Devil's Bargain (5 page)

Lynette gave him a curt nod, and he beat a hasty retreat. She was no fool. She recognized a man running from a storm. Her father had often disappeared in a similar manner whenever her mother and sister squabbled.

“Coward,” Lynette muttered under her breath.

She did not say it quietly enough; the baroness heard her. The lady gave her a sharp look, then allowed her lips to form the faintest ghost of a smile. “I quite agree,” she whispered. Then she lifted her chin and said, “But that does not change the fact that your manners require a great deal of work.”

And so continued the meal. Thank God, there was only one course left. Any more, and Lynette would likely have reached across the table and, in the most ladylike manner possible, sweetly strangled the woman.

She knocked lightly on the library door and waited until she was bade enter. The answer came almost immediately, and Lynette stepped inside.

The room was most certainly a man’s domain. The furnishings, though sparse, spoke of a man’s determination and power. There were a modest number of books lining the shelves. A small fire sputtered in the grate. But the room was dominated by a huge desk.

This morning, Lynette recalled, the desk had been spotless—a gleaming wood surface polished to a brilliant and intimidating shine. This evening, papers littered the top. Behind it sat the viscount, his cravat askew, his hair curling in disarray. If possible, he looked almost…vulnerable.

And what a strange thought that was about the viscount.

She approached quietly, her neatly figured page of accounts clutched in her hand. He did not glance up at first. Instead, he simultaneously reached for his brandy and gestured for her to sit at the simple wooden chair opposite his desk.

“I see you survived dessert unscathed.”

She settled primly onto her seat. “You were not there. How would you know what wounds I suffered?” Though her words were tart, they held no rancor, and he did not appear to take insult.

“Truer words were never spoken,” he said. “But as you are not sobbing, nor do you appear to be bleeding, I shall assume that my aunt was thorough without being lethal.”

Lynette nodded. How could she not? The baroness had indeed been thorough in cataloging her sins. By the time the meal was over, the lady had in fact given her a written list of tasks she was required to perform come morning: everything from walking with a book on her head to a hundred repetitions of the correct way to drink from a glass of wine.

“Suffice it to say,” Lynette finally commented, “that I shall be adequately occupied tomorrow.”

The viscount set down his glass. “Indeed you shall. Tomorrow there will be dozens of people here for your dresses, hair, boots, slippers, fans, and the like. If you wish to learn from them, ask as many questions as you desire, make suggestions even, but never, ever, seek to overrule their decisions. They have my complete confidence.”

“Unlike me?”

She did not know what demon prompted her to say that, but the viscount did not so much as blink at her vulgar challenge. He simply smiled. “Most assuredly unlike you.” Then he shifted the papers on his desk before pinning her with a steady regard. “Show me your accounting.”

She passed forward the paper without comment,
then watched his expression closely. She was not disappointed.

His face lit with surprise. “Your figures are excellent. You are sure these sums are accurate?”

“Of course they are accurate!”

He smiled at her outrage. “Then you need have no fear of me.”

She frowned. “Did the others…the girls that came before me…” She trailed away, unsure if this was forbidden territory.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Was their accounting slightly exaggerated?”

He set down her page of figures. “Do you mean, did they try to embezzle from me? One did, yes, but I found out.” He pinned her with his hard gaze. “Remember that, Lynette. I always find out.”

She nodded, having no trouble believing his statement.

“Very good,” he said. He pulled out a ledger from his desk. “Record the sums in this book; then you may keep your papers for yourself.” She nodded as he gestured to the small, rather battered lady’s escritoire in the corner. “You may work there.”

Lynette took the heavy ledger and crossed to the tiny seat, sitting down to begin her task. Unfortunately, copying figures was tedious, and her mind soon began to wander.

She glanced back at the viscount. His head was bent over another ledger, and he moved through his stacks of paper one by one as he copied figures from bill to book. He looked very focused, and she knew she should not interrupt him. And yet a question burned in her mind.

He looked up, his eyes locking onto her regard with a suddenness that made her gasp. “What is it, Lynette?”

“What was your first kiss like?”

He stiffened, and his face grew cold before he bowed over his work again. “A lady does not ask such personal questions, Lynette.”

“Of course not, my lord,” she answered immediately—but some perversity in her character led her to pursue the topic, despite his clear displeasure. “Except you did say that I could ask anything during the course of my lessons.”

“This is not one of your lessons.”

“And you swore to answer honestly,” she pressed as if he had not spoken.

“Your time would be better spent finishing the task at hand.”

“The figures will be recorded, my lord. But right now I am asking you a question, student to tutor.”

He frowned at her. She remained stoic, her most pleasant expression fixed on her face. His scowl deepened into a glower, but she remained unimpressed. She knew he was trying to intimidate her. Apparently her personal experiences were open to his most minute dissection, whereas his own past was to be shrouded in secrecy.

Well, she would not have it. And if he refused to answer honestly as he promised, then she would no longer feel bound by her own oath to attend his instruction.

Finally, he returned his quill to its stand. “Very well.” He stood, moving around the desk and across the room until he towered directly over her. She did not have time to stand, so she sat there, craning her
neck while he seemed to drop his every word on her like a stone. “My first experience was with a whore from Vauxhall Gardens. It was Christmas Eve, and I was home for the holiday.”

She frowned. “Your parents took you to Vauxhall for Christmas?”

“My parents were dead. I was here. In this empty place.” He waved his arm at the house. “And Jenny…” For the first time, he looked away from Lynette. His gaze wandered out the window, no doubt to the distant pleasure garden. “Jenny was my Christmas present to myself. I sold a silver candelabra, as I recall, and used the money for her. I suppose I was her Christmas present as well, because I was young. Easy work for a whore.”

He wandered away, following his gaze to the window, where he stood almost immobile. “Lord, she was young, too. She could have done it quick and cold, but she didn’t. We went to her room. It was in a dark, dank hovel, and the bed had ticks, but at least it wasn’t here. She taught me what to do. Slow and easy, she said. Slow and easy.”

He laughed softly at something in his memory, then turned, fixing his gaze on her. “Jenny was smart. She initiated me properly, tenderly, and for that she had a loyal customer for years.” He paused for a moment, his eyes distant. “She was the one who got me out of debtor’s prison. I owe her a great deal.”

“Debtor’s prison?” Lynette echoed. She knew there was a message there for her, but for the life of her she could not understand it. “Where is she now?”

His smile was lightning quick and full of pride. “As I said, Jenny was smart. In many ways she and I grew up together. She met my friends and did right
by them as well. Now she’s a rich woman, a well-paid mistress who costs too much for me. She even owns a bawdy house, runs it in her spare time. Every once in a while I see her and we speak. We laugh.” He glanced down at her. “Perhaps you will meet her some day. She could teach you a great deal.”

Lynette swallowed, not sure she could imagine what wholesome things she could learn from a whore turned mistress. “I think one instructor is all I can manage for now.”

Marlock released a low chuckle. “In that, little Lynette, you are correct.” And suddenly his face closed, and his laugh was strangled, as if it had never been. Without another word, he sat down at his desk and went back to work.

Lynette watched him a moment, not daring to speak, not knowing what to say. And so, after a time, she returned to her own task.

It was difficult, for she was constantly aware of him: the movement of his pen across the page, the shift of his body in his chair, even of the ebb and flow of his breath, though she swore she could not actually hear it. It was as if he were a lodestone, and she lead.

She heard him stand, crossing to the bookcase with quick strides before depositing a small and worn book before her. She looked up at him but could read nothing in his expression. In the end, she was forced to examine the book itself.

The title was a single word:
Investments.

“It gives a review of the banking system and provides general guides as to what would be a sound investment or a foolish one.”

She nodded, carefully picking up the small tome and riffling its pages. “I am to read it?”

“That is up to you.”

“But I need not.”

He shrugged, already returning to his chair. “It is not necessary to the getting of a husband. Indeed, I advise you to keep anything you learn from such a book a secret until after you are wed. The men who will offer for you will not be interested in your knowledge of England’s monetary system.”

She nodded, too aware of what her father would say. And yet the prospect intrigued her. “But you give it to me now. Because, when I am a wealthy widow, I shall need to manage my money?”

He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense. “Not necessarily. There will be many men all too eager to assist you.”

“Even take the task completely out of my hands, I shouldn’t wonder.”

He nodded, the truth obvious.

She looked again at the book, her reason coming to the fore. She needed to understand money. She did not want to abruptly discover herself penniless. Not again.

Without another word, Lynette slipped the book into her pocket. She would read it. She would read every word.

Adrian watched Lynette leave his library, and he breathed a sigh of relief so profound he felt it all the way to his toes. Now that she was gone, perhaps he could concentrate on his work.

But even though his little bird of a charge had disappeared, thoughts of her remained. She was undoubtedly the easiest student he had ever had, and yet he had the distinct feeling she would also be his most challenging.

Imagine, her demanding to know about Jenny! Good Lord, even Audra, bold as she was, had not so much poise. What would she be like when her tutelage began in earnest?

It was too early to start, he knew. She had not the clothing nor the manners for the campaign. But
she
was ready. In fact, Lynette the woman was more than ready. All he needed to do was control the direction of her thoughts, turn her mind step by step to her sensuous nature, and the men would flock to her in droves. What red-blooded man—rich or poor—could resist a woman just awakening to her sensuality? Himself included.

When she had spoken of her first kiss, her face had been alight with hunger, a yearning that had heated his blood as no other woman had done since Jenny. But he dared not rush her. There was too much at stake. He had to play her perfectly, stoke the embers of her passion until the time was ripe for her to burst free. Then, with his percentage of her marriage portion, he would at last be free himself.

Free!

The thought was a joyous one. So joyous, in fact, that it nearly overrode his lust for his little Lynette.

He glanced again at the small escritoire where she had worked. There was no imprint of her body upon the chair, no scratch on the desk made by her hand. There was not even a lingering scent that he could identify. Yet he sensed her there as surely as if she had remained to stare at him in that provocative way just before pestering him with questions.

Tomorrow, he decided abruptly. Tomorrow her education would begin in earnest.

He lingered by the door, staring into her dark room, and listened intently to her slow, even breaths.

She was not asleep.

He wasn’t sure how he knew. He had a sixth sense about his girls that he never questioned. Still, he was shocked to find that it had developed so quickly with this girl. After all, Lynette had been here barely more than a day.

“You still wear your nightrail.” He spoke softly, his words floating across the darkness. But she heard him. Even in the gloom, he could see the white outline of her gown twitch.

He stepped into the room, scanning her garment, which he’d forbidden. It was a prim thing, with buttons, no doubt, up to her chin. Perfectly appropriate for a clergyman’s daughter. Sacrilege in his household.

“I will allow it tonight,” he said, his voice still soft.
“But tomorrow you will burn it or I will tear it off your body myself.”

She didn’t answer. Indeed, he had not expected her to. She was still pretending she slept. He waited, allowing her the illusion of safety, letting her believe she fooled him.

He took another step closer. In truth, he had not intended to. He had merely meant to see her, listen to her, feel her. He often stood in the doorway between his room and his client’s, especially at the beginning. It allowed both the girl and himself to grow accustomed to one another. Perhaps this was how he aligned himself with each girl’s particular rhythms.

But not with Lynette. With her, there was no need to attune himself. He already felt like one end of a tight wire, inextricably connected to the other one. To her.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered into the darkness. “Do you feel me here?”

She didn’t answer, though he knew his words were echoing in her mind. Again, he meant to leave. He had already given her enough to think on tonight. Timing was everything in this business.

But he did not. In sudden decision, he sat down beside her. The bed shifted beneath his weight, and Lynette should have rolled into him. She did not. Instead, she feigned a gasp of surprise and rolled backward, avoiding his touch.

“My lord! You startled me.”

He smiled into the darkness. Virgins were so predictable. He kept his voice harsh and cold. He had to establish the rules firmly at the beginning.

“Do not lie to me!” He reached out and pulled her roughly toward him. He was careful not to hurt her, but he had to impress his will upon her. Leaning
down, he whispered harshly into her ear. “Never lie. Not to me. Never to me.”

He felt her fear in the fine tremors that shook her arm, but he also felt her control. She was appropriately terrified, and yet she kept it deeply buried, as though she dared not allow anyone to know what she thought. What she felt.

Had she learned this from her father? he wondered. Not the restraint. By all accounts, her father—and the uncle, as well—were singularly obvious in their emotional expression, as though they had the right to not only show their opinions but force them on everyone else. She must have learned early how to hide her thoughts from them. A bright girl would never be allowed to flourish near such heavy-handed arrogance.

He would have to choose her bridegroom carefully. Unless nurtured or at least allowed expression, her unique spark would wither and die.

And as all these thoughts flitted through his mind, he waited silently for Lynette’s confession. Thankfully, he did not have to wait long. Soon her head dipped in telltale acknowledgment. “My apologies. You are correct. I was awake.” A plaintive note crept into her voice. “But how could you have known?”

He released her, though his body was reluctant to do so. He saw her rub at her arm, as if trying to brush away his touch. Years ago, that would have angered him. Now he knew how to turn that emotion into instruction, her fear into passion.

“I knew you were awake, Lynette, the same way you knew I was here. You felt it. You heard it.”

She was silent, but in the deep shadows he thought she bit her lip in contemplation. He wanted to see more. He wanted to see what kind of imprint her
teeth made in her bottom lip. One of her front teeth was chipped. Did that part of her tooth touch her rosy bottom lip? Did it make a jagged line? The urge to light a candle was almost overpowering.

He resisted. There was much to learn in the darkness.

“Close your eyes, Lynette.”

He knew she hesitated. He waited silently, knowing that in the end she would accede to his demand. After all, she was the student. Still, he had to hold his hand directly in front of her eyes to block her sight before she complied. And the slight brush of her long lashes against his palm was the most erotic sensation he had ever felt.

“Listen to me.”

The silence stretched out. He heard the near silent whisper of her breath, felt the heat of her body skating across his skin, and knew of the faint tremors that still gripped her insides. He knew it as surely as he heard the blood rushing through his own body, pooling in his groin.

“Do you hear it?”

She shifted uneasily. “You said nothing.”

“Correct. But what do you hear?”

Once again he let the silence wrap around them.

“I hear people on the street. A drunk.”

“Inside, Lynette. What do you hear in this room?”

“The curtain in the breeze as it rubs against the chair.”

“Closer, Lynette.”

Again she shifted uneasily, unable to still herself as he pushed her to face what she was too frightened to acknowledge.

“Nothing!” she suddenly cried out softly. “I cannot hear anything.”

He pulled his hand away from her face, letting it drop into his lap. It was too soon. He knew it was. And yet he could not stop himself.

“Do you hear your heart beating?”

She waited a moment, then her voice drifted to him, whispered in agony.

“Yes.”

“Hear your breath as it comes in and out of your body. The movement is rough, harsh. Your blood is pumping, your body tightening.”

“Yes,” she whispered, though agony throbbed through the sound.

“Your skin tingles. Your breasts are heavy and tight.” And her core, her woman’s core, would even now be thickening, tightening. Trembling.

“Yes.” Her word was a soft gasp that heated his blood even more.

“That is desire, Lynette. Awareness. Feel it. Remember it. Want it.”

She shook her head in one simple, almost violent movement. “No!”

“Keep your eyes closed!” he ordered.

She obeyed instantly, probably not even realizing she had opened them. But now she squeezed them firmly shut, just as her body pulled taut with nervous tension.

“Years from now you will need to remember this. You will want to recall every little detail. You will relive it time and time again in your memory. Do you feel the weight of my body on the bed?” He leaned close, not touching her but bracing himself on either
side so she knew she was surrounded. By him. “Do you feel me?”

She made a soft mewl of distress, but he continued, leaning even closer, allowing his breath to skate across her brow. But he did not touch her.

She gasped at his nearness but didn’t open her eyes.

“Do you feel my breath touch your face? My body’s heat mix with yours? My scent in the air?”

She stopped shrinking away from him. Indeed, there was nowhere to go. And then she spoke, wonder and fear inextricably mixed in her voice. “Yes.”

Lust slammed through him. Its force caught him unaware, gripping him, cutting off his breath. He had no defense. It happened too fast, in the space between heartbeats, making him insane with desire like a mad dog. He had meant to touch her tonight, accustom her at least in part to the most innocent of caresses.

He could not. If he so much as pressed one finger into her warm, yielding flesh, he would explode in his breeches like a schoolboy.

He could not. And yet she was right here…

“Lynette.” His voice was tight. Controlled. He could not move even an inch. “Lynette. Open your eyes.”

He was so close to her that the shadows no longer obscured her face. He saw her eyes open, watched as they widened in surprise at his nearness.

“My lord?”

Her formal address gave him enough control to ease backward, taking much of his weight off his arms, but not enough to remove the cage they made around her.

“Leave, Lynette. Go to my bedroom. Where there is a lock on the door.”

He heard her gasp in horror, recoiling as if he were about to attack her. Of course, he thought dazedly, that is exactly what she thinks, and understandably so. She did not realize that he was trying to protect her.

“Alone, Lynette,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “Go. Go now!”

The urgency in his words convinced her. Or perhaps it was his clenched jaw or the rigid way he held his body. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. Still, she had to wriggle out from beneath him, her breasts jiggling as she moved.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see, but the action did nothing to relieve him. He could still hear her as she slid away. He could still imagine the innocent lift of her buttocks as she crawled out from the bed. And then her hair, her long silken strands of bronze, brushed his forearm, and he was nearly undone.

“Shut the door,” he rasped. “Lock it!”

She at last gained her feet, then paused, tempting him in ways she could not even imagine. “My lord?”

“Go!”

She fled, forgetting to shut their connecting door in her haste. But then she came back and he heard it shudder into place, the lock slamming as the impact reverberated throughout the entire house.

She was gone.

With a muted groan, he collapsed, face first into her bedlinens. Lying there, he could smell her. The scent was as clear and clean as a summer’s morning after a rain shower. He buried himself in it. And then he closed his eyes, needing no extra effort to envision her beneath him, all purity and innocence. Her breasts filled his hands, her body arched in glorious revelry.

He gripped the sheets, his breath coming in short bursts as in his mind he settled into her, driving deep within her, surrounding himself with her.

But he couldn’t, he shouldn’t think this way. She was a Marlock bride—her virginity by definition given to someone else. She was not his, and never would be. All he could ever have of her was her scent, her touch, and—of course—her money.

With a curse that echoed through the room, he ripped her sheets from the bed only to collapse back onto the mattress and bury his face in her pillow.

It took her hours to stop shaking.

Lynette still did not know what had happened. It was true, she had heard him come to bed. She knew he was standing in the darkness watching her. He was there. And she was in her bed. Tense. Anxious. Too afraid to move.

What did he want? Even now, she had no idea. Good Lord, he hadn’t even touched her. Except for that moment when she had pretended to be asleep.

“Never lie. Not to me!”

She couldn’t. She hadn’t. But to herself? Perhaps. She had been lying there, pretending that he did not frighten her. That his mere presence did not fill her with thoughts and feelings clashing within.

Then he had spoken to her, not in a whisper but in low tones. It was hard to describe his voice, and her thoughts wandered around it, trying to put into words what she had felt more than heard. His voice was not deep, like her father’s. There was no holy zeal behind his words, no push of air from huge lungs that could fill the rafters of a church.

And yet when he spoke she heard him as no other. The sound filled not the room but her soul, slipping inside until she seemed to thrum with the tenor of his voice, rising and falling with the cadence of his words.

“Do you feel me?”

She had felt him. She had felt every part of him, as if his hands had indeed been all over her body. He spoke of heat, and the touch of her bedclothes against her skin had been like a fire.

He had whispered about tingling and her hands had clenched the linen as the fine hairs on her brow, her face, her entire body had risen in awareness.

Then he had asked about her breasts. She had nearly cried out as suddenly her body changed. Her father had told her breasts were sinful, gifts from the devil to tempt man. She had not listened. Her breasts were functional, serviceable, set there to feed babies. They were no more sinful than her legs or her hands or even her nose.

But not now. Not in her bed, with him poised above her. With him, her breasts became hungry things, aching for something. Anything. Him.

He had not touched them, and yet she felt as if they had been changed, molded somehow.

She was in his bed now, surrounded by his massive pillows, his dark sheets, and his heady scent. It had taken her a moment to gain enough courage to mount the massive edifice. But then she had heard a noise and, fearful that he was following her, had sought the dubious safety of his bed.

Somewhat like jumping from the frying pan into the fire, she thought ruefully. But there was no help
for it. She was here now. In his bed. Surrounded by his presence, even if he was not with her in actuality. And she thought about her breasts.

“Your skin seems to tingle, your breasts are heavy and tight.”

She raised her hand, lifting it almost without thought. Then slowly she acted, her every movement fraught with tension. But the urge was undeniable.

The bedsheet was pulled up to her chin, pressed tight against her neck as if that would somehow protect her from her wayward thoughts. But it could not. It did not. And so she pushed the sheet down, drawing it slowly to her waist until she felt its weight upon her belly.

She touched her nightrail. The fabric was soft from long use, the white dimmed to a gentle gray.

“Tomorrow you will burn it or I will tear it off your body myself.”

He could not truly have meant that, she told herself. But in her heart she knew he meant every word. Tomorrow night she would sleep naked.

She touched the tiny buttons at her neck. She turned them beneath her fingers, feeling their pebbly weight, the tiny tug as she pulled the fabric away from her skin. She would burn this gown tomorrow. She would not even save the buttons, for they were too old and too worn to be used again.