The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  She considered her promise to herself to be obedient, made out of fear of the consequences and how he might hurt her. She measured that fear against the reality she had discovered lying in his arms. Then she disobeyed him, drawing her legs up so the soles of her feet rested on the bedcover. That did hurt, and her eyes flew wide open as she felt him slide even further into her.

  He groaned loudly into her ear, shuddering, and she waited to see what would happen next.

  Nothing did. She remained covered by his still body, with a hot pulsing between her legs, deep within her. She was firmly impaled.

  And all over her his warm skin lay against hers, a thousand points of contact, brought alive and singing with a single motion. How could she have lived a whole lifetime and never known the wonder of skin touching skin like this? It was a powerful thing that caught her unaware, the tender intimacy of it.

  It began to feel very good, suddenly. She wanted to rub up to him, push closer. Boldly she reached down and put her hands on his firm buttocks. They curved under her palms, rich with muscle.

  She squeezed, then pulled them towards her. It seemed right to strive against him. Like a stretch, to tense and strain then soften and relax, a subtle rocking.

  He did sink deeper, and there was a faint pain, but less than last time. Still, that motion seemed to break his control. With a wordless exclamation he began to draw out and away from her. Then he slid back in, aided by her tugging hands. The sensation of renewed fullness hurt and yet was exquisitely right.

  He did not stop moving, sliding smoothly into her again and again. The pain faded slowly away, overcome by a delight, a growing need that already felt familiar to her. He kissed her deeply, passionately, and her mouth welcomed him as her body did, sucking on him.

  He rolled them both over so that she lay on top of him. Startled, she gazed down at him from her altered position.

  His hands massaged the length of her flanks as he pulled her down firmly onto his body, raising himself at the same time. He grasped her by the hips and lifted her slightly clear of him, before driving smoothly up into her again. Then he stopped and cupped her breasts, flicking the nipples lightly. She gasped and clenched. He must have felt the working of her inner muscles, because he drew in a suddenly laboured breath.

  She liked that.

  She liked the power of it, to take the cool and collected man she had first seen and bring him to this moment, naked and undefended, on a quest for sensation together. In all her fear of this encounter she had never imagined she might be given dominion over a man. Yet here it was, handed to her.

  The motion of her body could stir him, move him.

  She squirmed on him, and he shut his eyes and moaned silently.

  Yet as quickly as he had flipped them before, he did so again.

  “Not a good idea, little one,” he said with a smile, eyelids drooping over a hot stare. “You take away my control. We must be gentle with you tonight.”

  Before she could be disappointed he was moving within her again, his face intent on hers. She spun away into that feeling, closing her eyes and gripping his waist, his shoulders, his buttocks, her roaming hands searching for some place that would steady her, let her centre herself and draw a breath. There was no such place.

  Smoothly, gently he pumped. Again there was that growing tension, winding her tighter and tighter. His hand went between them, finding a space, to discover her sensitive folds and that one excruciating spot that made her want to scream and wail and thrash.

  It was a mystery to her what he did there, but it drove her from all thought and reason.

  In a white frenzy she felt those hot, spreading ripples of pleasure move through her, as she shuddered and dig her fingernails into him. She cried out softly.

  At the sound, it was if he released something inside himself. Suddenly he moved more urgently, his breath hissing through his teeth. Only for a moment though, before he thrust into her one last time, hard and deep. She cried out at the force of it and he did too, his back arched and his head thrown back.

  Wonderingly she looked up at him in the candlelight. His features looked golden, and it was hard to tell if he were experiencing pleasure or pain. But surely it must be pleasure.

  She felt the relaxation sweep over his body. He rolled his weight off her to one side, throwing out a languid arm to pull her close.

  “Come here, sweetness,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

  She did not resist; did not quite want to resist, the separation of their flesh feeling new and wrong in contrast to the hours of contact.

  How very peculiar, she mused, tucked in close to his broad, hard chest. He was asleep almost instantly, his breathing deepening. Utterly peculiar to lie like this, held casually. She, who had barely been touched in years, was now pressed tightly against a virile man.

  If he had been awake she must surely have felt overwhelmed with embarrassment. And yet with him oblivious to her there seemed no reason to feel such a thing.

  For a few short minutes she lay breathing in the scent of him, looking up at his face. He looked somehow younger that way; younger and more vulnerable.

  The room was well lit, peaceful, the fire crackling merrily.

  She took stock of the situation. She was no longer a virgin. Most assuredly not a virgin. He had taken possession of her body most thoroughly. It had not even felt like her lying there in his arms, writhing and moaning.

  How had he known? Who had taught him to touch like that, stroke like that, so that her mind departed and her body happily did things she had never dreamed could be done?

  She did not feel it could truly have been her, that wanton and lusting creature who had wrapped herself so closely in a stranger’s arms.

  And maybe . . . maybe that was for the best. To imagine that it had not been her. Not really, in any true way that counted. He had owned her body briefly, for one night, and she had been a stranger to herself for that same night. She would never see him again, never be that wild, odd person again.

  Now she was herself. And herself did not lie about naked in bed with strange men!

  Carefully, so carefully, she eased away, inch by inch until their skin no longer touched.

  Silently she slid across the mattress and off the far side, anxious not to disturb the covers that lay across him. With the softest of rustling she gathered up her discarded dress, seeing the multitude of wrinkles; nothing to be done about that now.

  Her undergarments were there too, and her stockings and shoes she found tossed aside. She could not quite remember when they had been removed . . . but then it hardly mattered. She took a branching candlestick and closed herself in the small dressing room off the bedroom so she would not wake him.

  It was the work of short minutes to throw her clothes on. Her hair was a different story, mussed and wild. She used the brush she found in the dressing table, pulling it through savagely and tying it back with a ribbon tugged out of the eyelets of her undergarments.

  In the mirror she looked wide-eyed, flushed and tousled. Little enough change really, to have now become a fallen woman.

  With her shoes held in one hand she let herself quietly out into the silent hall and fled down the stairs. Leaning against the front door, she paused to put her shoes on. Then she let herself out, the grand door swinging smoothly open on well oiled hinges.

  Mr Tell was huddled at the bottom of the stairs. As he heard the door open, he swivelled around, looking cold and miserable.

  “Why, Mr Tell!” Melissa exclaimed in astonishment, coming swiftly down the stairs towards him. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to make sure you get home safely, Miss. Wasn’t sure as you’d know the way.” She was touched by his unexpected vigil, and she dreaded that he might say something about the few hours since he had seen her. But he scanned her face anxiously and seemed relieved by whatever he saw there.

  Perhaps he had feared tears or hysterics; or something worse. She had got off lightly, in t
ruth. And now it was done. Done, and to be forgotten as swiftly as possible.

  “That is very kind of you, Mr Tell,” she said after a moment’s awkward pause.

  She stepped down and took the arm he was offering in the most gentlemanly fashion, and they began to walk briskly towards the South Carriage Drive, bordering Kensington Gardens. She kept her head high, as if she saw nothing unusual in being out at this hour of the morning for a stroll, dressed as she was.

  “Have you been able to make any progress in the matter of hiring men?” As she asked the question, it occurred to her to wonder if her watchers were somewhere about, having just seen her emerge from a gentleman’s private residence in the early hours of the morning.

  She craned her neck to look behind them.

  “Don’t look!” he hissed, stiffening.

  “What? Why not?”

  “They’re there. They’re following us. Don’t do anything unexpected.” She kept walking, her skin crawling at the thought of being watched right this second. “Anything more unexpected,” he amended after a moment.

  “Did you get a good look at them? Would you recognise them again?”

  “No, they’re careful.” When she looked at him questioningly, he elaborated: “They keep their caps pulled down over their eyes and scarves wrapped round their chins, and collars up like this.” He adjusted his own with a free hand and huddled down into it, the night fiercely chill, their breath fogging out before them.

  “So you’ve hired men?” she repeated.

  “I’ve spoken to a man I know, Miss. He’ll find you some likely lads. Don’t fret.”

  “Might all this put you in any danger, Mr Tell? Do you think there might be trouble for you? After we have disappeared, I mean.”

  “I don’t reckon so, Miss. I doubt Black Jack’s men has recognised me.” He glanced at her with a slight smile. “I’m not one of them as likes to stick my head up. Better to keep quiet and open your eyes and ears. That’s my motto. Nor has any followed me home to see where I live. I made right sure of that. Once Hetty and me is gone there’ll be neither hide nor hair to find of us. I’ll be fine.”

  Melissa hoped that he was right. There was not much she could do if he were not.

  For half an hour they walked together, silently. What had passed made conversation impossible for her, and he did not venture to speak further. They reached the quiet streets of Kensington, and then Kensington Court and her own doorstep.

  Standing outside the house she said to Mr Tell, “Thank you for your aid in this delicate matter. I fear it has been unpleasant for you.”

  “Ah, Miss. I have no liking for seein’ a nice lady such as yourself in trouble with a man of Black Jack’s sort. And you’ve been right kind to Hetty. That and your money is enough to have me helpin’ you, Miss, no thanks needed. I’d best be goin’. There’s more yet to do.” He doffed his cap to her, then turned and walked briskly away. She watched him go, till he turned a corner and was out of sight.

  She went slowly up the front steps. Hetty had left the door unlocked for her. She let herself in. All was still. The denuded house startled her, jarringly bare. Then it struck her as fitting. The world should be different; so that she could see the difference. After all, everything felt different inside.

  In her own room she stripped off her crumpled clothing and cast it aside. All of it must be thrown away. She wouldn’t wear it ever again. The night would be forgotten, erased from memory. Naked, she dipped a cloth in the jug of cold water standing on the wash stand. It was sharply cold, but the punishing chill felt right. Her skin shrank from it, goose-pimpling and shuddering as she began to clean herself. She wiped down her neck, where he had kissed her so passionately, her flanks where he had laid his hot fingers; down her legs, and back up the insides of them, to wipe the dried blood from her inner thighs. Then, carefully and thoroughly, she cleaned that place where she was sore and throbbing; removed all evidence of his passion and of her body’s response. Again and again she dipped the cloth, wrung it out and applied it, till she felt chafed on her delicate flesh. But no trace of him must remain.

  Long minutes later, she climbed into bed, wearing a plain white nightgown. Her mind was blank and dim. Within instants of her head hitting the pillow, she was asleep.

  Chapter Six

  It was noon before she woke. Or rather, before Peter woke her. He came creeping into her room, all wide-eyed concern. But his boots were too heavy to silence, and the clomph clomph woke Melissa. She opened her eyes.

  “You are awake,” he said in a tone of discovery. “Hetty said you were not feeling quite the thing. But I said you are never low for long! And here you are awake and nearly up, just as I thought.”

  “Peter,” she said in acknowledgement, rubbing at her eyes.

  “It’s a lovely day outside. Look!” He pushed aside the curtains to let the thin sunshine spill in.

  “Yes dear. I can see it is.”

  “Why don’t you get up and have some lunch? Cook has made us a ham roast. Do come. You love ham. And there are new potatoes.”

  Melissa lay with one forearm across her eyes, unable to speak for a moment.

  Peter came closer to the bed, then sat on the edge of it. “Lissa? Would you rather stay abed?”

  “No, no you are right. I want to be up, not laying about like a great slug.” She summoned a smile. It felt weak and unnatural but it seemed to satisfy him, for he returned it and bounced back to his feet.

  “Good!” he declared enthusiastically, and clattered out of the room, leading as always with his ever-growing feet.

  And so began the day after the night before. Melissa moved through it as if through water. Everything was so unreal; the continued disappearance of furnishings; the strangers at every turn, busy with their business; the way she kept tuning into the blood pounding through her ears, her breathing.

  It was not until the late afternoon that things came sharply back into focus again, with the return of Mr Tell.

  Melissa had heard the voices in the hall as Hetty let him into the house, and she came swiftly down the stairs to meet him.

  “You have word?” she asked.

  “Yes, it’s all arranged, Miss,” he replied, following her into the drawing room and standing near her. There were no chairs left to sit on.

  “What must we do?” Her voice was quiet but steady.

  “Gather up some clothes for you and the boy. Nothing fancy now. Sturdy and hard-wearin’. Put ‘em in a laundry sack. Hetty’ll bring them away from the house with the rest of the washin’.” She nodded, thinking of the clothes she had already packed and stowed in the butler’s pantry. “Now, tomorrow night’s the night for it. Listen. This is what you do.” He leaned in close, as if there might be listeners outside the walls. She followed suit, and in an undertone he outlined the plan, an expansion of his initial proposal with specific details of time and place.

  “And you think this will work?” she asked when he had finished.

  “Simple is best, Miss. Then there’s less can go wrong. Those men watching you don’t expect nothing other than you maybe running off. They certainly aren’t looking for you to have help.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “We’ll get you away safe, Miss. Never you worry.”

  “So will we see you again, Mr Tell?”

  “No, Miss. I’m gonna play least in sight from now on. The men I’ve hired will see you out, and I’ll get Hetty well clear so as no one comes after her for information. Now don’t you worry about us, Miss,” he said at the dawning guilt on her face. “We’ll come through fine. One more thing is this.” He reached into his coat and drew out an old, tattered wallet and then a purse. “Here’s what’s left of the gentleman’s money. If you’re careful it should last awhile.”

  For a long moment, Melissa hesitated. Mr Tell waited, hands outstretched. Finally, reluctantly she took it from him. Neither she nor Peter could afford for her to be proud about this. It was money she had earned, after all.

  The purse was h
eavy, packed solidly with coins. The wallet felt fat under her fingers. She held them in her lap, not knowing what to do with them.

  “I’ll be off now, Miss. Best not to stay long. “

  Melissa rose hastily to her feet.

  “Mr Tell,” she said urgently, as he started to turn away. “Mr Tell, I cannot say how grateful I am.” He turned back to her, a slight smile on his face.

  “I’m glad I could help, Miss,” he said simply. She could see from his face that he meant it. She had not wanted to accept his help at first, unwilling to be beholden, uncertain what price she might have to pay in the future if she was making a mistake and preferring his baldly stated fee, when he asked for it. She had thought he might betray her trust, take advantage of her in some way she could not forsee.

  She had been wrong. He dealt honestly with her, arranged all he could to see her and Peter free, and waited anxiously outside Mr Carstairs house in the bitter cold, anxious to protect her as much as he could. He was a better friend than she had the right to ask for. He made her ashamed of her own doubts. It occurred to her that even when the world was at its most horrid, there were still good people around, to light the way.

  “Nonetheless, thank you,” she said softly, suddenly feeling as if she might burst into tears. Her expression seemed to galvanise Mr Tell, for he suddenly shuffled his feet nervously, then bid her a hasty good afternoon and hurried out the door. She was left to hunt for a handkerchief.

  The next day dawned foggy, and Melissa watched the weather anxiously from the window. Rain might mean a cancellation of the Covent Gardens event. But eventually the fog burned off to reveal an unseasonably sunny day.

  She sent Hetty on her way with the laundry bags, knowing the maid would not return. In the pocket of her simple apron the girl carried a glowing letter of reference to help her find work elsewhere if the plan of keeping an inn proved unworkable. Melissa hoped that would be enough. It was all she could do.

  After seeing the maid off, Melissa went and spoke to the cook, turning her off with two weeks wages and another letter of reference.