Don't Bargain with the Devil Page 8

  “And why would I assume that?” he asked irritably.

  This time, when she headed for the path, he followed right alongside.

  “Because I’m the kind of woman a man dallies with, not the kind he marries. I must give off this air or something. Peter says it’s my wild Spanish blood.”

  He snorted. “Your Peter is an idiot.”

  She conceded that with a shrug. “All the same, you dallied with me.” Her voice grew bitter. “And clearly not because you had any notion of courting me.”

  “It’s not that I . . . Por Dios, you have to understand, I am not free to—” With an oath, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “My situation does not presently permit me to court anyone.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have kissed me.” She clung desperately to her propriety to keep from railing at him and bursting into tears like a silly fool.

  “No, I should not have,” he said grimly. “That much is true.”

  She swallowed, hurt by how readily he agreed with her. “You won’t do it again, I hope.”

  “Why? Was it so dreadful you do not wish to repeat the experience?” he clipped out with what sounded like wounded pride.

  That was just ridiculous. He had women drooling after him wherever he went. Why would he regret the loss of her? “Whether I enjoyed it is immaterial. But if someone happened to see—”

  “You would lose your position as a teacher.”

  “Oh, I don’t care about that. I’m just filling in temporarily.” She thrust out her chin. “But people do talk. And that I care about.”

  “You mean,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you do not want your Peter to find out you have been letting me kiss you in the woods.”

  “I don’t want anyone to find out. It would ruin me.”

  He muttered some oath but did not try to dispute that.

  “Surely you can see why I’m not eager to have my name dragged through the mud over some foolish indiscretion. I may not be a great heiress, but my dowry is decent. As soon as Mrs. Harris fills this position, I’ll join Papa and my stepmother in London for the Season, and some respectable gentleman will offer for me . . . eventually.”

  “I am sure he will,” he bit out as he strode along beside her.

  She glanced over to find him glaring at the path ahead. Could he actually be bothered by the thought of her marrying someone else?

  No, not likely. He was merely irritated that in a short while, she would be beyond his seductions. “Now you understand why you must not kiss me again.”

  “Certainly,” he said flatly.

  Annoyance spiraled in her chest. He could have put up more of a fight than that, for pity’s sake. “You should also understand why it is probably best that you ask someone else to take you around the school.”

  His reaction was more satisfying now: he halted to stare her down. “I do not understand. I have agreed not to kiss you. I assure you, I am perfectly capable of restraining my lust when I choose, cariño.”

  “All the same—”

  “No. It will be you, and that is final.”

  She wanted it to be her, which was all the more reason it shouldn’t be. He might claim not to be interested in a dalliance, but his actions showed otherwise. And given how susceptible she was to his kisses . . .

  “This time you have no say in it,” she told him loftily. “And threatening to go to Mrs. Harris will do you no good. I’ll just tell her that you kissed me. Then it will be open war.” She tipped up her chin. “Mrs. Harris will walk through fire to protect one of her girls from censure.”

  He shrugged. “Fine. That makes my decision easy. A pleasure garden it is.”

  Turning on his heel, he strolled down the path with the easy confidence of a man who knew he’d just trumped her ace.

  Ooh, he was so arrogant and infuriating and . . . thoroughly insufferable! And the fact that it thrilled some part of her was appalling. Only sheer stubbornness made him insist on her showing him around. What other reason could there be?

  But if she persisted in refusing, then Mrs. Harris would think she’d failed to convince him, which stung her pride. She could not fail at this.

  She ran after him. “Surely you’re not daft enough to destroy the school simply because I won’t spend time with you.”

  A tight smile crossed his lips. “I am the devil. I do as I please. And it is a perfectly rational business decision. If you will not endure my company even after I swear to behave properly, then this school is not as important to you as it seems. So I need have no compunction about building whatever I wish next door.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” She tried to match his stride. “There’s no reason I should be your guide over anyone else.”

  “I prefer you. That is reason enough.” They’d reached the end of the path.

  Clearly it would be harder to get rid of him than she’d thought. Lucy even began to doubt that showing him the glories of the school would do it.

  There was the petition, but Mrs. Harris had already warned her that the licensing magistrates were notorious for taking bribes in exchange for licenses.

  She gritted her teeth. Oh, how she hated the thought of losing to the man.

  He halted to face her, ruthless determination on his face. “So, where do we go next?”

  “The front lawn.” She swept past him. “You can watch the archery lessons.”

  He fell into step beside her. “Are you hoping someone’s aim goes astray?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “Murdering me on the school’s premises will not help matters.”

  “Who said anything about murder?” She shot him a baleful glance. “Maiming might be more satisfying.”

  A chuckle sounded low in his throat. “Careful, now. Your wild Spanish blood is kicking up again.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she grumbled.

  “You do realize there are worse things I could build next door. Mr. Pritchard intends to sell his property regardless, and given his high price, the only people who can afford it are those who wish to make a commercial success of it. How would Mrs. Harris feel about a munitions factory or a hospital for the insane?”

  He had a point. What if they ran him off only to have someone worse come in?

  But what could they do?

  The idea hit her like a rifle shot. Yes! It was brilliant! But why hadn’t Mrs. Harris thought of it herself? Perhaps because it couldn’t be done? She would have to ask.

  And she would have to keep him busy and out of the way so the idea could be explored.

  But there would be no more private moments. With luck, Diego Montalvo would be gone and out of her life soon. And she refused to let him take her reputation with him when he left.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Charlotte,

  I am working on a solution to your dilemma, but I need more time. Meanwhile, Miss Seton’s association with the magician can surely do no harm, assuming it is properly chaperoned. And if it actually softens him toward the school, it can only help.

  Your concerned cousin,

  Michael

  T wo days after kissing Lucy in the woods, Diego watched from the orchard as a succession of carriages headed down the drive shortly after dawn.

  He cursed under his breath. Yesterday, Lucy had told him she needed to go over accounts with Mrs. Harris today, so she would not be able to see him. And on Sunday they would attend church, so she could not see him then either.

  He had spent enough time in her company to recognize when she lied, so he had risen at this ungodly hour to see if he was right. It appeared that he was. Because he would wager every peseta he had saved through the years that the woman enveloped in a cloak who had hurried into the first coach was Lucy herself. And that the woman joining her moments later was her employer.

  They were up to something, along with several teachers and pupils, judging from the number of carriages. It must be something they did not want him to discover. No doubt Lucy had assu
med he would sleep past their leavetaking—but then, she always underestimated him.

  Gaspar hurried up, having come the back way from the school’s kitchens, where Diego had sent him after seeing the carriages gather at dawn.

  “Did you learn anything from that cook you are sweet on?” Diego demanded.

  Gaspar glared at him. “She has a name, you know. Sally. And do you think you’re the only one who can turn a pretty woman’s head?”

  Diego fought mightily not to laugh. He had seen the woman in the kitchen gardens once. She was no beauty. But Gaspar loved large-breasted women. And anyone who fed him well. Sally was probably Gaspar’s idea of a goddess.

  “I am well aware of your prowess with women,” Diego said. “Whom do you think I learned it from?”

  “You’re damned right, you did,” Gaspar shot back, only slightly mollified. “What is it to you, anyway, if I am sweet on her? Unlike you, I don’t hate the English, and I deserve—”

  “Gaspar!” Diego chided. “What did you learn from Sally?”

  Gaspar blinked. “Oh. Not much. They’re headed off to a charity breakfast.”

  “Ah, that explains the early hour.”

  “Actually, no. It seems that English society holds breakfasts in the afternoon.”

  “So where the devil is this breakfast—Bath?” Diego said irritably.

  “It’s at the Duchess of Foxmoor’s mansion, but they go early to help set it up. Apparently this is a regular affair. At the beginning of every term, one of the married ladies hosts what is called a Venetian breakfast. They invite the wealthiest members of society to raise money for various causes—a ladies’ association that helps women in prison, an orphanage, political parties, whatever interests them. Sally did say the ladies were leaving earlier than usual.”

  “And we both know why,” Diego bit out.

  “You think they’re up to something?”

  Diego started for the house. “Why else did Lucy keep it secret from me?”

  With a dry laugh, Gaspar hurried after him. “She’s a woman. They love secrets. Perhaps she’s nervous because she’s already told you so much.”

  Diego snorted. “After two days of acting the perfect gentleman, I have learned nothing of worth.”

  “You learned she was on the road to La Coruña, thinks her parents died there, and believes her father to be an English soldier and her mother his Spanish wife.”

  “Yes, but I do not know what basis she has for believing it. I do not even know if she remembers their deaths. She remembers the retreat. If she remembers them being with her on it—”

  “She was four,” Gaspar said with a shrug. “She’s probably remembering the nurse.”

  “But why did the colonel not just say he is her father? And why allow his mistress to steal a child in Gibraltar and carry her on a transport in the first place? That cannot have been easy for an unmarried soldier. Even if they married, why would he continue to care for her? Miss Seton’s description of the colonel’s stellar character contradicts what we have been told.”

  “Yes, but she fits so many of the facts. She is probably ashamed to admit the truth about his character. You must get her to talk about the couple she believes to be her real parents. Then perhaps she will feel comfortable telling you the rest.”

  “I have tried!” Scowling, Diego strode up the steps. “I cannot even get her alone. Mrs. Harris’s burly footman accompanies us everywhere. Lucy has built a wall of English propriety between us, and everything is ‘the school this’ and ‘the school that.’ ”

  “She doesn’t like you much, does she?”

  He suspected she liked him too well. That was the problem: her attraction to him terrified her. After their reckless kisses, she had closed up like a morning glory at midnight.

  Still, he couldn’t regret those kisses. They had been a revelation. Lucy had been a revelation, a ravishing blend of inexperience and curiosity that made him want to show her everything she secretly yearned to know.

  She had sensed the depths of his desire, which had alarmed her, since that fellow Peter had blamed the ferociousness of his own lust on her nature. He’d been right about her nature but wrong about her character.

  Imbécil. How could the man not appreciate her love of the sensual? It enticed Diego. And when yoked to her firmness of purpose, it was intoxicating.

  In Spain, men would recognize her fine qualities. They would not belittle her as these foolish English did. She would be admired, adored. She deserved better than she got from these English, and Diego meant to see that she received it.

  Even if it meant watching some other man marry her.

  He cursed under his breath. Why did he torture himself like this? He could not afford to marry her. Yet the tantalizing thought of her melting in his arms again had kept him on edge during their days together. He had found it harder by the hour to concentrate on trying to get information from her, when all he wanted was to carry her off to his bed and spend the night rousing her passions. Just the idea had kept him lying awake and frustrated for the past three nights.

  Muttering a curse, Diego headed for the rickety staircase. “It is not that Miss Seton does not like me; she simply does not like what she thinks I mean to do to her precious school. That is why her behavior this morning strikes me as suspicious. She has no reason to lie about supporting a charity. You would think she would invite me, if only to squeeze money out of me for her favorite cause.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to slow for Gaspar. By the time the old man joined him in the study, huffing and puffing, Diego already had the trunk half packed.

  “Qué demonios!” Gaspar clutched his hand to his chest. “What madness has possessed you?”

  “Miss Seton’s sneaking off at the crack of dawn only makes sense if she is raising money for a cause that she does not wish for me to know about—probably something to do with stopping the pleasure garden.”

  Gaspar blinked. “Ah, yes. That does make more sense. But assuming you’re right, what does it matter? It’s not as if you really mean to build anything.”

  “No, but if she thinks she has found a way to thwart me, then she has no more reason to deal with me. I cannot have that.”

  He wished he could tell her the truth and let the cards fall where they may. But only think how much more secretive she would become when he said he believed she had been stolen from her real parents by her beloved Papa and the woman she knew as her mother.

  If Diego did not have his facts exactly right when he admitted the truth, she might recoil, refuse to talk to him. Or worse yet, tell the colonel, who would enlist the authorities on his side to have them thrown out of the country before he and Gaspar could be sure of their facts. Then where would they be?

  “I must change tactics.” Diego threw his evening attire into the trunk. “I have played the gentleman with her, letting her dictate the terms of our association, thinking she would grow to trust me. But that is not working.”

  The only time she revealed anything of worth was when they fought . . . or kissed—when he made her forget her English propriety.

  “With Miss Seton, it is all about rousing her temper.” Or her passions. “She is more forthcoming with information when her emotions run high.”

  “What do you mean to do?” Gaspar asked.

  “Shake her up. Attend her little breakfast. Make her dance to my tune for a change.” Diego packed his rigged candles and special wine bottle, then grinned at Gaspar. “I think it is high time I give our good neighbors a charity performance.”

  • • •

  Lucy was in the Duchess of Foxmoor’s elaborate gardens, going over the musical selections with the orchestra, when Mrs. Harris hurried up. “Lucy, dear, I have some news that . . . I don’t want to distress you, but—”

  Leaving the list with the players, Lucy drew Mrs. Harris off. “What is it?”

  “Lord Hunforth has come. With Lady Juliana.”

  Lucy waited for the pain to hit.


  None did. How odd. The last few days, she’d been so consumed with her campaign to save the school that she’d scarcely thought of Peter at all.

  Of course, she’d been rather distracted by that cursed magician, but that shouldn’t be a factor. He might be a devastatingly handsome villain, with a quick wit and a way of making her insides flutter, but that only put her more on her guard.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Harris said. “I had no idea Louisa intended to invite them, or I would have cautioned her against it.”

  “Nonsense. Let them come. Their money is as good as anyone’s.” And thankfully she had dressed with particular care today, in a gown of ivory silk and gauze that showed her figure quite well. “Besides, it will give me the chance to prove I care nothing about Lord Hunforth anymore.”

  “I hope that’s true, dear. Because he’s headed this way.”

  That was all the warning she got before a familiar voice sounded at her elbow. “Good afternoon, Miss Seton.”

  She faced Peter with a forced smile, not surprised to find him dressed in an exquisite blue coat so adorned with gold braiding and gilt buttons that he outshone the sun. Predictably, his female companion wore a gown of pink satin and lace that had clearly cost three times what Lucy’s had. They made a striking pair.

  “Lord Hunforth, how nice to see you.” Taking some satisfaction from how he winced at her formal tone, Lucy cast his female companion a cool nod. “And you, too, Lady Juliana. So lovely of you both to support our cause.”

  As someone called Mrs. Harris away, Lady Juliana drew her shawl more closely about her and sniffed. “It’s rather chilly today for an outdoor party, don’t you think, Miss Seton?”

  “You must understand, my dear,” Peter said to Lady Juliana before Lucy could answer. “Miss Seton is a sturdy sort of female. She does not feel the cold the way someone as delicate as you probably does.” He gently patted Lady Juliana’s hand, which gripped his arm rather sturdily for a “delicate” female’s.

  “I feel the cold well enough,” Lucy said meaningfully. “I just choose to ignore it.”