“Ladies,” she said primly, “since Señor Montalvo grows restless, we ought to entertain him. Why don’t you tell him about our school? That is why he’s here, after all. Each one of you can say why your parents wanted to enroll you and what you like best about it.”
Diego groaned. Lucy had leaped into saving her precious school with the fierceness of a mountain lynx. Clearly, she meant him to endure many lectures.
As one young lady extolled the school’s virtues, Lucy closed her sketch pad and rose to stroll about, commenting on the students’ work. He tried not to watch her but couldn’t help himself. Even with that utilitarian smock thrown over her poppy-colored gown, she had a way of moving that reminded him of fine wine swirled in a glass.
He would give much for a taste of that wine.
Hostias, that did not bear thinking on. Already his body was reacting to the lovely temptation she presented as she swept from one student to the next, but if he began to imagine tasting her . . .
He fought back his arousal; his pose displayed only too well the part of him he struggled to control.
Gaspar was right. He had indeed been too long without a woman if his body could be roused with such ease at the mere sight of Lucy prancing about. And with giggling girls watching, too! Dios mio, he would rot in hell for such behavior.
Better to concentrate on what she said to her pupils. That would surely put his randy self to sleep.
But it was difficult to notice her words when she kept flashing her ready smile to all and sundry—except him, of course. He found himself envying her pupils with astonishing virulence. She was quite a good teacher for someone new to it. She put the girls at ease without coddling them, critiquing their work without destroying their confidence. He marveled at such delicacy of feeling.
Gaspar would think it too gentle an instruction. He had been the sort to bark commands and slap Diego’s hands whenever Diego dropped a card or picked up the wrong handkerchief. After a coddled childhood as the only son of a nobleman, it had been quite a shock. But being Gaspar’s assistant had been safer—and more profitable—than thieving or cardsharping.
“Ladies, it’s time to wash up,” Lucy suddenly said.
Diego gaped at her. They were finished?
As he straightened and the girls hurried to wipe their smudged hands on damp towels, Lucy walked up to him. “Thank you, sir,” she said very prettily. “You were quite helpful.”
He rose, wincing as the feeling returned to his limbs. “Remind me to be more appreciative of artists’ models in the future,” he grumbled.
Amusement shone on her face. “I did warn you.”
“You warned me I would be bored.” He limped forward, his muscles cramping. “Not crippled.”
This time a laugh spilled out of her. “You were a good sport about it, I must say. Most models are much grumpier their first time.”
A girl asked her a question, and she returned her attention to the class, sending them off to dancing lessons. While she was distracted with cleaning her own hands, he wandered over to where she’d left her sketch pad, curious to see how she had drawn him.
But as he flipped through her surprisingly accomplished drawings of Scotland’s heather-clad mountains and Richmond’s cobblestone streets, it was the images of the people in her life that sparked his curiosity.
He turned a page, blinked, then let out a laugh, unable to believe his eyes.
When she whirled at the sound, he held up to her the picture of a handsome young gentleman with horns and a tail. “And who is this interesting fellow?”
An enchanting flush filled her face. “Oh, Lord,” she muttered.
The other girls had filed off through the woods, leaving them alone on the landing. Since Mrs. Harris had told him this was her only class for today, he had her to himself at last.
And he meant to take full advantage. “How reassuring to see I am not the only person you deem the devil. Is that a common theme in your work?”
“Give me that, Señor Montalvo!” she snapped as she strode up to him.
Grinning, he held it behind his back. “I thought you were going to call me Diego in private.”
“Fine.” Two spots of color rose high in her cheeks. “Give me that, Diego, you unconscionable scoundrel.”
“Not until you tell me who he is.” He enjoyed watching her bristling with heat, her eyes ready to slay him. It made him wonder what she would be like in his bed, writhing beneath him in equal passion.
“Good Lord,” she complained, “you are so . . . so . . .”
“Charming? Witty? Irresistible?”
“Annoying!”
“And persistent.” He held the sketch pad high and gazed up at it. “Of course, your Mrs. Harris would probably be able to tell me.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” When he arched an eyebrow at her, she blew out a frustrated breath. “Very well, he’s just . . . that is . . .”
“A fiancé perhaps?” he prodded. “Or more likely, a former fiancé, given the horns.”
That thought instantly dampened his fun. Until this moment he had not considered that she might have a serious suitor. Such a person would almost certainly try to interfere with his plans.
“He’s neither.” Turning from him, she gazed out across the river. “At one time, I had hoped . . . Never mind, it doesn’t matter. He’s nobody to me now.”
“Not nobody, judging from your blush.” He was inexplicably annoyed that any pasty-faced Englishman could so affect her. “What is his name?”
“Why do you care?”
Because he needed to know who else might influence her decisions. Or so he told himself.
“I am curious to learn what sort of fellow earned horns from you. We both know you do not use that insult lightly.”
“Very funny.” She started off toward the path through the woods.
Tucking the sketch pad under his arm, he followed. “What did he do? Break your rules of propriety? Insult your pupils? Try to buy the property on the other side of the school to build a brothel?”
“He dallied with me,” she shot back. Even as a rush of blood filled his ears, she stopped short just inside the trees to add in a more subdued tone, “No, that’s not true. I-I didn’t mean that how it sounds.”
He steadied his anger at the unnamed stranger. “How did you mean it?”
“Peter . . . that is, Lord Hunforth and I grew up together in the regiment. I thought he meant to . . . I always assumed that he and I . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”
And it had obviously hurt her badly. She started to walk off, but he stayed her. “You thought this Englishman meant to marry you.”
She nodded. “But once he ascended to his title, he decided he required a more proper wife.”
“Ah,” he said, the light dawning. “That is why you are so eager for the proprieties now.” And that was why she would make the perfect wife for some high-ranking Spanish noble once she learned of her true lineage.
The thought rankled.
She glared at him. “I’ll have you know I have always been eager . . .” When he arched an eyebrow, she pulled away. “Oh, why am I even telling you this? You already think me every bit the hoyden that Peter does.”
“Por Dios, what gave you such a notion? If anything, you behave too properly for your true nature.”
“That’s what I mean!” she exclaimed. “You hardly know me, and already you’ve decided what my true nature is, which is apparently that of a . . . a—”
“You are passionate,” he said. “There is nothing wrong with that.”
“That is what you would think, of course.”
The contempt in her voice grated. His eyes narrowed. “Ah, you mean I am not like your insipid Englishman. I am a devil by nature, so I think everyone else should behave the same.”
She met his gaze with a stubborn look. “Well, you must admit that gentlemen like you are fond of certain vices, so of course you expect women to . . . to . . .”
“Cavort with abandon in my presence?” His temper gaining the better of him, he advanced on her. “Behave like animals to satisfy my lecherous desires?”
Color rising in her cheeks, she backed away. “I only meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant.” His head filled with memories of that horrible night in Villafranca when he had lost so much to her countrymen, who had behaved like animals. Who had also apparently drummed into her their contempt for anyone but their own.
Dropping her sketch pad into the leaves, he stalked her. “Foreigners like me are only fit for shooting with your English rifles. Foreigners like me have no feelings, no morals, no rights.”
“Foreigners? No, I was speaking of—”
“Foreigners like me devour young ladies for sport.” When she came up against an oak, he lunged, trapping her against it by bracing his hands on the trunk on either side of her. “If I am to be painted that way for no reason, then I might as well enjoy the benefits of such a reputation.”
“B-benefits?” she squeaked.
“You said I’m the devil.” He bent his head, goaded by hot temper . . . and hotter desire. “And the devil always gets his due.”
Then he seized her mouth with his.
Chapter Six
Dear Cousin,
Señor Montalvo has asked that we let him observe the school so he can make a more informed decision about his pleasure garden. I agreed to Miss Seton’s proposal that she escort him, since she is a fine representative of the sort of woman who benefits most from our classes. And unlike other ladies whom he cast under his spell, his charm and legerdemain do not seem to fool her.
Your harried relation,
Charlotte
It was every bit as luscious as Lucy had imagined, God rot him. There was none of Peter’s playfulness or the damp ardor of the two men who’d stolen kisses from her at balls. This was hot and impassioned and bold, a kiss to dream on.
He tasted of coffee and smoke, a flavor so distinctly male that it sent her head reeling. So did the forceful way his mouth took hers. His kiss was hard but not hurtful, demanding but not bullying.
It was also far too brief.
He drew back, his eyes glittering, a hint of his anger still in their fathomless depths. “You kiss too innocently for a hoyden.”
“You kiss too briefly for a devil,” she shot back. Oh, why couldn’t she hold her tongue? She might as well have thrown down a gauntlet.
And he picked it right up. Smoldering need flared in his face as he caught her head in one hand and said, “That can be remedied, cariño.”
This time when he slanted his mouth over hers, he coaxed it open for his tongue.
She’d heard of such kisses from the other girls, but she’d never dreamed that having a man slide his tongue into one’s mouth could feel so pleasurable. So thoroughly sinful.
Her hands seemed to grab naturally for his waist and her body to sway naturally into his embrace. It all felt perfectly . . . natural. Which probably explained why his tongue dove so naturally into her mouth.
Then again. And again, until her heart thundered like a timpani, and her very skin came alive to his touch, to the caress of his fingers against the nape of her neck and the slope of her jaw. His thumb stroked the pulse that beat madly in her throat, and she arched her head back for more.
His kisses began to wander from her mouth, to her cheek, to her ear. “Ah, querida,” he rasped, enthralling her with his husky endearments, “your mouth would tempt any devil.” He nipped at her earlobe, sending little shocks of delight to her senses. “Did it tempt your friend Peter? Did he ever kiss you?”
“When I was fourteen . . . and once later.” But not like this. Never like this.
Diego dropped his lips to her throat, plundering it with open-mouthed kisses that turned her bones to mush. “I take it he was older than you.”
“By . . . three years.”
“For that he calls you hoyden? Because he took advantage of you?” He leaned into her, hard muscle against soft flesh. “I do not understand you English.”
“I thought you claimed I was Spanish,” she taunted him, though she could hardly think with his hand roaming down her shoulder and arm, onto her waist, down to her hips, up to her ribs.
“I do not know what you are anymore.” His mouth now hovered a breath away from hers. “Except the most maddening woman I have ever met.”
This time his kiss was deep and warm and leisurely, as if he meant to linger with her the rest of the afternoon, driving her to distraction.
She liked “maddening.” It was vastly superior to “hot-blooded.” She shouldn’t believe him, but she liked the idea that she might entice a man as worldly and sophisticated as he, that she might tempt him to behave as he shouldn’t, to kiss her so lusciously.
She hooked her arms about his neck, and he groaned somewhere low in his throat.
Then he slid his hand from her ribs to cup her breast.
She felt the shock of it to her toes, and when he kneaded her flesh through her gown, the thrill that shot through her held her motionless.
Until Peter’s humiliating words came back to her.
“No,” she said firmly, shoving him away. “You mustn’t do such things!”
She slid from between him and the tree, poised to fight. Until she saw his dazed expression.
He stared at her a long moment. “Dios mio . . . forgive me . . . I did not intend . . .” His fingers raked through his hair, disordering it. Then he glanced about them and groaned. “I have lost my mind.”
She hugged herself, trying not to remember the moment of bliss when his hand stroked her through her gown. “What were you thinking?”
“Thinking! Do you really believe thought was involved?” Backing away from her, he swore a string of Spanish words. “My temper got the better of me, and I . . . made a mistake.”
She was a mistake? Why was she always a mistake? Anger and hurt roared through her as she bent to pick up her sketch pad. “You’re as bad as Peter. You both think I’m only good for a dalliance.”
When she headed for the path, he darted in front of her, eyes blazing. “I do not think any such thing. My behavior had nothing to do with you.”
A harsh laugh escaped her. “Oh, I see. Any woman would have served your purposes.”
“No, I did not mean—” He gritted his teeth. “I only meant that my loss of control was not your fault.”
“I should say not.” Never mind that her own loss of control had urged him on. It was probably unwise to delve too deeply into that. Her gaze locked with his. “So you weren’t just dallying with me? You meant something more by it?”
“Something more?” He briefly looked perplexed until her meaning apparently sank in. Then he let out another Spanish curse.
Lucy went cold. “Of course not. What was I thinking?” Desperate to escape, she tried to go around him.
He caught her by the shoulders to prevent it. “Listen to me, cariño—”
“Don’t call me that!” Tears welled, and she fought them ruthlessly. She refused to let a man do this to her twice in one week. “Don’t you dare use your meaningless endearments on me as if I’m some . . . doxy you can tumble without a thought. Just because you found me in an orchard behaving—”
“Like any other young woman enjoying a spring afternoon?”
She blinked at him.
“I do not think you a doxy or hoyden or any other silly names.” Releasing her shoulders, he stepped back, as if touching her taxed his control. “I never did. You are the one who clings to English propriety, not I.”
“Then why did you threaten to tell Mrs.—”
“To get what I wanted, of course. A chance to see the school with an amiable guide so I could decide how to act.”
An awful thought occurred to her. “Is that why you kissed me, too? To stop me from plaguing you about your pleasure garden?”
“My pleasure garden!” He let out a choked laugh. “Of course. I alw
ays settle my business affairs by kissing the nearest female into submission.” When she glared at him, he added, “You cannot really think I worry about you and your ladies. If I decide to build it, you cannot stop me. But I am trying to make the right decision. That has nothing to do with my kissing you.”
Now she was confused. “Then why did you do it?”
“I told you: you made me angry. When you started talking as if I were some unconscionable scoundrel just because I am foreign—”
“Not because you’re foreign,” she broke in. “Because you’re bent on ruining the school! For pity’s sake, I’m foreign myself.”
The interest that sparked in his dark eyes gave her pause.
“Because you’re Scottish?” he said.
“Actually, I-I’m not Scottish. Colonel Seton adopted me. My mother was Spanish. Like you.”
“Was she?” he said hollowly. He looked rather displeased to hear it.
“My real father was English. He died at La Coruña.” Unnerved by his intent stare, she babbled on. “My mother died during their retreat to the coast.”
“You were present when your parents died?” He looked oddly perplexed and seemed inordinately interested in her answer.
She would sound like a ninny if she admitted that she scarcely remembered her own parents. “My point is, I have no quarrel with foreigners. Why should I? I spent half my girlhood in Spain and Portugal and other foreign countries.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yet you clearly have a quarrel with me.”
“Because of the school—”
“Not only because of your precious school,” he countered. “There is more to it than that. You said gentlemen like me are fond of certain vices. And I doubt that you meant men of business, no matter how ruthless you consider them.”
“I meant performers, magicians. You’re a famous, smooth- tongued conjurer with a courtly manner, who, according to one of our ladies, left a string of brokenhearted princesses behind you in Russia. Who knows how many other women you have discarded in the course of your career?”
When he winced, she knew she’d hit close to the truth. “Admit it: you only kissed me because you assumed I’d let you.”
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