CHAPTER 5
A Devil’s Bargain
Connor jolted at her so-willing answer. Mother Mary. Why, he had not been expecting that.
All this time, he had merely been toying with the girl, in truth, pumping her for information, and frankly, he was shocked she had not run screaming from the house.
The little thing had had such a demure, refined look, like sugar wouldn’t melt on her tongue. But, much to his roguish astonishment, she had stood her ground. And now, sweet heavens, in answer to his probing, it seemed the lady was game for a bit o’ sport.
Perhaps she figured that if she was going to have to make concessions to get what she wanted, anyway, then she might as well enjoy it.
Especially since it was clear that young Lord Mincemeat had never touched her or taught her what that tantalizing young body of hers could do.
Oh, to be sure, having quickly concluded that this naïve damsel had nothing to do with the threat against his family, he could think of a long list of naughty games he’d like to play with her.
But in point of fact, he had a much better use for the elegant beauty than that. That he could get anywhere. By contrast, the arrival of an aristocratic young lady on his doorstep offered a rare opportunity.
This one was clearly a very well-behaved young miss under normal circumstances. And she had been brave (if a bit reckless) coming here on her quest to save her beau’s life.
Connor could respect that, and had no wish either to harm or to terrify the girl.
Still, he found her unexpected pluck rather hilarious, and couldn’t resist pushing her just a little further, bad as he was. He couldn’t help it.
After all, he now knew that she was made of sterner stuff than first glance would suggest. She had dared to come here, hadn’t she? And if she possessed that sort of grit behind her silk-and-lace demeanor, then, here in the hostile territory of the ton, she could be of use to him indeed—his own native guide to this alien land, as it were, with all its strange rituals and unfriendly tribes.
It was just the sort of alliance he’d have looked for on some reconnaissance mission for the Army deep behind enemy lines. For although he rarely talked about it, Connor had been no ordinary soldier.
Given his three-generation military heritage and all the years he had served from boyhood on, he had tried his hand at many facets of war craft. He’d had a very thorough education. From the geometric calculations of aiming artillery fire, to the care and training of cavalry horses; from the rhetoric of rallying his troops’ morale, to the battlefield chess of strategic maneuvers.
He’d become a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, and that had made him valuable to the generals, most of whom had known his father and grandfather. Between his well-known military lineage and his own proven successes in action, the brass knew he could be relied upon in a range of capacities, so they would often pull him away from his usual regiment and send him off wherever he was needed.
Odd jobs, as it were.
Filling in here for a colonel who’d got his head blown off until a capable replacement arrived. Leading a small squadron there to rescue some high-value hostage. Disrupting enemy supply lines, blowing up bridges, and so forth.
He enjoyed the adventure, the unpredictability of his flexible role, and had declined plum promotions to keep it.
But the area where he’d seemed to fit most naturally was in military intelligence. Slipping behind enemy lines to reconnoiter, surveying territory, sketching quick maps, scouting out advantages or obstacles in the landscapes, discovering enemy troop strengths, or, less frequently, charming his way among the locals to connect with any resistance leaders in towns under enemy control, establishing trust and communication with their groups.
From long habit, he thought like an intelligence officer.
And he was doing that now, sizing up this young woman.
It disturbed him to admit how taken off guard he had been by her beau’s accusation—that he, himself, had murdered his own kin. However outrageous the claim, he chided himself for not realizing in advance that the idea could have occurred to somebody here, especially given his outsider status.
The fact that he hadn’t thought of it—or had deemed it so daft that he hadn’t given it serious consideration—just went to show how out of his element he was in this place.
England. London. Peacetime.
Being a damned duke.
In this situation, he felt like the quintessential fish out of water—but this was Lady Margaret’s world. All the more keenly, he felt the need for an ally who knew her way around the ton, had been born to it.
Lady Margaret Winthrop could help him.
God knew his life had been saved often enough by sharp-witted local guides. They could tell you whom to avoid, who held the real power in these parts, where not to go in town unless he wanted trouble, and all manner of local customs and pitfalls, the ignorance of which could lead to disaster.
In short, she’d make an ideal recruit for the job.
But that prim pursing of her mouth warned him that she had remembered her morals, alas.
Chances seemed slim that she would willingly go along with his request.
No matter. He’d simply have to get the fine lady to compromise herself here just a bit, then she’d have no choice but to help him.
Otherwise, if Connor simply agreed to her request and spared her beau’s life in exchange for her promise of cooperation, who was to say she would still honor their bargain once she got what she wanted?
The duel would be over by tomorrow morning, and she could easily back out, fluttering her lashes, playing the damsel in distress. Take advantage of his sense of chivalry, which, deep down, Connor knew was both his greatest strength and his Achilles’ heel.
No. He could not assume that she’d keep her word to help a stranger—an Irish one, at that, and an enemy of her suitor.
Even so, Connor could tell that the lady liked the look of him.
He had seen that from the first smile they had exchanged in the ballroom. And the attraction was most definitely mutual.
“Hmm…what did I have in mind? An excellent question, my lady.”
She watched him with skittish apprehension, one shoulder drawn back, as though she were half poised to flee. It appeared she already regretted her words signaling compliance with his wishes.
“I suppose that depends on how far. How far might you be willing to go to save your suitor?”
She took a tiny step backward, escaping his light touch on her face. “I-I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do,” he whispered. “But very well. I shall elucidate.”
He lowered his hand to his side again, the heat of her blush still lingering on his fingertips. He backed off a bit, returning to lean against the mantel. He ran a finger through the layer of dust on it and frowned absently. I really need to hire new servants.
The inspiration for how to achieve his objective came readily enough. He hid a sly smile, then turned to her. “You see, love, soldier that I am, there was many a night bivouacking under the stars, when, long deprived of a lady’s company, I would dream of a finely turned ankle.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
He let his gaze slide down her skirts toward her slippered feet. “Would you by chance have a pair of those?” he murmured wickedly.
A blank stare was her answer—at first.
Connor bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing as this gave way to a shocked look of missish indignation. The hot female interest of a moment ago was tucked away, snapped closed, and folded out of sight, like a lady’s fan.
“Well, of course I have ankles,” she said, “but what has that got to do with anythi—”
“Good! Let’s see ’em.” Connor dropped back down into his armchair and waited for the show.
She stared at him, slack-jawed.
“You cannot be serious!” she spluttered at length.
He shrugged, hiding his mirth. “We all have our weaknesses, love. It’s not my fault that yours is Lord Mincemeat. Well?” He rubbed his hands together. “Show us what you’ve got. Then perhaps we can reach an agreement.”
She gaped at him with dubious incredulity; his demand finally seemed to sink in.
“You want to see my ankles,” she repeated slowly.
“I do,” he declared, then drummed his fingers eagerly on the chair arms.
Is she actually going to do this?
For, really, it was perfect. It was just enough.
It would do her no serious harm, but she’d know she’d gone over the line of propriety beyond just her visit to his house.
Then she’d have to do as he asked, or risk him spreading the word about this bit of naughtiness. Not that he’d ever actually carry out the threat. He was no extortionist.
Ah, but lovely Lady Margaret didn’t know that.
She stood there, searching his face, as though trying to tell if he was jesting.
“Well?” Connor prompted.
“No.”
“Oh, come. Be a patriot.” He grinned. “My reward for winning the war?”
“Humph,” she said. “Single-handedly, I suppose?”
“Aye.” His smile widened as he lounged in the chair. “One arm tied behind my back.”
She scoffed at that, and though her gray eyes narrowed as she attempted a withering glare, her lips pressed together like she was fighting a giggle. She cleared her throat, then tilted her head skeptically. “Still. While your victory against the French is very much appreciated, I can think of no good reason why you should need to see my ankles regarding the matter of the duel, Your Grace.”
“Well, to be quite honest, I’d like to see much more of you than that, Lady Margaret, especially in the off chance I should die in this blasted thing. But I’ll settle for the ankles, I suppose. After all, I am not entirely depraved.”
“Oh, aren’t you?”
Connor laughed. He liked her spirit. “Time’s wasting, my lovely. Come on, girl. Live dangerously, eh? I’ll look, I won’t touch, promise.”
She pursed her rosy lips as she debated with herself, setting one hand on her hip. “So if I…show you my ankles,” she said archly, “then that means that you’ll spare Lord Bryce?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “As I said, it depends.”
“On what?”
“I haven’t got all night, love. If you want me to consider your request, then you’d better start tryin’ to persuade me.”
A knock on the door interrupted just then. Connor heard her suck in her breath with relief. But if she thought she was saved, she was wrong.
It was only Will.
“Major?” called the lad, his voice muffled through the door. “Your challenger’s second just arrived. Nestor took him up to the drawing room to make the arrangements.”
“Thank you, William. Dismissed!” Connor added meaningfully.
This was no time for interruptions from those two.
Clearly, Lady Margaret felt differently. She shook her head and lifted her fingertips to her lips. “Oh God,” she whispered.
She looked shaken to contemplate the fact that one of her suitor’s mates was now under the same roof with her and could feasibly spot her here, where she ought not to be.
Her predicament doubled Connor’s amusement about all this.
Then she looked into his eyes, and once more, her anguish preyed upon his chivalry, damn her.
“Must you duel with him?” she asked.
Connor bristled at her plea. “It wasn’t my doing,” he grumbled, even as he acknowledged inwardly that this girl could get to him. Better not let her figure that out. “Your little friend shot his mouth off to the wrong man this time, and now he’ll have to pay for it. Unless…?”
He flicked a meaningful glance back down toward her lower extremities.
“Oh, very well!” she snapped, her cheeks like strawberries. Slipping her reticule’s loop over her wrist, she grasped her pale, frothy skirts with both hands and yanked them up to show her shapely shins.
A triumphant grin spread across Connor’s face. It was a very nice view indeed, and the lass still had not caught on that it was all a trap.
Now that she’d done this shocking thing, he had what he needed on her. Something he could hold over her head to ensure her cooperation.
It seemed he’d just secured himself a helper. And also learned in the process that she could be pushed.
The hem of her gown dangled about her pretty knees, and in spite of himself, Connor ogled her legs. Damn…
White silk stockings hugged her slim, shapely calves, and sure enough, she did possess a pair of finely turned ankles.
Encasing her feet were dainty green dancing slippers with white ribbon lacings that twined round her shins. His mouth watered at an unbidden thought of unlacing those ribbons, peeling those silk stockings down, and feeling her legs wrap around him…
Just as a ticklish flutter tautened his belly and a warm surge of lust stirred in his loins, the curtain dropped on his private show. Her skirts swished back down to the ground again.
“Happy now?” she said.
No. Not at all. Now he was merely frustrated.
Yet strangely proud of her. The girl had a certain toughness to rise to his challenge.
She’d need it, to help him in his goal.
“Bravo, my dear.” Connor smiled in approval and drew a deep breath to will down the throbbing in his trousers. “Trust me, you have nothing to be embarrassed of there.”
She huffed with exasperation and looked away, beet-red.
He let out a low, congratulatory whistle. “No, I mean it,” he insisted as he stood up again, drifting toward her. “Those are some of the finest ankles I’ve ever beheld, and trust me, I’ve seen quite a few.”
“I’ll bet,” she muttered.
“Makes me wonder about your thighs,” he added in a purr, unable to resist.
She gasped with shock, then suddenly whomped him on the shoulder with her reticule, and Connor exploded with laughter.
“I’m jesting, lass!” he exclaimed, fending her off.
“Ruffian!” she cried as she beat him.
“Calm down! It’s a lark! I’m not goin’ to hurt you!”
“What? A lark, did you say? Jesting?”
He nodded.
Outrage filled her face, and she whacked him again. “You think that makes it better? You cad! A man’s life is at stake! Is this all just a joke to you?”
“Aye, more or less,” he lied, laughing. It was never a joke when killing was involved, but that was not the sort of thing one said to a lady.
She harrumphed with disapproval, and swung her wee tasseled handbag at him again. But this time he grabbed it—and used the strap to tug her gently closer.
“Enough, you,” he chided in a husky tone, smiling. It mystified him, how easily she came into his arms, no longer fighting him.
Instead, she allowed it when he pulled her playfully off balance so she crashed against his chest; at once, he hooked an arm behind the small of her back, capturing her.
She didn’t seem at all to mind, laughing along with him reluctantly, shaking her head. “You’re mad.”
“I’m fun,” he corrected.
“I think you’re dangerous.”
“Yes. But not to you, Lady Margaret. Never to you.”
Holding her lightly like that, catching the floral hint of her perfume, feeling the warmth of her flesh, the soft swells of her breasts against his chest, the pounding of her heart against his body, it was all he could do not to kiss her.
But that might prove far more dangerous than even the major dared contemplate.
She intoxicated him more than any fine whiskey.
“Very well, lass,” he conceded in a husky murmur, his face mere inches from hers. “You’ve earned it. I’ll spare your suitor. But remember—now you’ll owe me.”
“Owe you how?” she asked softly.
Her whisper beguiled him.
Yet when he saw the relief on her face to hear that she’d just secured the life of her suitor, Connor experienced a baffling twinge of jealousy.
His glance dipped to her lips. Somehow he fought the temptation to drive any thought of that other fellow right out of her head with his kisses. “Could use your help,” he said.
“What sort of help?”
“I’ll explain later. Nothing too scary, I promise.”
She frowned.
“Don’t worry. I won’t ruin your life.”
“I think you could,” she said very softly, and somewhere inside him, a cold, stony chip of his battle-hardened heart melted at her aching vulnerability.
“Tell me something,” he murmured.
“Yes?” Her hand rested on his chest, delicate as a bird.
How dainty she was in his arms, almost fragile. The top of her head barely came up to his collarbones. For some reason, she filled him with wonder.
“Why come to me instead of your suitor?” he asked. “Why not just go to Lord Bryce and prevail on him to bow out of this duel?”
She lowered her lashes. “He’d never listen to me.”
Connor furrowed his brow. “Well, that isn’t right,” he said. He lifted her gaze by tipping her chin upward with one finger. “A man ought to listen to his lady in matters of such consequence. He should respect you.”
“Like you have?” she challenged him ever so softly. Then she pulled away, sliding free of his hold.
Connor winced, dropping his gaze. Based on what he’d just done, he supposed he had no room to argue that. Touché, my dear.
“I must go,” she informed him. “My sister will be wondering where I am. So, do we have an agreement, Your Grace?”
Connor nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, then slipped past him, flitting off across the parlor at her tiptoeing walk. Instead of leaving straightaway, though, she turned back at the door, hesitating as she studied him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Do be careful tomorrow.”
He snorted. “If that blackguard kills me for your sake, I’ll come back and haunt you, I swear.”
She smiled at his jest, though her eyes filled with worry.
He waved her off. “Go. Before I change my damned fool mind.”
She nodded, then opened the door a crack and peeked out, obviously determined not to be seen by Lord Bryce’s second. No doubt it would be difficult to explain why she was here, in the enemy camp.
Connor heard Will greet her from the entrance hall.
Once she saw the way was clear, she cast an uncertain last glance back at Connor, then went whisking away.
Will showed her out, as the click of the front door promptly confirmed.
Connor stood there alone for another long moment, smiling wryly at the floor. I know I will regret this.
Then he let out a sigh and sauntered out of the sitting room, the image of lovely legs in white silk stockings still dancing before his eyes.
Thrusting the legs and the rest of Lady Margaret Winthrop out of his mind, he went to learn the time and place of his duel.