Devil's Bargain (7 page)

Then, once again, he had been unable to resist testing her. He had wanted to know how she would react to a fuller view. How much did she want to see male flesh?

He had shifted on the bed. She had not screamed, as had two of the others. Nor had she stepped forward boldly to learn more. Instead, she had surprised
him by simply rushing to gather her clothes. Indeed, it was a slight blow to his vanity. One might almost believe she had been fleeing the sight of his ugliness, so quickly had she departed.

But he knew differently. Indeed, looking at her now, he knew that it was herself she feared. She, too, was supposed to be interested in her clothing, anxious to offer her opinion as to her upcoming attire. Instead he found her watching him, her brow furrowed, a slight blush adding a rosy glow to her features.

She was thinking about last night; he was aware. She was pondering this morning. And she was wondering at the changes in herself. What was happening to her? What was to come?

He looked down at the pattern book before them. His aunt and the modiste were in earnest conversation about the cut of the waist. But his mind returned to Lynette’s waist, her belly, her body. Did she realize what was happening? Did she know what indignities were to come?

Of course not. And he could not warn her. Neither could he prevent it. By this evening, Lynette’s sweet air of innocence would be torn, and he grieved that it would be at his instigation.

“This gown is lovely,” Lynette suddenly said. Adrian looked up, seeing that she pointed to a ball-gown of simple, elegant lines. “The classic style is the most versatile, don’t you think?” she continued. “With only a moment to add a ruffle or bow, it can be most functional.”

The baroness and the modiste turned to her, shocked surprise on their faces.

“You are quite correct,” said the baroness graciously.

“You will go far, girl,” added the modiste. “You know how to economize.”

Then both the baroness and modiste turned to him. He barely glanced at the gown, already knowing it would be suitable. He looked at the modiste. “You know the fabric?” Even as he spoke, he caught sight of Lynette admiring a dove-gray silk. Of course she would be drawn to that dull fabric. It was simple, elegant in a drab way, and most appropriate for the spinster daughter of a cleric.

But it would never, ever do for Lynette.

The modiste understood. With barely more than a flicker of her eyes, she acknowledged his requirements. Adrian had brought all his girls here. She was well aware of what type of clothing he purchased.

That accomplished, he returned his attention to his charge. Lynette appeared more confident, as if her venture into the discussion had restored some of her equilibrium. Good. He did not wish to see her broken. Indeed, she would need all her strength to survive the rest of the day. He only wished he could be there with her, somehow help her through the process. But he knew he could not. He had tried it with the other girls and it had only made the situation worse.

He pushed to his feet, nodding politely to the ladies as he said his farewells. It was only when he turned to Lynette that his demeanor changed. He felt himself soften, and he fought to keep an expression of regret from his eyes.

“This morning’s work was well done, Lynette. Only a little more and the worst shall be over.”

He tried to speak warmly, bracingly, but she couldn’t understand. Still, he bestowed a kiss on her
hand as gently as a suitor’s. Later she would damn him for his actions, but he needed to touch her, stroke her fair skin, while he silently apologized for the abuse she would soon suffer. If he was lucky, she would eventually comprehend his actions.

If he was unlucky…His thoughts trailed away. Some things were too unhappy to contemplate.

He sketched a bow to the three women. “Good afternoon, ladies. I believe I shall go in search of a drink.”

Lynette watched the viscount disappear, a frown knitting her brow. Something was happening. There was some subtle message in his touch, some extra stroke that had meaning. But she did not understand. Indeed, she barely had time to recognize the extra touch before he disappeared out the door.

He’d said the worst was almost over. Undoubtedly he referred to the interminable fitting to come. Hours standing still while every part of her was measured and pressed and pinned. But she was well used to such nonsense. Indeed, when her younger sister had been learning her stitches, Lynette had endured countless such afternoons.

How like a man, she realized, to focus on the body’s inconvenience and completely ignore the soul’s. It was not the hours of tedium ahead that bothered her. Indeed, the real problem was the loss of her independence. The shift from her father’s household to the viscount’s had been a change, but not a significant one. A man still controlled her life. True, she had different duties, new things to learn…Her cheeks heated before she could push that thought away. But all in all, much of her life remained the same.

Until today. Suddenly even the most basic of choices—what she wore—had been stripped from her. Could anything be worse?

She brushed away a tear, resolving to take the indignity in stride. In fact, it had not been so terrible. They’d listened to her opinions, even complimented her choices. If they did, in fact, use the gray silk material, she would be joyous.

With that thought firmly planted in her mind, Lynette turned her attention to the fittings, allowing herself to become a human doll. The modiste and her assistants went to work, the woman quite thorough in her note-taking, measuring everything from the width of Lynette’s wrist to the length of her breast. More than once, Lynette found herself blushing, but the modiste was quite efficient and the ordeal was soon over.

They finished quicker than Lynette expected, and she felt her mood lighten. Perhaps there were worse things than losing one’s choice in attire. Of course, she thought as she smiled sweetly at the modiste, she had not lost total control, had she? She had been able to influence the baroness significantly, she was sure.

She watched happily as the baroness shook the lady’s hand. And then Lynette turned to leave, only to realize that the baroness was not following her. Confused, she turned toward the older lady. “Is there more we need to accomplish?”

The baroness smiled, though the expression was not warm. “Of course there is, Lynette. A great deal more. Come this way.”

She gestured to a back room. In fact, the modiste was holding open the door to a darkened interior, and everyone was looking at her. For an absurd moment,
Lynette felt like Daniel bearding the lion’s den, but then she shook off the thought. This was a fashionable shop in the center of London. There could not be lions in there.

Nodding to the baroness, she calmly entered the dark hallway, wondering at the sudden, taut silence between her two companions. They quickly followed, as if blocking her escape, and Lynette felt a real stirring of distress. Especially when she slowed her steps only to be pushed rudely ahead by the baroness.

“We have an appointment to keep,” was all the woman said.

Abruptly, the passageway ended. The door that confronted Lynette was simple. Plain. Cold to the touch, but sturdily built and extremely heavy. In fact, it took a great deal of her strength to push it open. Beyond she found a stark room, empty of decoration and barely heated by a weak fire. In the center rested a large table. To one side were a plain screen and a hard chair.

On the other side: a man.

He was a nondescript gentleman. Though well dressed with a round face and an impersonal smile, he nevertheless seemed to disappear. Even for Lynette, who had spent a lifetime noticing peculiar aspects of her father’s parishioners, this man faded away. In fact, it was difficult to acknowledge him as he stepped forward, bowing politely over first the baroness’s hand and then her own.

“You are Lynette?” he asked, his voice somewhat high and nasal.

She nodded, her questioning glance hopping between the man and the baroness. It was only then
that she realized the modiste had disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

“My name is Mr. Smythe,” continued the man. “I am the surgeon who will be performing the inspection.”

“Inspection? What inspection?” Lynette addressed her question to the baroness, who did not deign to answer. Instead, the woman settled down beside the fire with a sigh. It was the small Mr. Smythe who continued.

“I am to check for diseases, weaknesses, any type of scarring.”

Lynette turned to stare at him. Abruptly, it dawned upon her that he meant to look at
her
for those things. She stiffened, outrage pouring from her. “I assure you, Mr. Smythe, I am in perfect health.”

“Of course,” continued the man, nodding. “Then this should go quickly. Please remove your clothing behind the screen.”

Lynette turned to the baroness, who was in the middle of a huge yawn and was easing her feet toward the fire.

“Baroness, surely you understand that this is not necessary. I am in perfect health.”

The lady shrugged. “Of course you are. But you certainly cannot expect your prospective bridegroom to take your word for it. It must be authenticated.”

“Authenticated?” she stammered.

“Naturally. Mr. Smythe is well respected. He is quite discreet and cannot be bribed.”

Lynette turned her shocked gaze to the man in question. He merely bowed in an unassuming way. “I will, of course, be authenticating your virginity as well.”

“No!” Lynette took a sudden step back, her eyes widened in horror. The thought of this man seeing her body was unacceptable. The idea that he would touch her…
there…
was horrifying.

“I assure you,” the doctor continued, “the procedure is quite painless and can be accomplished speedily if you cooperate.”

“Of course she will cooperate,” the baroness said.

Again he bowed, this time to her. “Of course.” Then, with a welcoming expression, he gestured Lynette to the screen. “You may ask as many questions as you like. I am quite knowledgeable on the subject of virginity.”

“Questions?” echoed Lynette weakly.

“Come, come,” inserted the baroness, “we haven’t all day. Remove your clothing.” When Lynette did not move, the lady’s eyes grew hard and cold. “You have no choice.”

Lynette stared at her, blinking back the tears that blurred her vision. Gone was the delightful companion she had laughed with so freely yesterday. In her place sat the witch: the woman who had stared at her so coldly when they’d first met at St. James’s.

Lynette hated it. And she hated the baroness. Yet the baroness was right. She had no choice. Once again, she could not run. Even if she could escape the hideous Mr. Smythe, where would she go? Her uncle would not take her in. Not now. Not unless she were wed. As for other options: she had no money, no means of employment, nothing.

Nothing except the memory of Adrian’s words:
“If you run, I will find you. I will make you fulfill your commitments—to me and to your bridegroom.”

“Come, come,” Mr. Smythe coaxed. “I will make this as pleasant as possible.”

Pleasant? Lynette turned once more, staring at the little man. Pleasant? She nearly laughed out loud. Not because the word was so opposed to what she was about to experience, but because she had just answered her own question.
This
was worse than losing her choice in clothing. And yet for all the irony of the situation, for all the naïveté she felt slipping away by the second, there was absolutely nothing she could do. She had to comply.

Moving stiffly, she stepped behind the screen. She began to unbutton her dress, her hands shaking as she did. The tears that had threatened only a moment ago began to spill down her face. She bit her lip to keep from making any sound. She did not want anyone to know, much less look in on her in her misery.

She continued, slowly removing her clothing until the cold pricked her skin and she shivered. But she did not leave the sanctuary of the curtain. She could not.

Instead she waited, feeling misery engulf her while shame seemed to pour down on her head from Heaven itself. But then, something happened. Oddly enough, it came as an image, the very image that had haunted her this morning: the viscount sprawled naked across her bed. Apparently he slept that way all the time. And his various girls had been able to come in any time they chose.

To see him.

She remembered one of her father’s parishioners—the man every woman whispered about behind her hand. Lynette wasn’t supposed to have heard, but she
had. And she had wondered about it. This man, they gossiped, this miller by trade, had so many women, he was like a desert sheik. He had dozens of bastards, they said. And he walked about his home stark naked without a shred of embarrassment.

Lynette hadn’t believed them at the time. What person—man or woman—could walk about completely nude? It wasn’t possible.

But having seen the viscount this morning, completely undressed, and unabashedly so, it must be possible. Of course, he had been asleep. But apparently that was his custom. Every night. As it was to become her custom.

And if he could sleep naked, allowing any one of his girls to walk in upon him, and if the miller could prance about his home completely unclothed before his hundreds of women, then she, at least, could stand naked before this surgeon. She could allow him to touch her, verifying what she and God already knew.

She was a good girl. A wholesome girl with no defects. One whom any gentleman would be proud to marry. And now, she thought as she lifted her chin, now she would prove it.

So thinking, she took a deep breath and stepped out into the room.

Mr. Smythe was waiting just where she had left him—standing directly beside the high table. The baroness, however, was pacing before the fire, clearly agitated.

“Well, thank Heaven. I thought I would have to go back and drag you out.” She took a deep breath. “I know you don’t understand this, but believe me, it is necessary.”

Lynette didn’t answer. She was too busy standing stock still, her hands by her sides. She was naked, and she refused to lift her hands in any feeble attempt to cover herself.

Apparently, that pleased the baroness. She came closer, nodding as she inspected Lynette from every angle. “Very good,” she murmured. “Even your negligees can be simple. You don’t need padding anywhere.”

Lynette frowned, not understanding the comment.
Then all thought of clothes fled as Mr. Smythe stepped forward, his gaze much more penetrating than the baroness’s.

“Yes,” he murmured. “There is much to recommend this girl. She is clean.” He looked up, pinning his pale blue eyes on her. “I find that cleanliness is not only pleasing to the senses, it is also an effective deterrent to disease. You would do well to remember that.”

He waited, still staring at her, until she nodded in acknowledgment.

“Excellent,” he continued. “I see your hair color is natural. I had my doubts at first. Your particular shade of auburn is quite rare. And pleasing, I might add. Your bridegroom should be quite happy.” He paused for a moment. “However, if you wish to add a few more red tones, I am sure the baroness can assist you.”

“My very thought,” chimed in the baroness from the side. “But for the moment the viscount considers her hair color quite adequate.”

The doctor nodded his approval, and all the while Lynette stood there, her anger rising with each comment.

“My God,” the doctor suddenly whispered. “Her color when angered is magnificent.” He looked at her again. “You are an exceptional woman, my dear. Exceptional.”

“Harumph,” snorted the baroness.

Lynette lifted her chin. “If you are quite finished…” She let her voice trail away as she began to turn back toward the screen. But the doctor leaped in front of her. Indeed, she did not realize he could move so fast.

“Finished? No, no, no! On the contrary, I have not begun my medical examination.”

Lynette stopped. Indeed, she had no choice unless she wished to literally bowl over the small man. And above all other things, she did not wish him to touch her.

“Please. Lie down.” He gestured to the long table in the center of the room. When she did not at first comply, he reached out to take her hand.

She jerked it away.

He stiffened slightly, but then bowed, accepting her rebuff. “Lie on your back, if you would.”

She did as she was bid, though she was shaking by the time she stretched out. And as she moved, the comments continued.

“Her walk is most lithe, though I believe she needs to gain some weight.”

From her place by the fire, the baroness nodded. “Her upbringing was most severe. She is a clergyman’s daughter.”

That apparently surprised the man, for he jerked around. “Indeed? And yet she is one of the viscount’s women?”

The baroness inclined her head. “Her choice.”

“Indeed!” returned the surgeon, his amazement obviously growing.

It was that last comment that undermined Lynette’s calm facade. “My choices are not your concern,” she snapped. “If you have a task to perform, then do it. I grow chill.”

The doctor spun around. “Magnificent,” he breathed. “I must again compliment you and the viscount on your choice.”

At that moment Lynette would have gotten off the table. She would have stood, donned her clothing, and walked out the door no matter what the cost. Whether or not she was forced to live on the street, whether she had to steal to survive or even sell herself in the most humiliating fashion, she did not care. She would not lie here and be discussed like a piece of meat.

But at that moment the man strapped her to the table.

She should have expected it. She had noted the restraints on the table but could not imagine that they would be used on her. But before she so much as lifted her head, she found her body crossed with a leather strap.

“What—” she began.

He cut her off. “Merely a precaution, I assure you. I find that virgins are skittish about the more intimate aspects of my inspection. I promise I shall not intentionally harm you.”

“Remove this bond immediately!” She used her most authoritative voice, the one she used to discipline her younger siblings. The one her father used when trying to terrify the sin out of his parishioners.

It had no effect whatsoever, except to make it clear that she could not break the strap restraining her. In fact, as she struggled, more leather buckles were snapped about her ankles.

She turned her head, her eyes pleading with the baroness. “Please,” she whispered, tears slipping into her hair. “Please, make him stop.”

Then she saw it. She saw the baroness’s expression change. Where before the woman had been coldly assessing, almost cruel in her indifference, now she
softened. Her eyes took on a regretful cast as she stood and crossed to the table.

And, for the first time since entering the chamber, Lynette began to hope.

The baroness laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. The woman’s voice was soft and soothing, but she made no move to remove the restraints. “It is necessary, Lynette. Please, try to relax. It will be over quickly. I promise.”

Lynette had no interest in promises. In fact, she had no interest in anything but the straps that bound her tightly to the table and the tears that dripped unchecked from her eyes. But she did not cry out. She stayed stoically silent, even as the hateful doctor began to touch her.

He started by inspecting her hair.

“No lice. Excellent.”

He brushed his hand across her face.

“No pockmarks, but I suppose you were already aware of that.”

His hands traveled lower, pushing at her shoulders, squeezing her arms, poking at her breasts.

“A pleasing amount of padding. No obvious deformities. Fine, pert breasts.”

He paused, shaping first her left breast, then the right.

Lynette gasped and tried not to scream.

“Doctor?” the baroness queried.

Again, he pushed and squeezed her two breasts. “They are of different sizes,” he finally said. “That is common, of course, but her left is a tad more full than typical.” He glanced down at Lynette. “You must be left-handed. The muscles beneath your left breast are more developed than the right.” He pressed into her
rib cage just to prove his point. “You would be well advised to develop the opposite side to even out the difference.”

Then he paused and frowned slightly. “Unless, of course, the viscount wishes to promote the oddity. I daresay there will be many gentleman who view this as an intriguing anomaly.”

The baroness nodded. “I shall make a note to discuss it with his lordship.”

Apparently that satisfied the doctor, as he returned to his task. Without warning, he took out a leather crop and slapped it down on Lynette’s belly. She cried out, startled by the sudden pain and furious at the betrayal. She had almost convinced herself that they had not lied to her, that this was a simple physical examination and no more. How wrong she had been!

She surged off the table, feeling the straps bind her, and yet she still fought.

To no avail.

All too soon she exhausted herself, and the surgeon was once again inspecting her belly.

“I apologize for that,” he said. “But it was necessary to see your reaction.” He looked up at the baroness. “She is unaccustomed to being struck in her more vulnerable areas.” Then he sighed as he pointed to the mark on her skin. “And she will bruise easily. Even tear.” He shook his head. “Most unfortunate.” He looked down at Lynette with what he must have meant as a reassuring smile. “But do not concern yourself. There are many ways of toughening up the skin. In fact, I believe you already know this. From the condition of your arms, I warrant that you have been hit before.”

Shame flooded her face. Her father had not often been violent, but there were times. It was one of the ways he enforced a godly path at home. Fortunately, the baroness spoke, effectively diverting the doctor’s attention.

“She has not been damaged, has she?” Her voice was filled with alarm.

“No, no,” returned the surgeon. “Merely some old bruises.”

He pointed at marks she had forgotten, an old injury from her father’s lost temper when a wealthy parishioner dared criticize his sermons. His temper had been very short that day, and his cough had already started. But she was not allowed to dwell on the past, for the doctor continued.

“She will, of course, need to learn about cosmetics, depending on the proclivities of her bridegroom.”

The baroness nodded and, for a moment, Lynette experienced a wave of terror that had nothing to do with her current ordeal. Cosmetics? Proclivities? Though young and a clergyman’s daughter, she had heard whispers of depraved men. More than that, she had sat with any number of female parishioners after they had been beaten or injured. Some men, it seemed, enjoyed giving their wives pain. Was she to suffer the same fate? Would her groom delight in the bruises, the beatings, the anguish of his wife?

“No!” She spoke forcefully, startling both herself and her companions. “I will not marry such a man.”

The doctor looked up from where he stood hunched over her legs. “I assure you, there are ways to minimize—”

“Hush,” interrupted the baroness. “The viscount will choose an appropriate bridegroom.”

“I will not marry such a man!” Lynette repeated, as forcefully as she could.

“And your wishes will be taken into consideration,” soothed the baroness. “However, he can only choose among those who wish to marry you.”

Lynette ground her teeth as she once again tested her restraints. “I will not—”

“Then you had best attract a large group of eligible gentlemen,” snapped the baroness. And with that the woman turned her attention back to the surgeon, effectively ending the conversation.

Dr. Smythe was busy at Lynette’s feet, separating each toe, prodding the arches, and flexing her feet in a most unusual manner. “Her feet are excellent. Small, yet strong.” He ran his nail down her sole, making her foot curl in reflex. “Delightful,” he murmured.

Lynette looked down, appalled by the hungry tone in his voice. He was practically drooling.

“That will be enough of that!” snapped the baroness, and to Lynette’s shock, the doctor colored, quickly straightening and moving to the side of the table. Then the woman glanced back at Lynette, her expression gentle. “Dr. Smythe enjoys a particular fondness for feet. But I assure you, I shall keep you safe from his attentions.”

Lynette gaped. As if she cared about her feet! He could happily do whatever he wished to her toes, if only he would allow her to dress!

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because the baroness shook her head. “Ah, Lynette, you are so innocent. Believe me when I tell you, there are depravities that you cannot even imagine. Some things, no matter how innocent, cannot be encouraged no matter what the cost.” She took a step forward.
“That is why I am here. You must learn to trust me.” She sighed. “This could be a great deal worse.”

Lynette might have agreed. For the most part during this ordeal, she had only been severely embarrassed. All in all, she was beginning to think she might survive.

Then the surgeon grabbed one of the straps holding her ankles. With a fierce tug, he pulled her leg wide. She fought, of course, but she was no match for both his strength and the straps that assisted him.

Within seconds, her legs were pulled apart, her knees affixed open, revealing her most private parts to the hideous man’s cool regard.

And then he touched her.

She could not help herself. She screamed. She cursed.

He continued undeterred.

“No lice. Excellent.”

And as his fingers began an invasion she had not thought possible, he continued to smile and nod as if this were the merest social call.

“Tight. Very tight.”

“But is she a virgin?” That was the baroness, her voice high with anxiety.

“Yes. Most definitely. In fact, her husband must be selected with care. She will be injured if he enjoys force.”

He pushed his fingers in farther, and Lynette bucked against the table. Indeed, she might have hurt herself if the straps hadn’t bound her so tightly.

“Yes, most definitely a virgin.”

The baroness released a sigh of relief. “Good. We had worried. Sometimes clergymen’s daughters are vulnerable to the wrong sort…”

Suddenly it was over. The doctor pulled away, wiping his hands on a towel. The baroness unhooked the straps, quickly and abruptly releasing Lynette.

“We are done,” she said. “You may dress.”

Lynette stared at her in shock. She pulled her knees together, then curled her arms close, her angry glare encompassing both her torturers.

“That is all? No apologies?”

The baroness lifted her eyebrows. “I told you, Lynette, this was necessary. And believe me, it could have been much worse.”

Dr. Smythe stepped forward. “There will, of course, be a written report, submitted to the viscount, signed by myself. Your bridegroom will wish to inspect it before your wedding day.”

Of course he would, Lynette thought sourly. She was a bride on the auction block. Whomever purchased her would want a thorough accounting.

“You are despicable,” she spat. “Both of you.” And with that, she stood, brushing away her tears as she strode to her clothing behind the screen.

Behind her, she heard the doctor sigh. “Such magnificent feet.”

She was in her room; Adrian knew she would be, but still he went over Dunwort’s account of their activities. The two women had come home early in the afternoon, and Lynette had gone directly to her room. His aunt had chosen to skip afternoon lessons, pleading a headache, and neither woman had appeared for dinner.

But now it was late, the night gripped in a thick cloud cover that shut out even the moon. Yet when he
appeared at Lynette’s door, Adrian found her sitting beside her window, her eyes on the blackened sky.