Don't Bargain with the Devil (8 page)

 

Diego had easily agreed to the stipulation. But that was before their quarry had turned out to be a lovely creature capable of rousing his desire. Even knowing it was madness, the very idea of lifting Lucy’s skirts, either stealthily or with her permission, fired his blood unbearably.

 

He gritted his teeth. “I will do whatever I must to make sure that the
marqués
gets his granddaughter exactly as planned.”

 

“And it does not trouble you that he means to find her a titled husband to bear him his heir, now that his son is dead?” Gaspar’s tone grew skeptical. “That some other man will be ‘plowing her field’?”

 

He steeled himself against the image of Lucy in another man’s bed. “Why should it? It has naught to do with me. I do not qualify as a husband for her.”

 

“Your father was—”

 

“Nobody, compared to the
marqués.
Don Carlos would never agree to let her marry me. His aspirations are higher. He would cut her off first—and refuse to give me
back Arboleda as he promised, too. If I relinquish my estate, it will be back to performing and endless travel—no Arboleda, no nothing. I will not risk that just to bed some female.”

 

He strode up the Rockhurst steps and headed for the brandy. This perplexing attraction to Lucy would pass if he kept a tight rein on it. He had weathered hard times before; he could do it again.

 

Even if it meant relinquishing his chance at the lovely Lucinda Seton.

 

 

 

ďťż

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

 

 

Dear Charlotte,

 

I am surprised you tolerate anyone else being as opinionated as you. We both know you don’t take well to having your ideas contradicted. And I would not pin your hopes on such a petition. The licensing magistrates are notoriously fickle about their choices, not to mention susceptible to bribery.

 

Your cousin,

 

Michael

 

 

E
arly the next afternoon, Lucy herded several twelve-year-olds down the path through the oaks behind the school. With the weather still unseasonably warm, it was far too lovely to sit inside and draw.

 

Bearing their smocks, sketch pads, and charcoals, they quickly reached the old river landing, which had four spectacular views. Before them was the Thames with the countryside beyond, behind them lay the oak copse, to the left was the school’s boathouse, and to the right was the cherry orchard.

 

That cursed cherry orchard. As the girls donned their smocks, she strolled over to gaze at it. Was Diego Montalvo out there now, or was he still abed?

 

The idea sent an unwelcome warmth flooding her belly. Would he wear a nightshirt? Or sleep in his drawers, like some men in the regiment?

 

She didn’t want to know. Because the thought of him bare-chested, wearing only drawers, set her pulse pounding, and she was going to see him later today. How was she supposed to react after yesterday’s kisses?

 

Her fingers curled automatically into her palm, and a groan escaped her. The first had been bad enough, but the second and third…

 

No man had ever kissed her palm or her wrist, not even Peter. It had nearly turned her to ash right there. How strange that such kisses felt so much more intimate, so much more sinful, than one to the back of the hand.

 

Or was it just the way he’d stared at her while doing it?

 

She shivered. His eyes, warm and coffee-brown, had met hers in a look that held more than mere admiration, something wild and wanton and very, very wicked.

 

That licentious look, those unwise kisses, had fed last night’s dreams in the most shocking manner. She’d spent half the night imagining that dark gaze poring over her naked body, those possessive lips burning a path down her chin and upper chest and…and breasts…

 

“Miss Seton?” asked a pupil, jerking her from her thoughts.

 

She whirled to find the girls seated on the aging plank bench that circled the landing, with their charcoals and sketch pads at hand and their faces expectant.

 

She struggled to regain her composure. “Ah, I see you’re ready. Very good.” This was her first drawing class. What in the dickens was she doing allowing thoughts of that wretched magician to intrude? If she weren’t careful, she would forget why she was here in the first place.

 

And why
he
had come to Richmond, too. That was probably why he’d kissed her hand so scandalously: to make her forget about his devious plans.

 

With matter-of-fact efficiency, she donned her smock and set out her sketch pad and charcoals. “Now then, ladies, according to your previous teacher’s notes, you left off with landscapes. Is that correct?”

 

“Yes, Miss Seton,” the girls said in unison. Then Tessa’s hand shot up.

 

“Miss Dalton?” Lucy asked.

 

“She told us we would start on figures next.”

 

Lucy bit back a smile. The girls were always eager to go right to figures, so they could sketch their parents and beaus and friends. But it wasn’t wise to rush them beyond the limits of their competence too quickly, no matter how eager they were for it. It would merely frustrate them.

 

“Let’s leave the figures until a day when the weather is not so fine.”

 

Another girl raised her hand, followed by two others.

 

Suppressing a sigh, she called on the first. “Yes, Miss Pierce.”

 

“Our teacher
promised
that if we practiced drawing hands enough last term, we could go on to figures this term,” she protested. “And we’ve been drawing our left hands for weeks and weeks!”

 

“And you’ll be drawing them for weeks more if you keep complaining,” Lucy said with a teacherly scowl.

 

The other two girls’ hands went down.

 

“Now then,” she said firmly, “today you will draw one of the views surrounding us—there are plenty to choose from.”

 

Eleven heads bent quickly to their sketch pads.

 

That went rather well,
she thought as she settled herself on one end of the landing, where she could observe all of her pupils.

 

Fortunately, only Tessa knew her as a friend. The others were too young to have attended here when she had, which would make it easier to maintain the proper distance. But for tomorrow’s class with the older girls, she’d have to make it clear that she was Miss Seton, drawing teacher, and not Lucy, the colonel’s daughter famous for never holding her tongue.

 

She flipped through her own sketch pad, hurrying past the sketch of Peter to find an empty page. After her shameless response to yesterday’s hand kisses, she needed no more reminders of her flawed character.

 

Today she would do better.

 

“What a fine picture you ladies make,” said a male voice.

 

Startled, she looked up to see Seńor Montalvo striding up to the landing. Just the sight of him in a chocolate-hued riding coat, tight buckskin riding breeches, and well-polished Hessians sent her pulse racing. And a racing pulse didn’t augur well for good behavior.

 

“What are
you
doing here?” she snapped.

 

He laughed, the throaty sound making her go all shivery. “Such a welcome! You told me I might come, remember?”

 

“I said
later!
” She rose to her feet. “After our lessons are done.”

 

“I wanted to see you teaching your class,” he said smoothly.

 

“But Mrs. Harris—”

 

“I spoke to her when I entered. That’s how I knew where to find you. She thought my joining you a fine idea.” A devilish smile curved his mouth.

 

A likely story. When Lucy had broached the possibility of taking Diego around the school yesterday, she’d had to twist Mrs. Harris’s arm to get her to agree. But apparently, even though Mrs. Harris wasn’t entirely sure that Seńor Montalvo could be trusted, she did trust Lucy. Of course, that was only because she didn’t know about their previous encounter.

 

“Very well, sir,” she said, determined not to let him intimidate her. “Feel free to watch, but I’m afraid you’ll be bored. The young ladies and I will merely draw for a bit, and then I’ll stroll around to observe and make comments.”

 

“May I ask what you’re drawing?”

 

“We were
supposed
to draw figures,” Tessa grumbled.

 

“Miss Dalton—” Lucy warned.

 

“I suppose you can’t draw figures without a model,” he jumped in, eyes twinkling. “Why not let me be your model? I might as well make myself useful.”

 

Eleven pairs of hopeful eyes swung her way. She would have refused, except for one thing: being a model required utter stillness. He couldn’t distract her with magic tricks or flirtation, so she’d have a chance to extol the school’s virtues. And he’d have to listen.

 

Besides, she could also ask
him
questions. She still felt that he was even more a Master of Mystery than he seemed, and this would give her the chance to unveil his secrets. It was crucial in any war to know the enemy well. Surely the man had
some
vulnerability.

 

“All right, Seńor Montalvo. We’d be delighted to have you as a model.”

 

As the girls cheered, he flashed her an arrogant smile and strode to the bench at the other end of the landing.

 

Enjoy yourself while you can, sir,
Lucy thought smugly.
Those planks will get uncomfortable very quickly.
Even half an hour of holding the same position was sure to wipe that self-satisfied expression from his handsome face.

 

When she resumed her seat, he called out, “How shall I pose?”

 

“However you wish.” She picked up her charcoal, annoyingly eager to sketch him.

 

“How’s this?” He stretched out on the bench on his back, crossing his ankles and tucking his hands under his head.

 

When the girls giggled, she scowled. He thought he was so clever. “Planning to take a nap while we sketch you, sir?”

 

“You did say I would be bored.”

 

“Ah, but you’re not allowed to move, even in sleep. I would prefer that you choose a pose that allows you more control.”

 

He sat up to cast her a cheeky grin. “You’re a harsh taskmaster, Miss Seton.”

 

“I do try,” she said. “The way you’re sitting now is fine.”

 

More than fine. He was leaning forward, with his hands planted at his sides and his legs splayed wide, like a man on the verge of rising. It not only lent the pose energy and action, but it flexed the muscles of his thighs beneath his tight breeches.

 

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.

 

She should focus on a part of him that didn’t tempt her. Not his broad shoulders straining against his coat. Not the well-shaped calves encased in fine leather. Certainly not those amazing hands that had haunted her dreams…

 

With a groan, she jerked her gaze to his face—where his sensuous mouth reminded her of how he’d kissed her hand yesterday. Nothing was safe with him.

 

Determined to resist his attractions, she forced herself to think of him as an object—a statue, perhaps, like the stuffy ones adorning town halls.

 

For a while, only the scratch of charcoals on paper pierced the silence.

 

Then he cleared his throat. “Am I allowed to talk?”

 

“As long as you move only your lips.” She seized on the opening. “I’m sure the young ladies would enjoy hearing about your home in Spain.”

 

“What makes you think I’m Spanish?”

 

“You speak Spanish.”

 

“And English, Portuguese, and French.”

 

“Fine.” She tried not to be impressed that he spoke four languages. “Tell us about wherever your home is.”

 

“I’m from León.”

 

Her gaze shot up from the sketch pad. “That
is
a province in Spain, isn’t it?”

 

“You know of it?” He didn’t sound entirely surprised.

 

She knew of it better than she wished. Her mother had died in its frozen mountain passes. “As a girl, I traveled through Spain with my parents.”

 

“Why were you in Spain, Miss Seton?” Tessa asked.

 

“My father served in the army.” Both of her fathers had. Her real father, a British soldier named Tom Crawford, had died at the Battle of La Coruńa, heartsick and weakened by the recent loss of his wife. But not before begging his superior officer, Hugh Seton, to take her in. According to the colonel, neither of her parents had possessed any other family.

 

“So you were on the retreat to La Coruńa,” Diego said, his tone oddly gentle.

 

Tears stung her eyes. “Yes, though I was too young to remember anything except being always cold. And hungry.”

 

Years later, she’d pored over every document relating to that disastrous retreat, looking for information about Sergeant Thomas Crawford or his Spanish wife, Catalina, who’d died beside the road. There was none. But she now knew the horrors they’d faced in the British army’s mad dash to reach the coast ahead of the French.

 

“The mountains of Ancares get very cold in January. The snow lay thick that year.” An edge had entered his voice, but when she glanced at him, his expression was bland. “Or so I heard.”

 

And the dead had littered the road. “If you’re from León, you
are
Spanish,” she said, eager to change the subject. “Why did you imply otherwise?”

 

“Because I’m Galician. We’re an entirely different people, though Spain has…appropriated us, shall we say.”

 

“How can there be snow in Spain?” Miss Pierce put in. “Isn’t it hot there?”

 

“It depends on what part you’re in. Where I come from, it’s hot in summer, cold in winter. On one side are the mountains, on the other high plains. It’s green but dry.” A palpable yearning for home filtered into his voice. “At present it’s spring. The cherries are in bloom there as well, and the grapevines are flourishing. The skies are clear and blue, and the days warm enough to doze in the courtyard.”