The Devil's Bargain

by Karen Harbaugh

  The wind turned more fierce as they went on and kicked up the dust of the road so that the carriages ahead were obscured from Eveline’s view. The air was damp now, though no drops of rain yet fell upon them. She saw Lord Clairmond squint his eyes against the dust, as if to discern the direction of the road and the carriages ahead. His lips tightened, and she knew that he saw as much as she did: nothing but the road ahead. They had lost the others.

  Thunder rolled in the distance, and the horses tossed their heads nervously. The viscount muttered something, and Eveline smiled to herself. She was sure he had uttered a curse. She could understand his frustration. It had been a most pleasant luncheon, but for the impending rain and haste to leave. She did not mind it, although she felt uneasy at losing sight of the rest of the carriages. It left her relatively unchaperoned, but she comforted herself with the idea that the other guests knew when they had departed, and if the viscount returned her home in an adequate amount of time, there could be no scandal attached to it.

  And then the rain poured. An especially large gust of wind tore at her bonnet, but failed to dislodge it; in revenge it threw large drops of rain upon her face. She wiped the wet from her eyes with a handkerchief, but it was useless; the wind only flung the rain more fiercely onto her. She glanced at Lord Clairmond and caught his aggravated gaze before he returned his attention to his horses.

  “Damn!” The rain was falling in sheets now. Clairmond urged his horses to a faster pace.

  Eveline did not reprove him for his oath, for it reflected her own sentiments. At least there was no dust obscuring the road now. She smiled in spite of herself. “You need not worry, my lord. I will not melt.”

  A quick grin crossed his lips before it turned down in frustration again. “At the risk of seeming a graceless boor, I will say that not only do I believe you, but it is for another reason I wish to hurry. There is a stream nearby that often washes over the road in weather like this; I wish to get beyond it before it floods.” A flash of light covered half the sky, and thunder sounded again. The horses shied, but he subdued them, his arms straining against the reins.

  “Surely it is not so dangerous that we cannot cross it?”

  “Normally not, but it depends on the conditions. I have seen too many carriages overturned into the ditch in stormy weather because of it; it is not something I would care to experience, believe me.”

  “No, not I, either.” Eveline held on tighter to the side of the carriage while the viscount drove it faster than ever.

  “Deuced rain!” He pushed aside a straggling lock of hair that had dropped in front of his eyes. “I can hardly see in front of me. I shall have to slow down; I don’t want to come to the stream before I can see it.”

  It was too late. Lightning seared the air in front of them, and the horses reared. The curricle lurched suddenly to one side and seemed to slide. Eveline grabbed desperately for the upper side of the carriage toward Lord Clairmond, but her hands were slippery with rain, and she could not get hold of it. She felt a further sliding, and her side of the carriage moved downward. A strong arm came around her waist.

  “Steady, now! I have you. There is a pocket on the side of the door. Use it as a handhold until you can get some purchase with your feet.”

  She felt along the side of the door, for her hair had come down into her eyes and she could not see. She found the pocket and wedged her hands securely.

  “I have it!”

  “Then move, quickly!” He still held her.

  “Mind the horses!” she ordered.

  With a crack of laughter he released her. Eveline moved one foot about until she came into contact with something solid—the side of the carriage she was sure. Shifting her feet as quickly as she could, she was able to move herself to what looked like the sloping side of the ditch. She put her foot down from the carriage, found an out-thrust rock, and stepped firmly on it. From it she leaped to the road into ankle-deep, muddy water. She ignored it, pushed her hair from her eyes, and turned to see Lord Clairmond struggling to keep the horses from bucking the carriage to pieces. It was useless; she could already see protruding splinters of wood on the inside of the coach where the horses had kicked it.

  Suddenly, the carriage gave a groan, and she jumped quickly away from it, landing in still more mud. She watched the curricle slowly slide downward into what seemed more like a river than a ditch.

  “Devil take the damn thing!” Clairmond was still trying to get the horses loose from the curricle. Eveline looked up at him, at the grim line of his mouth as he fought to undo the traces.

  Finally, he undid them—but all for naught. Lightning struck again, but this time much closer than before; the horses reared and bolted. Eveline cried out, for she was sure that the viscount would be dragged away with them. But the rain and mud did him a service at last: The reins were so slippery with wet that they slid through his hands.

  “How could I have been so stupid?” He grimaced and took off his glove, opening and closing his hand gingerly. Eveline saw that his hand had been rubbed raw right through the gloves. “I should have seen the clouds forming sooner than I did.” He looked around and shivered. She could see he was as soaked as she was, and she remembered that he had been ill not long ago.

  Gently touching his sleeve, she smiled at him. “You could not have known—I certainly did not. But that is past. I think our first objective should be to find shelter. Neither one of us should be out in this rain.”

  He stared at her, then nodded. “You are right.” He sighed. “I wish we were closer to my home; I could lodge you in my house, and Marianne would be there to accompany you. But we are too far away for that.” He looked again at the land around him. “If I am not mistaken, we are on the far edges of Sir Anthony Malworth’s property; there should be something nearby for shelter.”

  The rain decreased to a drizzle, but it did little good. Eveline could feel her wet dress adhering to her body. Now that the threatened rain had burst from the clouds, the heat of the day had disappeared, and she shivered.

  The viscount must have noticed it, for he said, “Definitely, we must find shelter.” He held out his hand to her. “Come, please.”

  Like an obedient child she took his hand and trudged forward, pushing her legs against her sodden skirts. She and Lord Clairmond did not talk, for it was effort enough to slog through the mud, and Eveline felt she must clench her teeth to keep them from chattering. The daylight was waning, and the thick clouds would make the evening come sooner. They had to find shelter quickly; she hoped they would find aid as well.

  It seemed an age before Lord Clairmond exclaimed, “There!”

  She could not see anything, except … Yes, there was a dark shape in the encroaching dimness ahead. She quickened her steps and almost slipped in the mud, but for the viscount’s strong grasp on her hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “It was the least I could do,” he replied.

  She parted the hair that had fallen across her eyes and looked at him, and saw his hair was also plastered across his brow, and a wry smile on his face. Eveline chuckled.

  “Yes, I suppose it was.” She held her sodden skirts away from her and grimaced. “We are a mess, are we not?”

  “Quite.” His smile widened to a grin, and he nodded his head toward the shape that now showed itself to be a small cottage. “I am afraid we shall have to beg the mercy of whoever lives there.”

  “Do let’s,” Eveline said primly, as if she were taking tea in a drawing room. She could joke a little now, for it seemed help was near.

  Clairmond’s grin turned into a chuckle. “Thank heavens you are not the type to go off into the vapors.”

  “Thank heavens, indeed! Then where would we be?”

  “Not at this cottage, to be sure!”

  He stepped up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. He peered into the window, then sighed. “There is no one here. There seem to be holland covers over the furniture. I think it i
s untenanted.”

  Eveline’s heart sank. She glanced behind her, at the deepening gloom and the muddy tracks she and the viscount had made to the cottage door. She looked at him and saw him gazing at her uncertainly. He also looked behind them, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Stay here. I will see if there is a way to enter it without breaking in. Making you walk any farther than this would be folly.” He turned and began trying the windows before she could protest.

  He turned the corner of the cottage, and after a few minutes she was startled when the door in front of her opened. “How … ?”

  Grinning, he jerked his head toward the inside of the house. “An open window, conveniently left unlocked.” He bowed grandly—as much as his sodden clothes allowed—and Eveline laughed despite her nervousness. “If my lady would enter … ?”

  “I thank you, sir,” she said mock haughtily and stepped in.

  The cottage was almost as cold as the outside had been, except, of course, there was no wind to make it more chilly. Holland covers were indeed draped over the furniture, and a fine layer of dust clung to the mantelpiece. She sneezed and shivered.

  “You will catch your death of cold.” Lord Clairmond drew her to the hearth, found a tinderbox there, and threw a log into the fireplace. “I only hope the wood is not green.”

  Luck favored them in this, if not in their past circumstances. A few minutes passed before a flicker grew in the grating and then caught the rest of the wood. Eveline shivered again and drew near, holding out her hands to the fire.

  It did little to relieve the cold. Her dress was soaked through, and she felt chilled to the bone. She gazed at the viscount, and he looked as pale and miserable as she felt. Compassion moved her, and she laid a comforting hand on his arm.

  “It is not so dreadful, truly! I am sure we shall become warm quite soon, and then perhaps we can go in search of some aid, or perhaps someone may find us before that.”

  Lord Clairmond looked at her, and the shadows were in his eyes again. His lips twisted in a smile half-wretched and half-ironic. “My dear Miss Seton, it is truly far worse than you seem to think.”

  She looked at him, confused, and then a trickle of realization grew in her mind.

  “Yes, I see you are beginning to understand,” he said, his voice grim. “Your reputation is quite irrevocably ruined, your virtue altogether compromised.”

  Chapter Eight

  Miss Seton stared at him, a lost look in her eyes, and shivered violently, as if in an ague. Richard thought she looked like a waif, hair trailing across her face and dripping water on the floor. Her dress was ruined and clung to her form, showing a figure that was far from waiflike. Desire flared in him, and he could hear a chill voice in his ear: “Now, Clairmond, now is the time.” He looked away from her, clenching his hands, and sharply cut off the voice.

  “No.”

  Startled at the answer that seemed an echo of his own mental one, he turned to her again. “What?”

  “No. I cannot be ruined. We have not been together for that long, have we?”

  “It matters not how long we have been together so far! Your reputation would suffer even if went we went walking back to Bath at this moment. Certainly, by the time we warm ourselves and leave this place, it will be long enough and your reputation will be in shreds.”

  “No. I did not want … I did not think …” Her hand crept to her mouth, as if suppressing a cry.

  “Neither did I, frankly.” Something in his chest suddenly ached at the bewildered, frightened look in her eyes. He took her hand and pressed it. “Let us not think of it at this moment, my dear. What we must first do is become warm; it would do us no good at all to die of cold before we ever have a chance to look for help.”

  Miss Seton looked at him, her expression less frightened. “Thank you, my lord. What you say is very sensible.” She gazed about her. “Do you think there may be a comforter somewhere in this cottage? I do not want to use the holland covers for fear of ruining the furniture.”

  He tried to smile encouragingly at her. “Perhaps. Shall we look?”

  She returned his smile, seemingly eager to do something to keep herself occupied. They searched this cupboard and that, and found a large, somewhat worn quilt stored away in a cedar chest. Bringing it near the fire, Richard wrapped it around her.

  A concerned look crossed her face. “But what of you, sir? You must be as chilled as I, I am sure.”

  He shook his head. “No, I shall do well enough.” He was beginning to feel more cold than he had before they had first come into the cottage, but was sure it would pass.

  The chill did not seem to pass for Miss Seton, however. She still shivered under the quilt, her teeth still chattered. Richard let out an impatient breath.

  “I did not want to suggest it earlier to save your blushes, but you are shivering as if with an ague. That quilt does you no good when you have a rain-soaked dress beneath it.” He paused at the uncomprehending look on her face. “You will need to take off your dress and dry it,” he continued.

  If her face had been pale, it was bright red now, easily seen in the firelight. “Oh, heavens,” she said.

  “I will not look, I promise you.”

  She continued to blush and shook her head. “No, really, I cannot.”

  “My dear Miss Seton,” Richard said, his voice impatient. “While I take full responsibility for our situation here—it was stupid of me to set out toward Bath when I suspected the road would be bad—I will not take responsibility for your death from a chill. Do me the favor of using the common sense I have seen in you and do as I say. I think you must acknowledge that you have not become any warmer in the past fifteen minutes or so, despite the fire and the quilt about your shoulders.”

  This time the pink in her cheeks was that of anger at his tone, he was sure, rather than embarrassment. She gave him a level look, then nodded stiffly.

  “Very well. If you will turn your back, my lord …”

  “Of course, Miss Seton.” His voice was equally as stiff as he turned away, but when he was sure she could not see him, he smiled a little. She sounded as haughty as his father used to sound, and it was an odd thing, he thought, to come from a merchant’s daughter.

  Richard heard her move and then the sound of wet cloth slapping the floor. It made him more conscious of the water dripping from his own coat and shirt underneath. He should take his own advice and remove his coat. He hesitated, then took it off and draped it across a chair near the fire, careful not to turn in Miss Seton’s direction.

  It was well that he did; he could feel the fire—warmer now—immediately through his shirt, except where his sodden neckcloth dripped down the front of his waistcoat. He sighed, and took the neckcloth and waistcoat off, too.

  “You may turn around now.” Her voice was still stiff, and he grinned before he turned to face her.

  She was once again wrapped in the quilt, holding it rightly around her. He smiled at her, and her eyes widened as she turned away, blushing. Richard’s smile turned once more into a grin. Apparently, she was more modest than he had thought.

  “Come now, Miss Seton. Have you never seen a man in shirtsleeves before?” he teased.

  “No, I have not!” she said firmly and brought her gaze back to him with what seemed to be resolution. His grin became wider. She looked him in the eyes, then frowned. “You are teasing me!”

  “Yes, and I am sorry. I suppose … I must confess, Miss Seton, I do not like our situation, and I was trying to make light of it.”

  “Well, it was not very kind of you, but I shall overlook it this time,” she said and smiled nervously. Richard released a large exaggerated sigh.

  “I am so very relieved, ma’am.”

  Miss Seton laughed, but the respite from the pressure of their predicament was small. The uneasiness between them returned, and it could not even be enlivened by halfhearted attempts at conversation on either of their parts. Finally, they gave it up, and only the crackling fire made an
y sound.

  Richard moved restlessly and looked at Miss Seton. She sat on a footstool, staring into the fire, apparently lost in the contemplation of the flickers of flame before her. She no longer shivered. He was glad of it. She had looked extremely uncomfortable, but that had disappeared. However, there was a sad cast to her face—lost and even miserable. Miserable. And it was his fault. He wished, suddenly, that he could make it up to her, to recompense her in some manner for their current predicament, and for the certain seduction he must inflict upon her.

  The honorable thing to do now would be to marry her—but that was not in the agreement, was it? According to Teufel, he had to seduce and abandon her. But there must be something … something he could do so that she could go on and perhaps still retain one small bit of pride.

  Then it came to him: He would make her hate him. He stood and looked out of the window at the rain, feeling more chilled than ever. He was fairly certain he could seduce her without a promise of marriage, but then she’d hate herself for giving herself away to a seducer when he left her. It would be the way he’d feel were their situations reversed. But if he proposed marriage, it would be clear to everyone that he had purposely seduced her, and that he was a vile betrayer, and that she, an innocent, could not be totally at fault. He would be shunned, of course. No man could promise marriage, lie with his betrothed, jilt her, and escape extreme censure. But at least she would be an object of pity, rather than condemnation. Perhaps some good man would be able to see her superior qualities of heart and mind, and marry her regardless of her lost virtue. But seduction without promise of marriage would ruin her chances at marriage for life.

  Bile rose to his throat at the thought of using that stratagem. It was like an overused part in an old French farce. But it would at least be an excuse on which she could hang her pride. He’d be considered a lying bastard by everyone, and it would be no less than he deserved. He would be banned from White’s Club as well, for his reputation would be tarnished. He suppressed a bitter laugh. That should be no burden. He had been banned from Brook’s before his army days; he should be used to being shunned by now. But at least it would be seen that the fault was more on his side than hers. Well, then. Richard hesitated, then cleared his throat.