challenged her with his dark eyes. “Aren’t you? Isn’t everyone?” Before she could respond, he waved his comment away. “That is not the issue right now. We are not discussing love. We are discussing how you feel. Can you put a name to it?”

“Wrong.”

He nodded, and she was strangely pleased that he took her concern seriously. Her father would have long since ordered her to obey and walked away. But Adrian actually seemed to think about her words. Her feelings.

“Change is always uncomfortable, Lynette. If one becomes used to one pattern, one way of living, then a change from that will inevitably feel unsettling. Wrong.”

She pushed up from the bed, needing to pace. “I understand unsettling. This is much more than a change in routine. It is not some childish whim!”

He stood as well. “I never said it was childish. I am merely seeking to understand.” He sighed, stepping quickly forward to grasp her hands, containing their anxious movements. “Please, Lynette, try to elaborate. How do you feel?”

The word came to mind quickly, easily. But she did not voice it.

He must have seen the thought on her face, because he squeezed her hands slightly, his words gentle but no less commanding. “Lynette, I have risked a great deal on you. You owe me an explanation at the very least.”

“Shameful.” The word came out loudly, harshly overlapping his last words. And then she spoke a second time, but in a whisper as her eyes slid away. “Full of shame.”

“For what you are doing? Or for what you are feeling?”

She did not want to cry, but the tears came nonetheless. She stared at his hands surrounding hers, but the image blurred. She felt the splash of tears on her skin.

“I see.” He did not move, but held her still as he spoke, pressing her hands as if he wished to impress his words on her. “Tell me, is stealing wrong?”

Lynette blinked, startled out of her thoughts. “What?”

“Is stealing wrong?”

“Well, yes. Of course it is.”

“And if you were to be caught stealing, you would feel ashamed.”

She nodded. “Naturally.”

“Naturally,” he echoed. “But what if a child was taken away from his parents and raised somewhere else. A village, perhaps, or an island where stealing is acceptable. Indeed, where theft from outsiders was the only way the people could survive. In fact, stealing was so important that the very best thieves were lauded as heroes, given great feasts, and became rulers of the island.”

“But that is ridiculous.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Truly? I believe some of our coastal towns make a practice of piracy. Luring unwary ships into hidden dangers so they may loot the spoils.”

She bit her lip. That was indeed true.

“Now, remember our boy? The one who was taken to live in such a place?”

She nodded.

“What if you caught him stealing. Would you consider him a shameful creature?”

She frowned, beginning to see the direction of his logic. “I would consider the town at fault for teaching him such values.”

He grinned, lifting her hands in his joy. “Exactly! So it is not entirely the boy’s fault.”

“Of course not. He knew no better.”

“And therefore the shame is on the villagers, on his instructors.” He paused, waiting until she looked directly into his eyes. “Is that correct, Lynette? The shame is not on the boy? But on the villagers?”

She paused, thinking through his words. Mulling them over. Eventually she nodded.

“In the same manner,” he said softly, “any shame for your actions or attire should be entirely on me. I am the one who is instructing you.”