Devil's Bargain (9 page)

She stopped him, reaching out and holding on to his arm. He could have broken free, of course, but he wished to work with her, not against her. He paused, turning back to look her in the eye.

“I will choose from those five?” she pressed. “I will make the final decision?”

He quickly evaluated his options. In truth, he was likely to narrow the field to two, at most three. There were always at least two who were acceptable from his perspective, but never from his charge’s. He could probably manage five and still be assured she would make an excellent alliance.

Still, he did not wish to totally concede. He was the instructor, and he needed to keep her under his control. “Three suitors. And then you will choose.”

She looked away. He had her caught, and she knew it. He did not have to negotiate with her at all. Indeed, he had never allowed any of his charges this kind of latitude. And yet, strangely, he was not worried. Lynette would make an excellent choice.

“There are things about some men you cannot know. Indeed, you would not want to know. Truly, Lynette, your happiness is foremost in my mind.”

She shook her head. “No, your fortune is foremost.”

He opened his mouth to argue but held back the words. She was correct, and yet she was also wrong. True, his future depended upon her wealthy marriage. But he would never, ever marry her to a monster—even if it cost him everything he had,
everything he’d built from the day he began this unholy business.

He saw her swallow, saw her weigh her choices and make her decision. It was written in her shuddered breath, the firm jut of her chin, and the final squaring of her shoulders.

“Very well. Three choices.” Her voice was soft, but no less determined. And he knew she would abide by this bargain.

He smiled, impressed beyond words. Then, to seal their deal, he offered her his hand. “Upon my honor, Lynette, I swear I shall give you as good a choice as possible. I cannot promise any more than that.”

She hesitated, staring first at his outstretched hand, then back to his face. “Upon your honor,” she echoed. “How worthy is that?”

It was a fair question and, once again, a shrewd one. Still, he bristled. When he answered, his voice was cold. “My honor is the only thing that keeps this particular trade alive. If any one of my brides had not turned out exactly as promised, do you believe I could marry off another? My honor is without question!”

She looked at him, and for a moment humor lit her eyes. “Without question? Oh, I doubt that, my lord. I most sincerely do.” Then, before he could react, she grasped his hand. “But I will accept your honor as you have offered it. And I thank you for it.”

He shook her hand, all the while staring at the peculiar woman before him. Not a one of his girls had ever acted as she had. And as he turned to leave the room, he wondered if he had handled the situation well. Or if, more precisely, he had been handled by her.

He should be upset by the thought. He should be angry at the possible loss of control over his charge.
Oddly enough, he was not. Instead, he felt invigorated. If nothing else had happened here, Lynette had at last demonstrated her readiness to begin.

In fact, he thought with sudden glee, now he could launch her in earnest.

She slept naked that night.

Indeed, after her ordeal it seemed fitting somehow that all vestiges of her old life be burned away. She needed no prompting to toss her nightrail into the fire. In fact, she did so immediately after the viscount left her chamber.

The old Lynette was gone. The new Lynette had committed herself to this bizarre course of action.

As the last vestiges of her white gown burst into flames, she vowed that she would become a fire as hot as the one that took her clothing. She would draw men as if they were moths. They would want her. They would desire her. Then one of them would pay dearly to possess her.

And in the end, that man would die, leaving her free.

Free.

The word whispered through her mind, more seductive than any promise the viscount could make.

Free to help her family however she saw fit.

Free of her husband.

Free of the viscount and his hateful plans and cold logic.

Free to do whatever she wanted. Become a teacher or, more shocking still, a doctor. One who did not humiliate patients. One who made health and happiness a priority. One who didn’t make them wish to scrub their skin raw trying to erase their memory.

But for now she had to sleep. Curling into herself, she tucked the covers up to her chin and slept.

Until she dreamed.

It was an ugly dream, filled with cold hands, hideous fingers, and the flat, implacable voice of her jailer, the viscount.

“It was necessary,” he said. And he repeated it over and over and over until she screamed her hatred aloud.

He was beside her in a minute—in her bedroom, she realized, not in her dream. She could not stop herself from hissing at him to stay away.

He did not listen. He leaned forward, touching her forehead with his fingers. It was a soothing stroke, and yet it infuriated her. She lashed out, hitting him with everything in her. Her strikes were hard, brutal, punishing. And yet they seemed completely ineffective. He blocked her firmly, completely, and gently. Waited until she exhausted herself. Until the anger drained away.

But the fear remained. She did not know when the change occurred. Indeed, she was not a thinking soul
at that moment. All she knew was that the anger was gone, leaving behind a mind-numbing terror.

“Do not run!” he commanded, his voice harsh.

She had not even realized she was tensed to flee. His dark command froze her in place as firmly as iron bands. And so she remained still, her body anxious and bitter, her mind seething with a nameless dread.

What would come next? What indignity would shrivel her soul now? Where would she be touched next? She cringed. And then, slowly, she felt something.

A hand.

She whimpered. She heard the sound quite clearly, but only a small part of her realized it came from herself. It was too animalistic. It was too pitiful.

The touch continued. Stroking her brow. Gently. As if she were a child.

“You are safe, Lynette. No one will hurt you.”

She heard the sounds but could not understand their meaning.

“It was a nightmare. It is over now. Shhhh.”

Then, once, she felt the viscount’s thumb reach down and stroke her cheek, wiping away the tears she did not know wet her face.

“It was only a dream.”

She buried her face in her pillow, shuddering as a dam seemed to give way within her. Her tears tore at her and her body contorted with each shuddering cry.

“It was only a dream.”

“No,” she said between gasps. “No, it was real. It was all real.”

He didn’t answer her. He merely tucked her in
close, holding her as she cried, stroking her hair since he could not reach her face.

“You are safe now, Lynette.”

Now she understood his words, but they only made her sob harder. He did everything he could to soothe the hurt. But she knew everything he said was a lie. It wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t over. And she certainly wasn’t safe. Not now. Probably not for a very long time.

“Don’t cry. I am here.”

Those, she knew, weren’t lies. Those words were the truth.

“You are safe.”

She was curled tightly around her pillow, but her back leaned against him. His heat enfolded her, warming her chilled body, heating her aching soul. Perhaps, she thought fuzzily, some words were true. With him, at least, she felt safe.

“Stay,” she whispered.

“Of course.”

He lay with her all night.

Then, as the first weak rays of dawn filtered through her curtains, she finally stopped crying.

Together they slept.

She awoke alone.

Glancing about the empty room, she realized with horror that it was well past noon. Listening intently, she knew that the viscount had long since left the house. The place felt much too silent, eerily so, for him to be there.

In fact, she thought as she sat up in bed, the whole past twenty-four hours had been eerie. So much so that she wondered which part of it had been real and which a dream. Without a doubt, yesterday’s experience
had been very real. As was her bargain with the viscount.

As for her nightmare…She hesitated. Abruptly, she leaned down into her pillow. Though there was no telltale indentation of his head, she inhaled the scent of bay rum. He had been with her last night. He had held her tenderly as she cried.

He could have merely been protecting his business venture. After all, he had already invested quite a bit of time and money in her. He would lose it all if she did not get a husband. But her heart chose to ignore that possibility. For now, she simply believed that he could be gentle.

Sliding out of bed, she dressed quickly and made her way downstairs. Given the time, she did not expect to meet the baroness here, but she hoped she might find a clue as to her day’s instructions. Or rather, her afternoon’s plan.

Pushing into the kitchen, she nearly collided with Dunwort, his startled gaze quickly shifting into a wide grin. “Ah, ye be awake. Have a good cry, did we? And do we feel much better now?”

She blinked, taken aback by his frank statement. “Do you know everything that happens in this house?” she asked suddenly.

He chortled. “Not everything. But most.” Then he turned around, pulling out a kitchen chair for her. “The baroness is occupied in her afternoon tipplage, so’s you’ve got some time to eat. What shall I make ye?”

Lynette turned, frowning as she deciphered his words. “She is drinking?”

“Aye,” he agreed as he pulled out a frying pan. “Always does after the girls see the surgeon. Almost
as hard on her as it is on them. Now,” he said with a grin, “how about some nice eggs to start off with, hmm? That’s wot me mum used to always say. A good egg in the morning can erase a bad night.” He leaned in close and winked. “Even if the morning really is the afternoon.”

Lynette nodded absently. “An egg would be lovely,” she said, but her thoughts were on the baroness. Yesterday, the woman had been cold and cruel. She had returned to being the Witch. Could it be the baroness used that facade to distance herself from the experience? That perhaps she thought a cold tone would shorten the ordeal, and that all the sympathy in the world would merely prolong the agony?

Possible, Lynette admitted begrudgingly. But still, she could not forgive the woman. Not yet. Not until she had put the event more firmly behind her. And to that end, she addressed herself to Dunwort and the two eggs he slipped in front of her.

“Dunwort,” she began, her manner coaxing, “how did the other girls…” She shifted uncomfortably. “How did they attract their husbands?”

“Wot?” He was busy cleaning the pan, his face carefully averted.

She stood, coming up behind him and dropping her hand onto his arm. “I need to know, Dunwort. Please.”

He stilled at her touch, turning slightly to look at her. His eyes were worried, but she returned his gaze steadily, firmly. He would answer eventually; she just had to show him how important it was for her to know.

“That be his task, miss. It’s not fer me to explain.” Then he shook off her hand, turning back to the pan.
“Now eat yer food. There ain’t enough of it to be wasting.”

But Lynette did not move. Instead, she shifted, leaning against the wall so she could watch the butler’s face. “Were they very beautiful?”

He paused in his washing, looking at her with clear eyes. She didn’t flinch from his gaze, allowing him to see the uncertainty in her face. The fear. She had set herself the task of attracting as many suitors as possible, and yet she had no idea how to go about it.

“Aye, they were.”

Lynette sighed, already feeling defeat press down upon her.

“But you are ten times as lovely.”

Lynette shook her head, returning to her breakfast with a somber mien. Spanish coin would not help her in her goal. “Thank you, Dunwort,” she said softly.

This time it was he who pursued her, settling down in the chair opposite. “You do not believe me.”

Lynette shrugged. “I am not a fool, Dunwort. I know what is beautiful and what is not. My face and figure are pleasing, but…” She paused, searching for the right words. “But they are not that remarkable.”

“It be true, yer face ain’t remarkable. Though,” he added with a grin, “I cain’t see nothing wrong with yer figure. In fact,” he mulled softly, “ye remind me of the baroness when she was yer age. The hair and body’s the same. Even the fire in yer eye. Bit odd, but ye two could be cousins.”

She blinked, thrown by his comment. She hadn’t thought herself in any way the same as the baroness, but perhaps, when the woman had been younger, before she began drinking—perhaps there were similarities.
Certainly in coloring and general body shape. The thought was so strange that she scooped up a bite of egg just to buy time to think about it. Meanwhile, Dunwort continued, his voice firm and specific.

“But it ain’t the body nor the face wot catches a man. Never was, never will be.” He paused, waiting no doubt for dramatic effect. It worked. She held her breath, her food forgotten as he leaned forward. “Wot catches a man, sure as a fish in a net, is love.”

Lynette’s chest constricted, cutting off her breath. She was startled by the suddenness of her reaction, the complete and total pain of his statement. Blinking away her tears, she whispered, “But I am not to marry for love.”

Dunwort reached out, gently touching her fingers, and she focused on that, his large hand covering hers with warmth. “Not love of the man, though if you can manage that, you’ll ’ave him for sure.”

She looked up, her vision watery with unshed tears. “Then what?”

“The love of wot yer doing, girl. Of who you are. Inside, yer ten times the woman any of ’is other girls ever was. Yer kind an’ gentle. Ye listen to us old folks instead o’ thinking ye’ve got the answers.”

“My father’s parishioners taught me that, and much more. But Dunwort, I have been listening all my life, and not a man has ever appeared asking for my hand. Or asking for anything, for that matter.”

“Aye,” he said with a grin. “And that is wot ’e’ll teach you.” The butler leaned forward. “Six girls he’s married off. All rich women, now. Do you know why ’e’s so successful?”

Lynette shook her head, completely enthralled. “Why?”

“ ’E loves wot he’s doing.”

She blinked. “Loves selling girls into marriage?”

Dunwort shook his head, frowning. “If that’s wot ye believe, then ye’re not as smart as I thought.”

She set down her fork, looking directly at him. “But that is exactly what is to happen. He has told me so himself.”

“Aye. But would ye not ’ave been sold anyway? If ye had stayed with yer family, would you ’ave been able to pick yer man? For love?”

Slowly the truth dawned on her. “No,” she said softly. “No. My uncle would have chosen for me.”

“Then you would ’ave been sold nonetheless. As would all ’is lordship’s girls. That’s the way with women.”

How could she deny it, when she had seen the truth of it all her life? Out of all her father’s parishioners, she could count the happy women on one hand. True, those who had been forced into marriage numbered at least half. But of those who had married for love, many found their choices as evil as the rest. And once married, there was nothing a girl could do to protect herself. No matter the joy that began the union, all too soon the woman became no more than an indentured servant, serving her husband’s needs and caring for his children.

“Wot his lordship does is give ’is girls a way out. ’E teaches them how to marry rich. An’ wot to do with their blunt once the bugger’s died off. That’s freedom—when ye’s got money and knows wot to do with it. That’s wot he loves doing. An’ ye should, too.”

She shook her head, wishing she understood what was to happen. What was he to teach her? What was she to do? Struggling for clarity, she repeated his words. “I am to love what the viscount does?”

“Naw,” Dunwort drawled, his expression frustrated. “Yer t’ love what ye learn. The lord God above didn’t mean for it to be wrapped in duty or meant for England. I seen more girls suffer in their choices because they didn’t know how to enjoy it.”

“Enjoy what?”

He reached forward and patted her hand. “Ye’ll learn. Just remember wot I said. Enjoy it. Love it, even. An’ ye’ll be fine.” Then he pushed up from his chair.

“Dunwort, don’t go!” She reached out, but the butler had moved too far away. “I don’t understand.”

“Ye will, missy. Ye will.” He smiled and pulled at his forelock. “An’ now I ’ave chores t’ get to. An’ ye ’ave yer lessons with the baroness.”

Which she did. And Lynette had no choice but to attend. Indeed, the baroness demanded nothing less. Unfortunately, they were tedious in the extreme. Deportment. Dancing. French. All those things she’d once thought frivolous were now the focal point in her life. Only the viscount’s book on investment held her interest. And so she read it when she should not have, even getting another book—this one a child’s text explaining government—from the viscount’s library.

Unfortunately, the baroness did not grill her on the structure of the English government. Instead, she scrutinized Lynette’s behavior, her words, even the way she stood or sat or the expression on her face.