The Widow's Auction

by Sabrina Jeffries

  That’s what he should have done last night. He should have ignored all her nonsense about holding on to that mask. A woman like her was meant to be married. Wasn’t that why she’d participated in this auction in the first place?

  He strained to remember what she’d said about it, then groaned as it came back to him: I’m testing the waters, that’s all. I’m not quite ready to marry again, and I want to see if I can even bear to be with another man.

  A sick despair settled in his gut, making him halt where he was. For the first time it occurred to him that she might not want to marry him. Or even to marry at all. What if she’d insisted on the mask for that reason alone? It didn’t bode well for her feelings that she’d steadfastly refused to remove her mask even after they’d made love. What if she truly had wanted only an evening of pleasure, to “test the waters”?

  Worse yet, what if she’d tested the waters and discovered she couldn’t bear to be with another man after all? Then her fleeing would make perfect sense.

  He sank onto the bed, feeling as if his heart were shredding apart inside his chest. After they’d made love, he’d simply assumed she would fall in with his plans like a good little girl, like the same starry-eyed young woman who’d married Henry Lamberton out of gratitude for the man’s generosity.

  But she wasn’t that same young woman. Galatea had become flesh and blood, with a mind of her own. He’d been too full of himself to see it. He’d been so intent on playing his little games with her that he hadn’t even considered what she might want. She was right–he was indeed overbearing and pompous.

  Jerking out the letter again, he reread it, trying to decipher what she might have meant, but its brevity hampered him. All she said was that she “must respectfully decline” his offer. Which he hadn’t actually made.

  That meant she might also “respectfully decline” his offer of marriage.

  With an oath, he crumpled the note in his hand. Going to her house and unmasking her wasn’t an option. Much as he’d like to storm in and order her to marry him, he doubted such a method would impress Lady Kingsley. What if he confronted her only to discover that she had no interest in marrying him? Or that she was willing to marry him out of gratitude for what he’d taught her in bed? He didn’t want her like that, to be sure.

  A sudden chilling thought hit him. What if she agreed to marry him because she feared what he’d do with the knowledge he’d gained about her past last night? If he trapped her, she might very well respond that way.

  He groaned. Damn, but he’d made a mess of things. He hadn’t even considered that aspect until just now. She’d chosen not to take her mask off for a reason. Until he knew what it was, he couldn’t act without forcing her into a corner.

  So he must find a way to let her know how he felt about her without making her feel obligated to him. If he wanted to win her, he’d have to set it up so that she felt entirely free to choose. Or to keep her anonymity if she so wished.

  He glanced down to see her glove still peeping from under the bed where they’d apparently kicked it last night. Picking it up, he mused over it a moment. An idea began to take shape in his mind. . .

  Isobel hurried up the steps to the main building of the Lamberton School, fretting over the skirts that hampered her from moving faster. Oh, Lord, she was late. And for this meeting, of all meetings! Devil take her maid for not waking her.

  Though she couldn’t really blame the maid too much. Isobel hadn’t slept well in three days–not since her night with Justin.

  No, she must stop thinking of him like that. He was Lord Warbrooke. She’d best remember it, before she blundered in front of everyone.

  That was the least of her worries, however. Far more important was how she would survive an entire meeting of the governing board without wanting to touch him or smile at him or say something flirtatious.

  Which would not do at all. Despite having left a number of personal items at the Clarendon, she’d miraculously escaped detection. She’d be a fool to blunder now.

  Never mind that she spent her nights reliving every sweet word and caress and taste they’d shared. That she spent her days trying to wear herself out for those awful, endless nights. She’d made her decision. Perhaps she’d been a bit hasty by not waiting around to see what he’d say, but she couldn’t have borne it if he’d asked her to be his mistress again. If he’d cheapened what she felt for him.

  In any case, she would make up for it today. After what he’d said during their night together, she had read his proposal for the boys’ school very carefully. And when she’d examined it through eyes unclouded by suspicion of his motives, she’d discovered it had far more merit than she’d given him credit for. The least she could do was support it now, though she’d have to present her change of heart in a way that wouldn’t rouse his suspicions.

  When she reached the top of the stairs, Phoebe was waiting for her. “What is going on?” her friend demanded. “I’ve been trying to see you for three days. I can’t believe you weren’t at home to me.”

  “I-I was busy, that’s all.”

  A knowing look spread over Phoebe’s face. “Aha! But busy with whom? That’s the question.”

  “Lower your voice, for pity’s sake,” Isobel hissed as she veered around her friend and headed purposefully down the hall. “Do you want to ruin me?”

  “I saw Lord Warbrooke win you at the Widows’ Auction,” Phoebe said as she hurried after her. “I only want to know if it was everything you expected. And what did he think when he found out it was you?”

  Isobel halted in her tracks. “I didn’t tell him. Do you think I’m insane?”

  “That bad, was it?”

  “No!” At Phoebe’s raised eyebrow, she colored. “No, it was as wonderful as you said it would be. But it could never work between me and Just–. . . Lord Warbrooke. He’s not interested in marriage, and I’m not interested in anything else.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes. Well, sort of.” She continued down the hall.

  “Ah, but he didn’t know who you are. That might make a difference.”

  “It wouldn’t,” she said feebly.

  “So you’ve become a Gypsy fortune-teller, have you? Bella, if you don’t tell a man that you want him, how is he supposed to know? Especially when you take away his chance to decide by keeping your identity secret.”

  Isobel paused outside the closed door to the meeting room. “You don’t understand–”

  “Oh, but I do. You’re a coward, Isobel Lamberton. You’ve finally found a man who suits you, but you’re afraid to risk your heart. It’s easier to go on with your plodding, lonely life than to take a chance on happiness. Well, you’re a fool if you choose being safe over being loved.”

  Then with a sniff, Phoebe opened the door to the meeting room and marched in to take her place at the table.

  Isobel stood in the doorway, Phoebe’s words resonating in her brain. Phoebe was right. She was a coward. But she couldn’t help it. She loved him so much she was afraid to be anything else. It would shatter her to have him admit he wanted only some sordid connection with her.

  Mustering her strength for the long meeting ahead, she donned her old regal faÇade and walked into the room. “Good day, gentlemen. I’m sorry for being late, but I had some pressing matters to attend to.”

  As she skirted the table, she could feel Justin’s eyes following her to her seat. Though that was nothing unusual, today it was different, at least for her. Because for the first time she wanted to meet his gaze boldly, to tell him who she was and how she felt.

  But she couldn’t take that chance.

  She reached her usual chair and pulled it out, then froze. Directly in the center was a glove. Her glove, the one she’d lost. And attached to it was a note that read only, “Is this yours, Lady Kingsley?” It was signed, “Lord Warbrooke.” Just that, and no other explanation.

  Her pulse beat madly as she stood there, unable to do anything but gape at it. God help
her, he knew who she was! Did he mean to unmask her right now before the entire board? To reveal her immorality and ruin her? Would he do that?

  She forced herself to look up, to meet his gaze. Around him, the others were chattering about this and that, oblivious to the drama playing itself out right there before them. But he sat quietly, patiently, his expression showing nothing. No cruelty, no hint of revenge.

  But nothing else either. As if he waited for her to do or say something before he acted.

  She glanced down again as something dawned on her. A glove was such an impersonal item. If he’d wanted to shame her, he could have brought something more damning, like the garter or stockings she’d left behind. But he hadn’t.

  So what did it mean? What did he expect her to do?

  Then it hit her. He was offering her a choice–acknowledge the glove as hers and in so doing acknowledge their connection. . . or deny that it was hers and end their connection forever.

  Oh, Lord, what a choice. If she took the glove, she’d be trusting him not to use it against her. And what if her trust were misplaced? What if their wonderful night had merely been leading up to this–to Lord Warbrooke’s final public triumph over her?

  No, she couldn’t believe that. Not without believing that every word he’d spoken was a lie, every caress was feigned. . . every dark, hungry look had been only the basest form of lust. And she simply couldn’t.

  But what if she accepted, and he offered her only a place in his bed and not in his heart? Could she endure that?

  She sighed. Whether she could or no, she owed it to him to tell him that to his face. Continuing as a coward was not fair to him.

  Even if he was making it easy for her to refuse him. All she need do was tell him that the glove wasn’t hers and hand it back. She sensed that he’d accept such a gesture as her desire to keep her identity secret, not only from the rest of them but from him as well.

  He probably wouldn’t challenge it. But she’d lose him.

  If she’d ever had him at all.

  She swallowed. Her other choice was to acknowledge their connection by accepting the glove. No one else would know what it meant. But he would. And after that, everything would change between them, regardless of what his intentions were. Did she dare to risk that?

  “Lady Kingsley, are you all right?” Mr. Dawson queried.

  That jolted her back to her surroundings. “I-I’m fine. I was merely remembering something I left behind.”

  She glanced to Justin, stunned to see him look suddenly vulnerable, even afraid. He didn’t want her to deny him. And God help her, but she didn’t want to deny him either, no matter what pain it might mean for her in the future.

  She didn’t want to be a coward anymore.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath as she held his gaze, she bent and picked up the glove, then slid it into her apron pocket.

  Relief flared in Justin’s face, relief and something else. Could it possibly be love?

  Hope sprouted within her as she sat down and wielded her gavel a bit unsteadily. “I call this meeting to order,” she began. “At our last meeting–”

  “Before we go on, Lady Kingsley,” Justin broke in. “I’d like to make a suggestion.”

  “Yes?” she whispered, her heart in her throat.

  “I’ve taken some time to read your proposal, and I find it a very worthy project. So I’d like to withdraw my own proposal and move that we adopt yours instead. I have some funds at present that I could funnel into your endowments, and I’m sure if others contributed–”

  “I have a better idea, Lord Warbrooke,” she interrupted as hope took even firmer root in her heart. “What if we do both? I, too, spent some hours examining your suggestions, and I think we should embark on your factory idea at once.”

  A murmur of surprise ran round the table, and even Justin looked stunned.

  She went on hastily. “But your proposal and mine aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. I happen to have come into some funds recently that I’d be more than happy to contribute to the endowments. That would leave you to use your funds for the factory.”

  A slow, hopeful smile spread over his Roman conqueror’s face. “What a brilliant idea, Lady Kingsley. It seems we’ve finally found something we can agree on.”

  “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” She allowed herself a smile in return.

  The others could only sit and gape at them.

  “I say,” Mr. Dawson finally ventured, “whatever happened to you two since the last meeting? Have you both been neglecting to wear your hats in the sun?”

  “It was wine, Mr. Dawson,” she couldn’t resist saying. “I had some wine that went straight to my head.”

  “How odd,” Justin retorted. “So did I. Tell me, Lady Kingsley, was it as delicious as mine? Because the one I had–”

  “We don’t care about the damned wine, old fellow,” Lord Bradford cut in. “Let’s just put the proposal–whatever it is now–to a vote, so we can all go home.”

  Isobel exchanged a happy glance with Phoebe, who was grinning broadly enough to split her face open. “Certainly, let’s vote at once. All those in favor of embarking on both projects, raise your hand.”

  Everyone raised their hand. Even the irascible Lord Bradford.

  “Good,” Isobel said. “Then that’s settled. And I see no point to further discussion on the matter today. Why don’t we all go home and examine both proposals in depth, then meet next week to talk about implementing them?”

  She could tell her fellow board members were bewildered by her sudden amiable eagerness to adjourn a meeting, but she didn’t waste too much time worrying about it. She merely tapped her gavel on the table and watched as Phoebe shooed the others out of the meeting room.

  All except Lord Warbrooke. He was already rounding the table and coming toward her. She rose and tried not to read too much into that possessive glance of his, but it grew harder by the second. Glancing behind him to where Phoebe had paused in the door, she shot her friend a look of panic. But Phoebe merely smiled and blew her a kiss before walking out and closing the door behind her.

  Isobel and Justin were alone at last.

  He stood so close that she could touch him, but she didn’t. Instead she stared down at the glove she’d just drawn out of her pocket. “How long have you known who I was?”

  “From the moment you said your name was Bella on that dais,” he said softly.

  Her gaze shot to him. “As long as all that?”

  He nodded.

  “But why did you keep quiet? Why didn’t you just unmask me right then and there?”

  “In front of Bradford? I wouldn’t be so cruel.” He edged nearer, surrounding her with his heat, his scent. “At first I thought to shake you up a bit, bedevil you the way you’d been bedeviling me with your pronouncements about my character. I intended to give you enough rope to hang yourself before I unveiled you and gave you the lecture of your life about hypocrisy and morality and. . . ”

  He paused, lifting his hand to stroke her hair.

  She flinched. He’d manipulated her from the moment he’d won the auction. He’d tricked her into telling him everything about her past, and then. . .

  Then he’d made love to her with the most unbearable sweetness. “And what?” she prodded. “What else did you intend to lecture me about?”

  “The foolishness of participating in a widows’ auction. I meant what I said about protecting you. I always intended to keep our little battle between the two of us. I would never have told anyone else about your appearance at that auction. So although I admit that I began by wanting to torment you a little, it was never meant to be more than that.”

  Hooking his finger beneath her chin, he forced her to look at him. “Then everything changed. The longer it went on, the more I was swept into it, and the more fascinated with you I became. It didn’t take long before I realized I didn’t want to unmask you unless you wanted it. All thoughts of lecturing or embarrassing you went ri
ght out the window.” His voice grew husky. “Along with my self-control. Because by then I desired you more than I’ve ever desired anyone in my life. By then I could see the real woman beneath the lofty faÇade. And I wanted that woman for my own.”

  A thrill shot through her at his blatantly possessive words.

  “Now I need you to explain something to me,” he said, that vulnerability flaring in his face again. “Why did you leave before we could discuss any of this?”

  She swallowed. “Because I was afraid you’d want me only as a mistress.” With a sinking heart, she realized he hadn’t yet said he wanted her for anything else. “Not that I blame you, of course. A man with your future doesn’t need a wife with my past as a liability. But I just couldn’t–”

  “Oh, Bella, I’m so sorry I didn’t make myself clearer. All that talk about having you for my mistress was meant only to provoke you into revealing yourself. Once I made love to you, there was only one role I wanted you to play in my life, and that was as my wife. I wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

  Her fear began to ease. “But what about your future in politics?”

  “I have no future in politics without you, darling. Because if I can’t have you at my side, none of it is even worth pursuing.” He flashed her a rakish grin. “If you refuse to marry me, I’ll have to give it all up. Otherwise I’ll make myself a laughingstock. They’ll be gossiping all over town about poor Warbrooke and the widow who broke his heart.”

  A smile crept over her face. “You’re exaggerating, you silly man, but I don’t mind. That part about my breaking your heart is very sweet, even if we both know it’s nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense,” he protested. “Are you blind? Can’t you see I’ve fallen in love with you? Good God, woman, do you think I propose marriage every day?”

  That Roman conqueror’s look was in his eye now. She stilled, hardly daring to hope. “If you have indeed fallen in love, it’s with Bella.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I fell in love with all of you–with Bella, the fetching temptress. . . with Lady Kingsley, the highly moral reformer. . . and even with Isobel, the orphan millworker.”