by Jason
The bidding resumed, but it was dying. Bryght bid four hundred, hoping that would be it.
Speenholt glared across the room. “Four-fifty.”
“Four-seventy,” said D’Ebercall.
“Five hundred,” said Bryght. Damnation, the very figure involved was going to cause talk.
Speenholt pointedly turned his back on the proceedings. D’Ebercall glared at Bryght, but then shrugged. “She’s yours.”
Bryght waited for a moment, then moved forward, still weighing the possibility of taking his purchase out of here, but having made a wager, he had ruled that out.
The voyeurs were his main problem now. Demand for a spot would be brisk when word got out that there was such an unusual wager on the line. Mirabelle would probably raise her price.
He didn’t like the situation one bit, but he told himself he’d avoided the worst of it. By the terms of the wager, Portia would not be violated or stripped naked, but he hated the thought of those avid eyes on her as he drove her to simulated ecstasy.
And what was he going to have to do to make it convincing? He hoped to heaven she was a good actress because he suspected Prestonly would want to watch the wager play out.
“Six hundred,” said a new voice.
Bryght turned to stare at the Earl of Walgrave. What the devil . . . ? Fort was no more inclined toward this sort of foolery than Bryght was.
Then Bryght realized that Fort, too, must have recognized Portia. That might be useful, but it indicated a familiarity between them that Bryght did not like. And he certainly didn’t like the attention all this was causing.
A buzz of speculation was now running through the room because of the high price and the unusual bidders. Soon everyone would realize that there had to be a personal interest in this.
Bryght took a leisurely pinch of snuff and pitched his voice to carry. “Carrying our family feud a little far, aren’t you, Walgrave? I have a wager here. I win double the price if I can make this morsel beg for consummation without so much as removing her clothing.”
That caused a wave of amused comment. The jaded company was intrigued, but now they would no longer wonder at events. In wagers no one looked for reason.
Fort strolled forward. “A wager, eh? And you worked the bidding high in the security that you would win.”
“I only ever play for high stakes, as you know.”
“Then overbid me.”
Bryght gritted his teeth. Fort had deep pockets and was in the mood for mischief. He would push the bidding into the thousands out of pure malice. Bryght would be happy to squeeze that sort of money out of Prestonly, but the matter would then be the talk of the town for months.
“It would be absurd to pay this chit a fortune, not to mention Mirabelle’s twenty percent. I’ll play you for her.”
Fort was now at Bryght’s side. “Play?” he queried.
“Dice. Highest roll.” Bryght proffered his snuff box and Fort took a leisurely pinch. Bryght murmured, “You recognize her?”
Fort’s eyes sharpened and he studied Hippolyta. Bryght realized then that he’d made a serious miscalculation. Fort had not recognized Portia, but had been motivated solely by a desire to thwart a Malloren. Damn.
Fort’s eyes widened. “Hell and the devil, you can’t buy her.”
“What alternative?”
“Get her out of here.”
“Please do. I can’t see a way to rescue her without raising speculation.”
Fort muttered something. “I always knew her bold nature would land her in trouble.”
“Gentlemen!” Mirabelle chided. “This is collusion!”
Bryght turned to her. “Indeed it is. But if you and Hippolyta want the money you will have to put up with it. Lord Walgrave and I are establishing a side bet. He claims his amatory skills are at least the equal of mine. We are going to dice for the honor. Highest roll.” He turned back to the earl with a challenging look.
Fort’s lips tightened. “Better I maul her than you.”
“I doubt it.” Bryght snared a pair of dice from a nearby table and rolled them. “They seem true. Well, Walgrave? One each. Highest wins.”
Or loses, he thought to himself. The winner was not going to endear himself to Portia St. Claire, who wouldn’t understand the true situation. She would never want to see her false lover again. That was good, he tried to tell himself. Portia was trouble, and had no place in his life.
Then why not let Fort have her? If he abided by the terms of the wager, she’d be safe enough.
Bryght realized that he didn’t want any other man touching Portia St. Claire. He knew then that he was in the mire deeper than he wished, and would be safer out of it. He looked at Fort. “Would you marry her?” he asked quietly.
Fort’s brows shot up. “After this? Are you mad?”
Bryght sighed and passed him a die. “One roll each. Highest wins.”
“Would you marry her?” Fort asked in seemingly genuine curiosity.
Bryght rolled the smooth die in his fingers. “Yes,” he said, and rolled.
A five.
Fort contemplated the white cube and then placed it down, one up. “The whim has passed. By all means pursue your wager, Lord Bryght. And,” he added with quiet malice, “I look forward to dancing at your wedding.” With that he strolled away, leaving Bryght the victor.
Like a victor who has won the right to be a human sacrifice.
“Congratulations, my lord,” called out Mirabelle gaily, “I’ll just have your vowel on it, and then you can show your mettle! And who is the other wagerer? We must have it all in the book.”
Bryght scrawled the IOU. “A fat sugar-planter called Prestonly. He’s doubtless wheezing his way down here. You’d better save him a view.” He looked at the madam. “I need a few minutes. Delay things.”
Mirabelle’s brows shot up, but she nodded.
Bryght swept Portia off the dais into his arms. Cheers resounded. She stared up at him. “No!”
He pushed her head against his shoulder before she said something stupid. “Hush, it won’t be too bad.”
She was trembling, though.
Bryght was suddenly sickened by the world he inhabited. This tiny woman in his arms could be a frightened child, sold by a broken father, and going to a man blighted by disease. These spectators would still be cheering and scrambling for a pair of peepholes.
Bryght carried Portia into Mirabelle’s Rotunda wanting to give her a stern lecture on prudence. Anyone with sense would have abandoned her fool brother to his fate weeks ago. The fact that she could never do that, and that she had the courage to come here today and stand unflinching on the auction block, made him want to wring her neck. It also made her precious to him.
The Rotunda was a perfect circle and the only furniture was a circular bed—a platform, really, padded but covered only with a tight, white sheet. Covers would definitely spoil the fun.
On the ceiling, gods and goddesses lewdly frolicked and the painted walls showed twenty mortals imitating the deities. The difference was that the various pieces of equipment they used—from whips to scented oils—were real and could be appropriated by the users of the room.
The eyes of each abandoned figure were strangely blank, but that was because the observers had not yet taken their places. There was an eerie effect of movement from the figures on the wall, made greater by the flickering candles in colored glass lamps and the faint haze of burning incense. The dimness lent mystery to the scene for the observers, but Bryght could use it to carry off this event.
Had Portia understood anything about the wager? He put her down cautiously and she immediately straightened her garments with a flustered manner that made him want to grin. As if she’d just tumbled on some steps and been helped to her feet.
“Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Then she gaped. “Lud! That’s—”
He put a hand to her head to draw her attention to him. “Hush, don’t look at the pictures. Listen to me. How good an ac
tress are you?”
Even through the mask he could see her eyes widen. “I’ve never tried to act in my life!”
“Then tonight is your debut. You have to act the part of a frightened girl wooed by a skillful lover—myself—into wanting to surrender entirely to his passionate demands.”
“Surrender entirely,” she echoed, and he could tell that shock and bewilderment had dulled her sharp wits. She might even be drugged. There was no time for subtlety for Mirabelle could only delay the voyeurs a little.
“It’s act or do it in reality, Hippolyta.”
She jerked under his sharp tone. “You’re not going to ... ?”
“No. I promise I won’t harm you. I’ve made a wager I can make you willing, and without removing a stitch of clothing.”
He should have known that the word wager was like a red rag to a bull. “You could always lose your ridiculous wager,” she snapped, much more like his Amazon.
“Twelve hundred guineas?”
She gaped again. “What? How could you . . . ?”
“Isn’t that sum worth a little acting?” He saw a powerful weapon. “You can have it if we win.”
“Twelve hundred guineas?” she whispered.
“A good start on your debts, isn’t it? And all from a man who can afford it and deserves to lose more. Agreed?”
She looked around dazedly, her puffed-up face and long dark hair making of her a changeling, but Portia all the same. Then her back stiffened, and her chin went up. “Agreed. But I haven’t the slightest idea what to do.”
“I’ll guide you. But don’t be too willing too soon. To begin with, be frightened.”
She was frightened, he knew, but she met his eyes. “I’d rather fight!”
“Excellent.” He picked her up and threw her on the bed. She landed in a sprawl of skirts then scrambled to her knees in outrage. Before she recovered, he launched himself at her and pinned her down. “Did I tell you we have an audience?” he whispered. “There’s twenty peep-holes in the wall and the man I made the wager with is behind one. We’d better do this well.”
She went limp with shock. “Watching?”
“And listening if we speak loudly, so be careful. Isn’t that terrible? Aren’t you angry about it? Now, try to hurt me. Come on. I know you’d like to hurt someone.”
Fire flashed in her eyes then and she did fight, not holding back at all. He goaded her so she did her damndest to get her nails at his skin, at his eyes even, spilling out all her fear and rage on him. He lost some skin and gained some bruises, but wasn’t in real danger until he grew careless and she almost got his balls with her knee.
He twisted quickly, laughing. “Someone’s taught you something, sweetheart.”
“Fort! Who would have found a better way than this?”
He hadn’t tried to use his strength before, but now he pinned her down ruthlessly. “Such sweet faith you show in him,” he hissed. “Your lover is he?”
She bared her teeth, fighting every ounce of his weight. “You . . . you . . . toad!”
He almost laughed that all her rage had resulted in such a mild epithet.
“Toad or not, it’s me you have to deal with.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You hate my world.” He brought his mouth close to hers as if to kiss. “A side wager, Hippolyta.”
Confusion turned her limp and she stared into his eyes. “What? You know I don’t gamble. I hate gaming!”
“You dice with the devil all the time, sweet Amazon. What we do here is going to be for show, but if I can truly make you want me, you are not allowed to hate me.”
She struggled again. “Want you? You must be mad!”
“The whole world seems to think so. Do you agree?”
“How can I not hate you?”
“That’s so unchristian,” he chided. “And you are a good Christian, aren’t you? Pray about it. I’m sure you can overcome the sin.”
She was still now—stiff with resentment, but still. “And when I thwart you, what do I win?”
“The freedom to hate?”
“I have that now.”
Her words hurt him, but he hoped they were mainly the product of fear. He loosed his hold on her and traced the distorted line of her cheek. “What do you want then, little warrior?”
She twitched away from his hand. “Freedom from you. Forever. Never to see you again. Never to hear your voice. Never to have you touch me in any way.”
Despite the hurt, he kept his voice calm. “High stakes indeed. I think I must raise mine. If I win, you must not refuse to see me, or hear me, or to let me touch you as a gentleman may touch a lady. So, on those terms, do we have a wager?”
She stared at him for a moment, weighing it. Then turned her head away. “Why not? Do your worst.”
He did not make the obvious comment, but said instead, “A word of advice. The greatest folly in gaming is to be sure you hold the winning cards. Especially when you don’t even know the rules of the game.”
She struggled then, more furious than afraid.
He laughed just to goad her but he wasn’t amused.
He wanted her. In this situation it seemed obscene to desire Portia, but her lithe strength, her flashing eyes behind the gilded mask, her raging spirit, had him painfully hard already.
He concentrated on the long dark wig, the plump cheeks, and the bold face-paint, trying to see her as just a body. She was still Portia through and through. Her eyes shot fury at him, her red mouth was parted by angry gasps, and her small breasts pushed against the soft bodice, begging to be touched.
Gods.
Playing to the audience, he forced a kiss on her. She kept her mouth hard against his but he murmured, “Remember the twelve hundred guineas. Now we’ve struggled, it’s time for me to start seducing you.”
She twitched with alarm, fear and doubt in her eyes. He knew she was still not sure of her safety. “Trust me,” he said.
It was too much to expect, of course. Her expression told him that she was wishing for a weapon.
With another laugh, he rolled off the bed and began a new play for the audience. They’d be happier to see a bit of skin, and it could have a desirable effect on Portia. He took off his coat, cravat, and shirt. He pulled the ribbon out of his hair to increase the wild effect.
She knelt up on the bed, tense and watchful. “What are you doing?” The plumpers distorted her voice, which was as well, but it was still rather firm for a fourteen-year-old.
“Hoping my beauty can impress you, child. Aren’t you interested in your first man? Would you like to see more?” He put his hand to the buttons of his flap.
She scrambled backward in genuine alarm. “No!”
He undid one button to tease her, and she swung around to face in the opposite direction. He looked at her stiffly resentful back and suppressed a grin. Only Portia would have such spirit here.
He could see his destiny, and was beginning to accept it with delight, pitfalls and all.
But there were pitfalls. It wasn’t going to be easy to woo Portia, and even when he won her as wife there would still be problems. He’d tied up his fortune in Bridgewater’s scheme and if he didn’t marry wealth he could even end up as his brother’s pensioner, which wouldn’t suit him at all.
And Portia wasn’t just penniless, she was a positive sinkhole for money. If he didn’t win this wager, she’d have cost him a small fortune without trying. When they married, she’d expect him to save her home, and then keep towing her brother out of River Tick. Doubtless the rest of her family would prove to be just as expensive.
He accepted it. It was clearly fate. Cupid’s arrow. He didn’t know how these things happened, but he knew he and Portia were linked now and for evermore. Fort believed he’d trapped Bryght into a commitment, but he’d just pushed him into accepting the inevitable.
Bryght told himself to concentrate on the immediate. He had to get his future bride through this with as little embarrassment as p
ossible, and without revealing her identity. Yet at the same time he had to stir her desire so as to win their wager.
‘Struth. He felt a strong inclination to beat his head against the lewdly painted wall!
He fell on the bed and snared her around the waist, rolling her back and under him. At the feel of his half-naked body, she let out a genuine squeal of alarm and struggled.
“Want to bite me, pretty one? I don’t mind.”
She bared her sharp white teeth and he thought she might actually try to take a lump out of his shoulder, but then she remembered their situation and looked to him for guidance.
“Beg for mercy,” he mouthed.
“Oh, my lord, spare me!” she cried. Not an actress to match Peg Woffington, but not bad for a beginner.
“Alas, my pretty, I’ve paid six hundred for you. But I swear you’ll enjoy your initiation.” Then he mouthed, “Cry.”
She rolled her eyes, but covered her face and started to wail.
He moved off her. She promptly rolled on her front and went into a full-blown paroxysm of grief, beating the bed with her fists, heaving and howling. It was over-acting of the most atrocious sort, but he thought it would have its effect.
Trying to keep a straight face, he patted her back. “Now, now, sweetheart, it won’t be so bad. Stop crying.”
She wailed louder. “I want to go home!”
That should set the stage for act one, he decided. Now he had to at least partly seduce Portia, both to make this convincing and to win their personal wager. The twelve hundred was nothing. He had to win that personal wager.
He had much on his side, much that she was denying. The energy, the magic, that sometimes sparked between two people from first meeting, was alive between them. He had known it from the first and fought it. Now he surrendered to the folly of it and turned his skills to making her surrender, too.
He eased onto the bed then suddenly covered her, head to toe. She stopped wailing and went rigid beneath him. He brushed away the false hair and kissed the back of her neck.