Don't Bargain with the Devil (13 page)

 

His rigid features softened. “Then I will perform for your friends. And your cause.”

 

He glanced to where her hand gripped his bare forearm, and his expression grew strained. “If you wish me to
continue to behave as a gentleman,
mi dulzura,
” he choked out, “I suggest you release my arm.”

 

It was an excellent suggestion. If he hadn’t looked so torn about it, she might have complied. But in the privacy of the area behind the curtains, she found herself wanting something else entirely. Especially after he’d called her
mi dulzura,
“my sweetness.” Like
carińo,
it made her ridiculous heart hunger for more.

 

“Perhaps I don’t always want you to behave as a gentleman with me,” she whispered.

 

He sucked in a breath, his gaze meeting hers in a brazen glance that told her exactly what he thought of
that
insane remark. Then he dragged her into his arms.

 

“Never say I did not warn you,” he growled, seconds before he took her mouth with such feverish need that it reduced her very bones to ash.

 

She’d been craving his lips on hers for an eternity, and now she couldn’t get enough. She sank into his kiss, reveled in it.

 

His possessive embrace swallowed her up, plastered her to the lean body that had haunted her dreams. Without his coat and waistcoat, she could feel the heat of his muscular body, and it fed hers like kindling to smoldering coals.

 

He drew her deeper into the shadows, still kissing her, until he had her pressed against the side wall. “You inflame me,
carińo,
” he murmured between delectable kisses to her cheek, her throat, the swells of her breasts. “I have tried to put you from my mind, but I cannot. I have thought of nothing but touching and kissing you for two days.”

 

“Diego…please,” she said, not sure what she was begging for. He decided for her, his mouth delving lower into
her bodice, scattering hot kisses where no man had ever touched her before.

 

By the time he had edged her bodice and shift down to free one breast, she was aching to see how it would feel to have him kiss her
there.
Her years of lessons clamored that this was wrong, and she tried to listen, even closing her hands in his hair with a righteous intent to pull him back.

 

Then his mouth covered her bare nipple, and all thought of stopping him died right there. “Oh…my…word,” she whispered as he caressed her breast with deft strokes of his wicked tongue.

 

She didn’t care why he desired her, or how wicked she was to let him dally with her. She just wanted to set her wild Spanish blood free.

 

Because being here with Diego suddenly seemed worth any censure.

 

 

 

ďťż

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

 

 

Dear Cousin,

 

We have hit upon a solution of our own. We are raising money to purchase Rockhurst ourselves. We can only hope that if we show Mr. Pritchard we have a reasonable expectation of being able to pay for it, he will refuse to sell to Seńor Montalvo.

 

Your friend,

 

Charlotte

 

 

T
his was madness, Diego knew. It was unwise for so many reasons, and yet…

 

The intoxicating scent of violets on Lucy’s skin and the moans she made low in her throat were too sweet to ignore.

 

Thank God the footmen had finished setting out chairs and Gaspar was off eating breakfast. Because Diego could not seem to satisfy his own hunger for the enchanting vixen clutching his head to her soft breast.

 

Dios Santo,
how could he help wanting to taste her? When he’d seen her, all he could do was feast his eyes on her beauty. Her bewitching gown of creamy silk and gauze had served up the golden mounds of her breasts like those lemon cakes he’d coveted during his years of hunger.

 

Except that these cravings were more insistent, more powerful than a mere desire for food. “
Carińo,
” he murmured against the flesh that was every bit as lush as he’d dreamed, “we must not…enjoy such pleasures here. It is too public.”

 

“Yes…” She groaned as he tugged on her nipple with his teeth. “I mean, no…not here.”

 

Yet she did not stop him when he cupped her other breast through her gown, fondling it in a futile attempt to assuage the rampant need stiffening his cock to iron. One more moment, just one more moment, and he would stop.

 

But then she would come to her senses, and he might never get to taste her again. And that was too great a risk to take.

 

“Ah,
mi dulzura,
” he rasped as he dropped to one knee to caress her breast more in earnest. “I wish I could devour every part of you.”

 

He was about to do just that, lifting her skirts, daring to go further, when the sound of boot heels on the wooden floor tapped into his fogged brain. He froze.

 

“Diego?” she whispered.

 

He covered her mouth with his hand, then cocked his head to listen, praying it was not Gaspar, who would walk up onto the stage without a thought.

 

Silently he rose and regretfully pulled up her bodice, fighting the desire that still swamped him with need, that still roused his cock.

 

He had taken quite a chance with her reputation, and judging from her widening eyes and her frantic attempts to set her clothing to rights, she realized that herself.

 

“Lucy?” a voice called out from somewhere in the ballroom.

 

It was sharp, insistent, male. And the intimacy that the man’s use of her Christian name implied raised Diego’s hackles instantly.

 

“I know you’re in here somewhere,” the man went on. “The footman told me you came to speak to that cursed magician. I’m not leaving until we talk.”

 

Lucy cast Diego a look of half apology, half embarrassment, then called back, “I don’t want to talk to you. I am helping Seńor Montalvo prepare for his performance.”

 

The sound of footsteps approached the stage. Although she was fully dressed, Diego was not. Lucy hurried to the end of the wings while Diego searched for his waistcoat and coat, donning them hastily over his filthy shirt.

 

As he tied his cravat, he heard her say firmly, “Go away, Peter. I have nothing to say to you.”

 

The
Peter? The roiling in Diego’s belly intensified as he tightened his cravat. At least anger now banished his unwanted arousal.

 

“Lucy, I want to explain about Lady Juliana. You have to listen to me.”

 

Muttering a curse, Diego strode out onto the stage beside Lucy. “You heard the seńorita. She is not interested in your explanations.” He glared down at the man who stood a few feet from the stage.

 

“This is Peter Burnes,” Lucy said in a low voice. “The Earl of Hunforth.”

 

“I gathered as much.” Diego loathed him on sight.

 

The earl took a threatening step forward. “You’ll stay out of this, sir, if you know what’s good for you.”

 

Diego smiled thinly. “A pity I never seem to know what is good for me. And I damned well know what is not good for
her.
”

 

The two men took each other’s measure. Diego wished Lucy’s sketch had been a girlish exaggeration, but alas, the young earl was probably every Englishwoman’s idea of perfection.

 

Lord Hunforth possessed the tousled golden curls, fair skin, and blue eyes that were the latest fashion in England. Even worse, he was broad-shouldered, well built, and nearly as tall as Diego. Not a milksop Englishman at all. Next to him, Diego felt every bit the dusky-skinned foreigner.

 

For a moment, he was catapulted back to the age of fourteen, before he’d grown an extra foot and put on some muscle, when his underdeveloped frame and brown skin had prompted the bluff English soldiers to dub him the Conjuring Crow.

 

Hostias,
what had brought
that
to mind? No one had dared call him that in years—not since the day he’d bested a burly sergeant in a brawl that had left the man with two broken ribs and a bloody nose. If this pasty-faced Englishman thought Diego would back down at idle threats, he would soon learn otherwise.

 

Ignoring Diego’s glower, Lord Hunforth appealed to Lucy. “Call off your dog. I want to speak to you alone. Tell him to go back to changing the colors of cards and drawing scarves out of his sleeve.”

 

His sneering seemed to grate on Lucy’s nerves as much as it did Diego’s, for she tucked her hand into his elbow. “Anything you say to me can be said in front of Diego just as well.”

 

“Diego? Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with this…this…”

 

“Perhaps I should introduce myself.” Diego put as much condescension into his voice as the earl. “I am Don Diego
Javier Montalvo, Conde de León. I do not believe we have ever met.”

 

As Lucy gaped at him, Lord Hunforth let out a contemptuous snort. “Conde?
You’re
a Spanish count?”

 

“A Galician count, actually,” Diego retorted. Though he might as well be Count of Nothing, with his family’s estate sold to pay his dead father’s debts.

 

The earl looked skeptical. “I never heard that about you.”

 

“I choose not to use the title.”

 

He had not used it in fifteen years. At first, it had been a way to preserve the dignity of his family name until he could regain Arboleda. Then it had become something he aspired to be worthy of, something that would make his parents’ suffering have significance.

 

So why had he trotted his title out now? Because that damnable Hunforth had strutted into the ballroom as if he owned it. As if he had the right to bully Lucy simply because he was an English earl. Diego did not like that. At all.

 

“Whoever you are,” Hunforth said, “be a good fellow, will you, and leave us alone a moment? Lucy and I are old friends.”

 

“Friends?” Diego uttered a harsh laugh. “Is that what you call it when you kiss a girl barely old enough to flirt, then call her a hoyden for it?”

 

The man cast Lucy an accusing glance. “You told him about that?”

 

Lucy released Diego’s arm to march to the front of the stage. “Why not? You told your fiancée about…about our discussion at the ball.”

 

The hurt in her voice made Diego want to leap off the stage and throttle Hunforth.

 

“I knew you would misunderstand.” The earl’s tone turned peevish. “I had no choice. At the ball, after Juliana saw you and me go off together, she had the impression that—I mean, I couldn’t very well let her go on thinking that—”

 

“That you and I were
friends?
” Lucy said. “Of course not. Much better to laugh at me behind my back.”

 

“Not a very
friendly
thing to do, Hunworth,” Diego said darkly.

 

The earl glared at him. “Hunforth. And you stay out of this.”

 

Lucy planted her hands on her hips. “Why do you care what I think, anyway? You have your perfect fiancée. What has it to do with me?”

 

Wondering the same thing, Diego watched Hunforth cast furtive glances at Lucy’s lovely bosom, and the answer began to dawn on him. Why, that
cretino
—

 

“I want to preserve our friendship, that is all,” Hunforth replied.

 

Diego could just guess what kind of friendship the earl meant. The kind a man hid from his wife. The kind that could ruin Lucy.

 

His temper near to exploding, Diego was about to tell the man what he could do with his offer of
friendship,
when a door opened and a footman hurried in. “Miss Seton, Her Grace would like to talk to you about the musicians.”

 

Lucy looked relieved. “Yes, of course.”

 

“I’ll go with you,” Hunforth said.

 

“Actually, I’d like a word with you in private,” Diego put in. He was not about to give the
imbécil
any chance to insult Lucy further. She seemed oblivious to what he offered, and Diego preferred to keep it that way.

 

Hunforth hesitated, then lifted his chin with stiff pride. “As you wish.”

 

As soon as Lucy was gone, Hunforth said, “What’s this about, Montalvo?”

 

Diego strolled to the front of the stage, enjoying his two-foot advantage over the earl. “Just a warning. Since you are engaged to another and can clearly have no honorable intention toward Lucy, I suggest that you leave her be.”

 

The earl’s face darkened. “And your intentions are honorable? I’ve heard about your string of women and your smooth ways and your—”

 

“Ah, but I am not betrothed to anyone. I am free to court Lucy if I wish.
You
are only free to make her your mistress.”

 

From the guilt flashing over Hunforth’s face, he had at least considered the possibility. “Look here, you bloody arse. Here in England, married men can have female friends without its being dishonorable.”

 

“
Unmarried
female friends?”

 

The earl stiffened. “When they are old family friends, yes. Lucy and I have known each other since childhood. We are very close.”

 

“Does your future wife approve of this ‘close’ friendship?” Diego bit out.

 

The earl blanched. “My future wife is none of your concern.”

 

“So, she does not know.”

 

“She understands that Lucy is like a sister to me.”

 

Diego crossed his arms over his chest. “You do not look at her as a man looks at his sister.”

 

Hunforth scowled. “You can’t possibly understand. Lucy and I grew up in the same regiment. Her mother washed my family’s shirts for extra money. It was I who dried her tears after her father died in battle. So don’t interfere between us.”

 

The conversation abruptly shifted meaning for Diego. “You knew her father?”

 

“Didn’t I just say that?” the earl snapped.

 

Yes, but it was impossible. Her “real father” had to be a fabrication of the colonel’s, if the man had been the nurse’s soldier lover.