Lady Juliana glanced around with the pinched expression of a supercilious grande dame twice her age. “Well, it is very pretty out here, I suppose. The duchess does have lovely gardens, and Venetian breakfasts can be enjoyable under the right circumstances.” She performed an elegant motion with her head and neck that Lucy couldn’t begin to master. “Though we can’t stay long, can we, Petey?”
Lucy had barely smothered her smile at Peter’s horrified reaction to being called Petey when Lady Juliana added, “I’m sure you know, Miss Seton, how hectic everything is when one is planning a wedding. So much to do.”
A wedding?
Lucy had expected them to marry eventually, but the tiny part of her that still clung to her girlish dream screamed in outrage. How could he countenance taking this . . . this patently false female to wife?
Worse yet, Lady Juliana’s expression made it clear she’d mentioned the wedding intentionally. She must have learned of Lucy’s hopes for a future with Peter, but how? No one knew except her family and Mrs. Harris.
Had Peter told her? Had that miserable worm laughed at her behind her back with this witch?
Apparently so, for he avoided her gaze. “I thought we were going to wait until our betrothal party to announce it,” he muttered to Lady Juliana.
The woman tittered, covering her mouth oh so elegantly with one “delicate” hand. “I’m sorry, my love, I quite forgot. I’m afraid our secret is out now.”
“Yes, it seems so.” Still avoiding Lucy’s eyes, he added, “I suppose you have surmised that Lady Juliana has kindly consented to be my wife.”
Lady Juliana cast him an adoring smile, then cast Lucy a gloating one.
Lucy forced down the bile rising in her throat and somehow wished them joy, though she wanted nothing more than to wipe the gloating smile off Lady Juliana’s face with a sturdy kick to her rump.
Fortunately, a reprieve came in the form of the duchess herself, who beckoned to her from a small knot of footmen. “I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Seton, but I’m afraid I need you.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,” Lucy said, profoundly grateful for the interruption before she did something awful, such as bursting into tears. Or stabbing Peter through the chest with her parasol.
Giving Peter and Lady Juliana a superior smile that she carried off much better than the younger woman, the duchess added, “Please forgive me for dragging Miss Seton away. We find ourselves in a difficult situation, and I require her advice on how to handle it.”
Peter stood slack-jawed at the idea of a duchess needing Lucy’s help, and Lady Juliana’s smile vanished. “Pray excuse me,” Lucy murmured to them before hurrying off.
When she neared the knot of people, she found Mrs. Harris wearing a smug smile that made it clear exactly who had prompted the duchess’s effusive comments. As it turned out, though, there was a difficult situation.
“Your magician has shown up,” Mrs. Harris told her.
Diego was here?
Her pulse gave a sudden leap, and a silly fluttering in her belly followed. Idiot. Fool.
The duchess arched one eyebrow. “He got in without anyone knowing. Apparently, he acquired an invitation somewhere.”
“By sleight of hand, no doubt,” Lucy said. “Though how he found out about it, I’ll never know. The man has eyes in the back of his head.”
“I can have him tossed out, if you wish.” Her Grace wore a smile that reminded Lucy of a cat eyeing a plump carp. “Or we can make good use of him.”
When Lucy blinked, Mrs. Harris added, “He has offered to perform.”
“What?” Lucy exclaimed. “Why?”
“He thinks we’re raising money for the Ladies’ Association, since that is what’s on the invitation,” the duchess said. “He doesn’t know that we changed it to a fund for purchasing Rockhurst out from under him.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know?” Lucy had an uneasy feeling about this. “We sent notes to all of the guests so they wouldn’t be taken by surprise.”
“He told me that he wished to help us with our Ladies’ Association,” the duchess replied. “And if he didn’t receive an invitation by legitimate means, how could he know? I say we let him perform. He’ll look the fool, once everyone realizes he’s raising money to ruin his own plans.”
Lucy sighed. “He never looks the fool, trust me.”
“We did a good job of taking him down a peg at the tea,” Mrs. Harris put in.
“But this is his livelihood. Within minutes of beginning his act, he’ll have everyone eating out of his hand and thinking that a pleasure garden in Richmond is a jolly fine idea.”
“I still say we let him perform,” the duchess retorted. “Half the people here never remember what we’re raising money for, anyway. They just come to enjoy themselves. And if they have a chance to see the great Diego Montalvo? They’ll be pouring money into our donation bowls. Did you know he’s never performed in England? Why, I could have half the press over here in a trice just to see that. Their attention alone will raise funds for our cause, no matter what he says or does.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Lucy said. Who was she to question the woman who brought more money to their various causes than all the other ladies put together?
“Then we’re agreed. We’ll use the ballroom—apparently, some of his tricks must be done indoors. He told me he would need an hour to prepare, so I’ll send a footman to the papers to coax them here. Once the press has arrived, we’ll begin.”
“Very well,” Lucy said.
Meanwhile, she meant to find out just what he was up to. She didn’t trust Diego, and she wasn’t about to let him make fools of them in front of the press. Were men good for anything but making trouble?
It took her a while to slip away. By the time she entered the ballroom, she’d worked herself into such a state that she didn’t even care he was alone.
Bolstering her righteous indignation, she marched up to where he stood with his back to her on a small stage that the Foxmoors sometimes used for theatricals. Before she could reach him, he said in a husky voice, “Good afternoon, Lucy.”
Her heart fluttered insanely before she beat it down. She wouldn’t let him affect her! Absolutely not. “How did you know it was me?” she asked, hurrying up the stage steps.
A low chuckle escaped him as he worked with something on the table, not even sparing her a glance. “I read minds, remember?”
“Hah! I am not as credulous as you think.”
“Trust me, cariño, I do not think you credulous in the least.”
Another thrill chased down her spine. He hadn’t called her cariño since the day he’d kissed her. Trying not to think of that, she went to stand across the table from him.
He was cleaning a pistol, which explained why he was in shirtsleeves again and why his attire was not of the best quality.
“What are you up to, Diego?”
He finished his work with neat, efficient motions. “I am preparing for my performance.”
“You know perfectly well that’s not what I mean,” she said irritably. “What are you doing here?”
“I was—” he began as he glanced up for the first time since she’d entered. Then he just stood there speechless. Staring.
Unlike Peter’s cursory assessment or other gentlemen’s sly glances, his gaze took bold liberties, eating her alive, rousing heat in every part: her mouth, her half-bare shoulders . . . her bosom. His gaze flared hot as it ran along her low neckline. Oh, dear, he’d never seen her in a ball gown, had he?
As if realizing where he was staring, he snapped his gaze back to her face. Then he set down the pistol, gathered up his cleaning materials, and headed into the wings.
She followed him on shaky legs, still determined to gain answers to her questions. “Diego, I demand to know why you came here and offered to perform.”
“To help your cause, of course.”
“And what cause is that?”
“Some Ladies’ Association, I believe.” Se
tting the rags and chemicals into an open trunk, he walked over to a washbasin, rolled up his sleeves, and began scrubbing his hands and forearms. “Now, let me ask you a question. Why did you lie to me about your plans for today?”
“I didn’t lie,” she shot back.
“You told me you would be going over accounts with Mrs. Harris.”
“We went over them in the carriage.” They had, but only to assuage her guilt over her evasion. Which was absurd, given his devious purpose.
“In the carriage.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Of course.” Drying his hands on a towel, he strolled back toward her. “That does not explain why you felt the need to conceal your outing.”
“I wasn’t trying to conceal it.” She tipped up her chin as he neared her. “I simply didn’t think you would be interested.”
“Why would I not be interested in a gathering designed to ruin my plans?”
At the sight of his smug smile, her temper flared. “Oh, I knew you had found out what we were about. I just knew it!”
“I am no fool, cariño.” His gaze bored into her. “Not to mention that you lie badly. And the only time you lie is when you are plotting against me.” He tossed the damp towel onto a chair. “Like today, when you and your friends are amassing money to buy the property out from under me.”
Her stomach sank. “How did you hear about that?”
His face grew shuttered. “I have my sources.”
“So what do you mean to do about it? Denounce everyone from the stage? Make us all look like fools?”
Pure temper shone in his black eyes. “What I do is up to you. I can tailor my performance however I wish. I can indeed make all of you look like fools, or—”
“Or what?”
“I can raise a great deal of money for your cause.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Even though that cause involves our trying to ruin your plans for Rockhurst.”
He shrugged. “As I said, it is up to you.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what compensation you’ll require of me for that.”
“Fine. Do not ask. I shall simply return to preparing for my performance.” A taunting smile curved his lips. “It will be one to remember, I promise.”
“Oh, stop being the Master of Mystery, and just tell me what you want.”
He cast her a searching glance. “There will be dancing later, will there not?”
Not sure what that had to do with anything, she nodded.
“I want one waltz with you.” His expression had turned quite serious. “And a little conversation about anything other than your precious school.”
A frisson of purely feminine gratification shook her. Coming on the heels of Peter’s cruel betrayal, his asking such a thing was balm to her wounded heart.
If she could trust his motives. “That’s all? Why?”
“For the same reason I have spent two days enduring countless tales of your school and subjecting myself to stray arrows and bad poetry and painful posing for your students. To have the pleasure of your company.”
As much as she wanted to bask in that answer, she didn’t quite believe it. “Just the pleasure of my company. Nothing more . . . wicked than that.”
His face darkened. “Not once in the past two days have I overstepped the bounds of your propriety. That should speak for my character.”
Guilt brought hot color to her cheeks. He had shown impeccable manners during their tours of the school. Even when she’d been awful to him.
“But I see that means nothing,” he clipped out. “Since I am not quite the devil you think and have no desire to ‘make fools of your friends,’ as you put it, I will leave. That seems the only thing that will satisfy you.”
He turned, but she caught his arm. “I’m sorry. You have been a gentleman these past two days. I’d be honored to waltz with you.” When his stormy gaze shot to her, she managed a smile. “And I would love to see your act.”
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 cariño, 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, cariño,” 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.
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 Señor 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. “Cariño,” 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 Señor 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 señorita. She is not interested in your explanations.” He glared down at the man who stood a few feet from the stage.
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