Devil's Bargain (4 page)

He must have heard the bitterness in her tone, for his frown was quick and dark. “It is no sin to despise someone else’s squalling brats. You are far from unnatural for that.”

She looked down at her hands, relief flooding her that he did not despise her oddity. “I thought,” she confessed without thought, “that an older husband would prevent the conception of children.”

“You are a surprise,” he said quietly. So quietly, in fact, that her gaze flew to his face, wondering if he mocked her. He did not. Indeed, if anything, his expression was pensive. Almost admiring. “That was
well thought out, though uninformed. There are ways to prevent conception with any man, young or old.”

While she was still confused by his accepting attitude, he reached out to touch her. With the tips of his fingers he stroked her cheek, and she felt his caress like a brand.

Abruptly, she jerked her head backward and would have stepped away from him, but he grabbed her arm and held her fast.

“Do not run from my touch.”

His hand was like steel around her arm, and she tugged, but his fingers remained solid. “My lord!” she exclaimed. “You are hurting me.”

He did not soften by the smallest margin. If anything, he seemed to grow larger, dominating her without seeming to move. “Then do not fight me.”

“Then do not touch me!” she exclaimed.

He laughed. The sound did not warm her. “I shall touch you a great deal,” he said. “Understand that now, Lynette. You may not shy away from me, turn from me, or so much as lift a hand to forestall me. You have much to learn, and I am your only teacher.”

She glowered at him, her heart hammering. “You are not my husband! You have no right—”

“Quite the contrary,” he interrupted, his voice low and threatening. Her struggles had pulled them close enough together that she could feel his breath heat her face. “It is time we came to an understanding, Lynette,” he whispered. “Last night I was patient. Not today.”

She trembled at his words, thrown by his methods. He did not bellow like her father. Nor did he stomp or crash about to make his point. Looking into the
brilliant blue of his eyes, Lynette knew a moment of true fear. Where her father was like a hammer, large and brutal when defied, Viscount Marlock reminded her of a rapier blade. Surgically precise in everything he did, she feared he could cut much more deeply than her father ever had.

She trembled in spite of herself. Still, she did not give in. And he did not release her.

They continued as such for an inordinate amount of time: he gazing down into her eyes, she glaring right back. But eventually she felt herself weakening. His will seemed to beat upon her senses. He was stronger and more powerful in so many ways. How could she fight him?

At last she went limp, nodding her acknowledgment. “Perhaps you are correct. We should discuss our understanding.”

“Good,” he said softly, and then released her. Instinctively she rubbed the spot on her arm his hand had held. Had it only been one hand? Was that all he needed to bend her to his will?

Shame flooded her face with heat. Had she so little self-respect that she crumpled the moment he grew angry? No! She regarded him firmly, coldly. “You are not my husband. Nor am I your slave. You have no right to my person. I have set your kitchen to rights. I have stocked your larder—with my own money, by all accounts. These tasks I have and will continue to perform. But you have no leave to my body, and you will not touch me again.” She paused to make sure he understood the level of her determination. “That is my understanding.”

She had meant to walk away, but she didn’t. She
lingered the merest fraction of a second to level one last haughty stare at him, and in that moment’s pause, she was caught.

“Have you ever been kissed?”

She blinked, thrown by the question.

“I am still your teacher, am I not?” he asked before she could frame her own question. Then he began to walk around her, forcing her to turn to see him. “That is part of our bargain, is it not? That I shall teach you how to capture a rich husband?”

She nodded slowly, sensing a trap, but unable to fathom exactly where the danger lay. “Yes, my lord,” she finally said. “You have been hired to instruct me.”

He released an abrupt laugh. “How clever you are with words, student. So, I am a hired employee? Very well; I shall accept that characterization for the moment. And what, do you suppose, shall be the nature of my instruction?”

Lynette hesitated. Isn’t that exactly what she had been trying to discover? What was to happen to her? How was she to ensnare a husband?

“You do not know, do you?” His voice was gentler now, but no less commanding. “Of course you do not know. Because you are the student, and I am the teacher.” He leaned almost casually against the wall, but she was not fooled. His eyes remained dark and focused. “And as such, you are merely required to learn.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I shall add one additional requirement: You must always be honest with me.”

She glanced up, startled.

“Ah, I see I have surprised you. Most tutors merely require their pupils to echo back what they have
learned. These students become parrots, mimicking their instructors’ knowledge as if it was their own. Those are bad instructors.” He was warming to his theme, straightening as he took a step toward her. “I require more.”

He stopped and searched her face, gauging her reaction.

She held her tongue. Not for the world could she have spoken. Her mind was in too much chaos for her to form the words.

“In order for me to know if you understand your lessons, you must tell me what you think. What you
feel
.” His voice dropped with that last word, taking on a husky timbre, as if it had special meaning. But she did not understand it, nor did she comprehend the tightening in her body, the pure physical reaction to his words.

“That is all, Lynette. I require your honesty, and that you allow me to teach you.”

She nodded, her throat inexplicably dry. It made logical sense. But what did that have to do with his unconscionable liberties with her person?

“Say the words, Lynette, so I know you understand. Say you agree.”

“I agree to be completely honest with you. I shall tell you my thoughts and express my feelings to the best of my ability.” She had no fear of speaking her mind. If he wished for her honest and frank opinions, he would get them and suffer the consequences.

“And what of my instruction? Will you allow me to teach you as you need to be taught?”

She lifted her chin. “Of course I shall allow your instruction. It is my”—she searched for the appropriate word—“obligation to you. Because I want a wealthy
husband.” She swallowed. Indeed, the truth was that she
needed
to find a wealthy husband if her brother and sister were to have a chance at a real life.

He grinned. It was the first true smile she had ever seen on his face. It made him sinfully handsome. His features lightened, his eyes sparkled, and the curling disarray of his dark hair gave him an air of rakishness. “Well said, Lynette. Now, listen carefully. My instruction requires me to touch you, and you have just pledged to allow it.”

“No—” she said, but then suddenly knew it was true. This was the trap she had sensed but could not see.

“Oh, yes.” Abruptly, he softened. “But I do not wish you to fear me.” He stepped near, once again stroking her cheek until she looked directly into his eyes. “I will give you this pledge: I shall never touch you in anger, and I shall never hurt you.”

She saw the truth in his eyes, but still she felt cornered, trapped. Betrayed. “And will you also pledge to answer my questions truthfully? Whatever I ask of you?”

He nodded slowly, as if he was considering the question from all angles. She did not care how long he considered, so long as he agreed.

“I will give you such truth as I understand it. You will indeed have many questions in the coming days. Be assured I shall never lie to you, but know also that there are things that are…difficult to explain.” A mischievous twinkle entered his eyes. “Perhaps you require a pledge?” He straightened, placing his hand upon his chest in a formal gesture. “I pledge my word as Viscount Marlock that whatever you ask, I shall answer truthfully.”

That was exactly what she wished to hear. “So, if I ask if your touches are part of my instruction…”

“Then I shall answer honestly and in absolute truth that they are.”

He looked at her, and she held his gaze. Eye to eye, they made their bargain, and Lynette knew that whatever arrangement had begun the moment she entered London, she had just deepened it, made it more binding.

Whatever came, she had given her pledge. She would allow the viscount whatever he willed so long as she got what she sought.

“Very good!” the viscount exclaimed. “And since that went so well, I believe it is time for your first lesson.”

Lynette blinked. She felt as if she had just run a circuit about London. She certainly did not feel prepared to learn anything just yet. “My lord—” she began, but he cut her off.

“Do not be concerned. It shall not be too difficult. I require you to answer a simple question. Have you ever been kissed?”

She should not have been shocked. Indeed, hadn’t he asked that very question just a few minutes ago? Still, she
was
shocked, and confused and disoriented. “This cannot be part of my instruction,” she stated firmly.

His smile abruptly faded, and Lynette was surprised by her own dismay at the sight. But then he was speaking, his tone more weary than angry.
“Have we not just established that I decide what constitutes instruction, and you are simply to comply?”

“V-very well,” she stammered. “I have been kissed once. By my father’s curate.”

“Truly? Well, how did that kiss feel?”

Her gaze flew to his face. Surely he could not mean to ask…But apparently he did, because he raised a single brow in warning.

“Do not try my patience, Lynette. I will not have you constantly questioning my methods or my tutelage. Please answer the question.”

She did not dare defy him again. But she still did not know how to answer.

“Think, Lynette,” he prodded. “Remember how the kiss occurred. How old were you? Where did it happen?”

Her mind spun back to the moment behind the small barn, remembering the day, the hour, the very instant. “It was just last year. There was a farming family whose grandmother caught a summer chill. Father asked me to visit them.”

“Did you often perform clerical visits for him?”

She nodded. “I visited the less distinguished members of his church.”

“I see.”

His tone was dry, and she could tell that he did indeed see. She sighed. Perhaps her father was not perfect, but he was her father. She might have defended her absent parent, but he did not allow her the opportunity. “You visited the grandmother,” he pressed. “Was the curate there?”

“No. The grandmother and I were alone. We shared tea, and I gave her what comfort I could.”

“You prayed over her.” Clearly from his tone, the
viscount was not a religious man. Lynette stiffened at the implied insult.

“Whether
you
believe God hears or not,
she
most certainly did, and the prayers gave her comfort.”

He bowed slightly. “My apologies. I am sure your visit cheered the woman immensely.”

Lynette shrugged. “I am not entirely sure. She died three days later.”

“Then no doubt your prayers eased her travels to Heaven.” She studied his face, but Lynette could not detect any mockery in his manner. “Please continue,” he urged.

“Very well,” she said, rushing her words as she recalled what happened next. It was not difficult. She had relived the experience countless times, wondering over it, pondering it. “I was leaving through the back meadow. It was a shorter distance that way. The curate, Tom—he was just coming for a visit as well, and I’m afraid I was not attending because I was in a hurry.”

“Fleeing the sickroom?”

She shook her head. “No. I went for a special tea to ease her cough. I had the leaves at the church, but I would have to run there for the herbs, deliver them, then return home for dinner.”

“What a busy creature you were.”

She shrugged. “Time hangs when one has nothing to do.”

“That it does,” he agreed. “That it does.”

Lynette paused to study his blank expression. Did he sometimes find himself alone with hours stretching endlessly before him? It was such a rare event for her, she couldn’t help but view it as a wonderful luxury.

“Come now.” He interrupted her thoughts. “What of Curate Tom?”

Lynette folded her hands together to keep her fingers from worrying at her gown. “There is not much to tell. I fell into his arms. Literally. I tripped, you see. And as I was speaking my apologies, he leaned down and kissed me. I was so startled, I just gaped at him.”

“Did you return the kiss?”

She frowned. “Return it? My lord, I had stumbled into his arms only to have his…his face swoop down upon mine. He was not quite on target, and his hair tickled my cheek. Then, suddenly, he disappeared into the parishioner’s home.”

The viscount’s chuckle was a low, mellow sound, but it stung as smartly as a wasp. “He abandoned you?”

She stiffened. “He most certainly did not! I am quite capable of handling myself in such a circumstance.”

“A first kiss?” His laughter had faded, but his smile had not. And she could still sense the humor rippling beneath the viscount’s words.

“No! In my village.” She shook her head. “My lord, you are deliberately confusing me. It merely seemed as if he disappeared, but in truth we looked at one another for a moment.”

“And what did you see?”

She shrugged. Indeed, what else could she do? “I saw Tom—a man of God with an overly passionate nature. He has a handsome face, though it was quite red at the time. And he was trying to apologize.”

“For kissing you?”

“I suppose. It likely was not because I had tripped and fallen into him.”

“No, not likely,” the viscount agreed.

Exasperated, Lynette rushed to end the conversation.
“He was as embarrassed as I. One does not go about kissing the minister’s daughter behind barns. Or anywhere, I suppose.”

“And how old was young Tommy?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Older than you. Larger as well? Stronger?”

She nodded. “And broad. His shoulders, that is. Broad shoulders.” She did not realize her expression had softened into a dreamy smile until she noticed the viscount’s smirk. Then she hastily straightened, bringing her wayward body into a semblance of modesty.

“Did you see him again?” he asked. “Perhaps when you brought the tea herbs?”

She clutched her fingers tightly, trying to sort through her thoughts, her confusion. It had been such a wonderful kiss. Hard and wet and too fast. “I have seen him many times. He is my father’s curate, after all.”

“And how did he act?”

She smiled, remembering the next encounter. Unlike the moment of their kiss, that time she had felt in control, capable of managing the situation no matter how delicate it might appear. “He was naturally quite awkward at first.”

“Naturally,” agreed the viscount.

“He tried to say something, another apology no doubt, but I stopped him. I told him quite simply that I was to blame for tripping and falling on him, so to speak. Anything else that might have occurred was simply a product of surprise due to our awkward circumstances. I told him we need not think of the entire wretched event again.”

“Wretched event?” the viscount prompted. “Was it that terrible?”

“Oh, no,” Lynette gasped. “It was just clear that he was so very embarrassed. How could it not have been anything other than wretched for him? Especially if his wife were to misunderstand the situation.”

If he had been laughing before—however quietly—the viscount’s attitude abruptly sobered. “He is married?”

Lynette’s gaze dropped, feeling that all-too-familiar mixture of excitement and shame. “As I said, Tom is a passionate man. He does everything with enthusiasm and often without thought. He told me he wished to travel to Africa to convert the heathens, but his wife would not allow it.”

“And did you find him passionate?”

She bit her lip, trying for the thousandth time to understand her feelings toward her father’s curate. “I admire him greatly, my lord,” she finally said. “He is extremely well educated, and unlike so many of the clergy, he is deeply religious, deeply committed to God.”

“Do you truly believe so? A married man who would kiss the minister’s daughter?”

She lifted her chin, but she could not look at him. “I fell, my lord. And surprised him. And I did say he was often impulsive.”

“No, Lynette,” he drawled, “you did not. But I am beginning to understand why you were bold enough to write to us.”

She looked up sharply at that, wondering—knowing—that he did indeed understand. She could not remain in the village she called home. Not with Tom always about. Not with the thoughts he inspired in her, and the fears as well. She had no wish to live at her uncle’s. It would merely be more of the same: the
same tiny village, the same gossiping women, the same restrictions for the minister’s daughter until she felt as if she would scream. So, when the opportunity to escape appeared, she grasped it with both hands.

Meanwhile, the viscount was watching her expression much too closely for comfort. As she lowered her eyes, trying her best to appear demure, he asked another question. “Was that your only kiss?”

She nodded, unable to speak of the other things—the accidental touches, the way Tom often appeared wherever she worked, and worst of all, the way his wife forever watched.

“Did you ever speak of it again with this Tom?”

Lynette shook her head, the motion almost painful in her vehemence.

“But did you think about it? Wonder at it, perhaps? Spend long evenings by the fire reliving it despite its inappropriate nature?”

The blush that flooded her face answered the question eloquently enough, and she was glad he did not ask that she state her thoughts out loud. Oddly enough, when she looked up at him, he was smiling, his expression almost triumphant.

“My lord?” she asked.

“It is nothing, Lynette. I am merely pleased that my task may not be quite as difficult as I had thought.”

“But—”

“Enough for now. The lesson is concluded.” He stepped away from her, picking up the papers he had dropped on the side table and heading once again for the stairs. She stopped him with a cry.

“Ended?” she exclaimed. “But I have not learned anything!”

He smiled. “Actually, my dear, you have learned a
great deal. You have learned that you can be honest with me and I shall not curse you for it.”

She had started to take a step toward him, but stopped at his words. “I do not understand.”

He took his time answering, folding up his papers before addressing her. “Have you told anyone else of your experience with Tom? Anyone at all?”

Lynette looked away, shaking her head mutely. She had not even confided in her sister, whom she told nearly everything.

“And why is that?” he pressed. “Did you fear laughter? Ridicule? That perhaps no one would understand how inexplicably confused and yet exciting the whole tiny event had been? That perhaps you could never look at Tom the same way again, and yet you could not speak of it to anyone, least of all the man himself?”

She looked at him, shock reverberating throughout her body. He did know! “It seemed like so insignificant an event. Not worth mentioning at all. But it was all so very awkward.”

“But you remember it, do you not? Every scent, every breath, every sensation is etched in glorious detail in your memory.”

She bit her lip. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

He lifted her chin. It was the slightest touch, but it encouraged her to look openly at his face and see that his expression held no condemnation, only brutal honesty. “It is that way for everyone, Lynette. Every first kiss, every first love is as heart-wrenching, as unspeakably wonderful and terrible and ridiculous and stupefyingly fabulous all at the same time. Yours happened to have an extra measure of complexity added on, but the essence is the same.”

“Everyone’s?” She gasped. She could hardly believe
it. Had her mother once felt like that? Her uncles and cousins and friends—had they all sat by the fire and dreamed and remembered and wished and pretended until they felt as if they would crawl out of their own skin with wanting?

Had her father?

“Everyone,” the viscount echoed. And with that final comment, he turned and hurried up the stairs.

Dinner was a stilted affair.

Though Dunwort had done an excellent job with the meal, Lynette could not stop thinking about what she and the viscount had discussed. At home, her silence would have gone unnoticed. Her father created most of the dinner conversation while his wife and children served as audience. But here she was expected to speak.

In fact, she got the impression that this was the “evaluation” the viscount had mentioned earlier. And that she was failing it.

Apparently she was expected to do everything as a lady would. Her table manners, her conversation, even the way she turned her head came under scrutiny. Surprisingly, it was not the viscount who dispensed most of the criticism. It was the baroness.

Though the viscount frowned at her when she did not wipe her lips after taking a drink of wine, and once he flicked a double glance at her when she lifted the wrong fork, he chose to say nothing. Instead it was the baroness, the very same woman who had laughed so merrily with her that afternoon, who was now the unforgiving source of discipline.

“You have begun to slouch,” she snapped. “Do not do so.

“Do not grab your glass as if it was a mule. Hold it delicately. Gently.

“Really, Lynette, your conversation is most lacking. You must learn to exchange pleasantries, on-dits. You must say
something
at the dinner table.”

That last was the final straw. Slamming down her larger fork, Lynette glared across the table at her tormentor. “You did not find my conversation lacking this afternoon at market.”

The baroness stiffened, casting an uneasy glance at the viscount. “That was this afternoon. This is now,” she said coldly. “And a lady never, ever loses her temper.”

“I am not losing my temper! I am taking hold of it as one would a stubborn mule.”

At that moment, the viscount began to choke, or so it seemed to Lynette as he coughed rather indelicately into his napkin. All eyes turned toward him, and so, after he had recovered, he slowly rose. “I believe I shall take my leave of you ladies.”

“Now?” gasped the baroness. “But we have not yet had the pudding.”

He bowed to his aunt. “Even so.” Then he turned to Lynette, the reflected candlelight sparkling in his eyes as he sketched another bow. “If you would please bring your accounting to me directly after dinner, I would be most grateful.”