The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  “Why not? Why not find pleasure together?” She felt the warmth of his breath on her lips, a delicately intimate balminess that distracted unbearably.

  She thought if he watched the widow’s house he might have seen the young man who left her home each morning and returned again at night. In the dim light of dawn or twilight he might not have noticed Peter’s youth or the resemblance between them.

  “For a start there’s my husband, Trevor-”

  But James Carstairs spiked her guns.

  “Your brother,” he corrected her blandly.

  “My . . . my . . .” she trailed off into lame silence.

  “The village gossips might not know much. However they were happy to tell me Miss Merry’s young brother, Trevor, is a good, solid worker.”

  “He certainly is,” she said, caught out in her lie, her head held defiantly high.

  “And what concern is it of his? We do him no harm when we bring each other pleasure.” He brought his face even closer, so close she could see the tiny flecks of green in his brown eyes.

  “It is every good brother’s duty to care for the virtue of his sister,” she said, tilting her head away.

  “Then where was he as you stood on that block? Where was he then, while you faced down that slavering male mob? Hmmm?”

  Her gaze darted sideways, meeting his involuntarily. She stared into his dark eyes, fixated.

  “I . . . I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. But she was sure he could tell she lied again.

  “At the tavern. You remember.” He laid his cheek against hers, and all but whispered in her ear. “It was dim. You wore a cloak and a white dress. In the candlelight your hair seemed to glow.” She felt a gentle tug as he pulled a lock of hair from the confines of her bonnet, where she had hidden it every time she went out since she first saw him.

  He released the strands to ripple over her bosom, gleaming a betraying gold. “You looked so brave, up there. Brave . . . and terrified; and beautiful.”

  She stepped back. One step, and then another.

  “Tavern?” her voice was high and tight. It wavered just a little. “No, I don’t frequent taverns. You must have me confused with someone else. It is peculiar how one person may be like another. Or seem similar by language or gesture. And after all, a tavern, sir. Perhaps you had too much wine?”

  She ended on a false little trill of scornful laughter. Then she spun on her heel and began walking away, back down to the village, stiff-legged, her fists clenched and swinging.

  Again he followed, his long legs devouring the little distance between them.

  “You do puzzle me,” he said.

  She was silent, saying to herself she must not speak again, must not give him any more information or any opening to engage her.

  “I do not understand why a woman with such natural talent as you, having started a promising career so well, should abandon every advantage and immure herself in the countryside. You could have a smooth life of ease, indolence and pleasure. Instead you toil for a poor wage in a place like . . . this.”

  He indicated the village before them, only two fields away now, close enough that any person looking out their window at this moment would get an eyeful of the two of them in intense conversation.

  “It’s pretty enough, I grant you, but it’s no setting for a jewel such as you. Why will you not be kinder to yourself? I would like to take care of you, set you up in a house of your own with many fine things about you. Your brother could go to a good school, with such contacts as I have; learning with the sons of gentlemen; a good start in life. And we would do well by each other. Why not let your face be your fortune? Why stop now, when so well begun?

  “And more,” now his tone became huskier, soft and caressing, “I would like to know that sensual lady of the night much better; in many different ways. I would like to feel her move against me, give her pleasure. Take my pleasure with her. See her beauty set off properly-”

  “Sir, enough of this!” He defeated her resolve to be silent with his wicked suggestions. She could not bear to listen to any more. “It will not do! I am not that . . . that person you think you remember.”

  “Little dove, it is I who will say enough of this.” A tone of impatience crept into his voice now. “You have nothing to fear from me. I wish you no harm. From my heart, I wish only to help you.”

  “I do not believe your heart has anything to do with the matter.” She glared at him. He walked too close for politeness, his hand brushing against hers. She snatched it away, holding it across her chest.

  “With a creature as ravishing as you, one could hardly question it.”

  “Sir, do not tease me so. You are cruel! I do not understand why you will not simply leave me be.”

  “But you must know I find you quite delightful,” he said, his eyes resting on her warmly. “Surely we can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement so I may enjoy your company further?” His meaning was unquestionable.

  She knew it was a natural mistake for him to make. To think she would welcome such an offer. She knew it in her head. But her spirit quivered with disgust that he – that anyone – should think so meanly of her.

  The churning in her gut almost doubled her over, and she halted, her arms wrapped around her midriff as if to hold herself in, to keep from flying apart.

  Abruptly she gave up on the diversions that were not serving her. The truth, perhaps, might work on him better.

  “The very idea . . .” she said, shaking her head in disgust, her lips curled as if at an offensive smell. “I know full well why you might think that a worthy suggestion. Yet I have never . . . that is I was not raised to seek . . . ah!”

  She turned from him and took three abrupt steps away, before pausing to speak over her shoulder, head averted. “There are circumstances I will not explain, that brought me to the place you first saw me. I did not feel I had a choice. I did what I must. And no, I do not want to . . . to capitalise on a good start. I want to forget it ever happened!”

  “Surely forgetting would be a sorrowful choice?”

  “There is nothing, nothing I wish to remember.”

  “I cannot help but read that as a challenge,” he purred with lazy good humour.

  She wanted to smack him, to screech profanities at him, trying to jest with her as if there was something funny about this situation, this moment. As if they shared a joke. She bit her lip, then exclaimed: “It seems to me a huge misfortune – the very greatest – that I should meet you here. You, of all people!”

  For a moment there was silence. “So even if I were at my most generous . . .” he began in thoughtful assessment, then trailed off as she spun to present him with a furious glare, thinking how she would like to boil him in oil and listen to him shriek.

  He pressed his lips together, a slight frown between his brows, gloved hand a loose fist riding on his hip. Just as she wondered if perhaps she had reached him, altered his pursuit, he laughed softly again. “Such a great . . . such a delightful puzzle, indeed. I give you fair warning, I am not a man to give up easily. And you are a woman worth pursuing.”

  “I wish you to understand I do not seek your attentions,” she said, speaking each word slowly through her clenched teeth.

  “Yes, quite.” His tone was matter of fact.

  “So you will not seek me out again?”

  “Even if I formed such an intention, I do not think,” he said meditatively, “my self-control extends so far.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean each time I see you, you intrigue me more. For all your angelic fairness I know the heart of passion that beats in you.” She raised her hand to her throat at the look he gave her now, all burning awareness. His laughter was quite gone.

  Suddenly, with that expression, she could feel again the heat of his muscles beneath his skin, under her fingertips; the hard weight of him resting between her thighs as she cried out in the throes of delight.

  “If I was truly,
most truly a gentleman I should accede to your wishes. Leave you in peace.” He stepped slowly towards her, close enough to touch her, as if daring her to withdraw.

  “But do you know,” his voice was husky as he laid a hand upon her waist, drew her gently against him so she could feel the warmth of him through the cloth of his coat. “Do you know I have dreamed of you since that night? Dreamed of your enchanting face, of your body welcoming me in. Woken aching to have you in my bed.” His lips were almost touching hers, his breath in her mouth. She was dazed by the sensations rioting through her.

  “And when I am so close to you, and I can smell the scent of you, like honey, it is all I can do not to take you.” Again he paused, as if waiting for her to protest, but she said nothing, just gazed up at him, bemused.

  “Ah, little one,” he murmured quietly, “say what you will but I see the truth in your eyes.” Then he lowered his head to cover her mouth in the most gentle of kisses.

  O, but he tasted so sweet, it made her head swim.

  “No,” she murmured automatically, then said it again, hearing herself. “No. No!” She put both hands on his chest and pushed, propelling herself backwards and almost falling when he did not stir. “You are revolting! Utterly revolting! No sort of gentleman! A . . . a dastard! A cur! Your touch makes my skin crawl! I have told you I want nothing from you. Nothing! And still you persecute me.” She took in a breath and reached for her poise, her self-control. The same control she had only this past year learnt to use with her father.

  Like a mask she donned it, that look of contempt, her shoulders thrown back, held high like a queen. It was empty bravado but it had worked against Father, to keep his fists away from her and Peter. Now she turned it on this new enemy.

  “I revile you,” she said, heaping towering scorn into her tone, enunciating each word with crystal precision. “You defiler of innocence.” His eyebrows went up in surprise as he stiffened. “You carrion crow, hunched over the putrescence of your illicit, maggoty feast. Squawking for more. You are not fit to walk upon this fair earth.”

  For a long moment she stood and sneered at him, searching for more to say. His own head was up, eyes dark and stormy, lips pinched tight and a muscle throbbing in his jaw. He looked every inch the offended aristocrat.

  She considered spitting at him, and decided it did not quite fit this new image she was trying to convey. Instead, deciding his speechlessness was probably the best she could hope for, she turned and walked away with a brisk stride that aimed for majesty and not her instinctive full flight.

  She heard no pursuing footsteps.

  “Thank God,” she muttered. But straight after the moment of thankfulness, there followed doubt. Had she judged it right? Had she driven him away without making him angry enough to be vengeful? He could do her so much damage, with only one misplaced word.

  She crossed the field in a trice, swept along by her emotional maelstrom. In misery she replayed the entire meeting in her head.

  What sort of a woman was she? It was one thing entirely to have accepted, nay, enjoyed his touch that fateful night. After all, she had been without choices. Surely no harm done then, to take that fleeting pleasure in an act she could not escape. But now? Now, when there was no inducement, no necessity; even now she still found herself wishing to lie down with him in the soft grass, and rub her naked body against his. Clearly she was not a respectable person. There was something corrupt in her.

  What could she do if her cruel words did not deter him? He knew where she worked and lived. And whatever she had said, she gave away the truth with her traitorous body. A moment’s thought would teach him to see through her denials. He knew. Knew how great an effect he had over her senses. Knew he had that power over her.

  She wanted to throw back her head and howl. It was all so unjust! Where was the safe haven she had wanted so desperately? Gone. Blown away in the winds of a lust she could not suppress. All she had wanted was quiet and a simple sort of happiness. It was not so much to ask of the universe, surely?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Melissa and the widow were sitting eating breakfast when little Victoria entered. Victoria was the widow’s chambermaid, a sweet girl Melissa guessed to be twelve or thirteen years old.

  “Scuse me, Marm, the post has come,” she said, placing two envelopes by the elbow of her mistress.

  “Thank you, Victoria,” said the widow, turning the first letter over to read the name of the sender. “Oh lovely!” she exclaimed in delight, breaking open the wafer with a thumbnail. “And this one is for you, dear, she continued absently, passing over the other envelope.

  Melissa took it from her hand, mystified that anyone should write to her here. Was it an invitation? But no, the hand was familiar. It was Peter’s handwriting. She frowned. Why would he take the trouble to frank her a letter when he could talk to her so easily? Or no, it wasn’t franked, only sealed. She broke the seal and spread out the single sheet.

  Melissa felt the blood drain from her face.

  ‘Dear Sister,

  Perhaps you – a woman – cannot understand the dishonour of failing to pay one’s debts. I, however, have every intention of repaying our creditors and re-establishing our place in the world. I shall write again once I have done so.

  Yours

  Peter’

  Convulsively she released the napkin clutched in her hand, letting it drop beside her half-emptied plate.

  “Please excuse me, madam,” she said in a strangled voice, rising quickly from her place and –without waiting for a response – hurrying out the door and down the passage to the stairs. She passed Victoria, polishing the mahogany hallstand.

  “Victoria, was Master Trevor’s bed slept in last night?”

  “I couldn’t say for certain, Miss,” ventured the maid cautiously.

  “Was it made up or were the covers thrown back?” Melissa’s voice was tight with tension.

  “It was made up neat as a pin, to be sure, Miss.”

  She felt her heart sink in despair. Peter never, ever made his own bed. He must have left sometime after dinner, which had been at six pm. Only Cook might have noticed he had not eaten breakfast, but then he often skipped breakfast altogether.

  Sweeping up her skirts in one hand, she took the stairs two-at-a-time. He must have taken the stagecoach to London. He could not afford anything faster. Not with his pockets empty other than the small sum he had made from his gardening. She could use her funds to hire a carriage and four – ruinously expensive but a far better choice than trying to catch up with him on the stage when he had so many hours start.

  She might be able to catch him before he reached London. No, she must catch him before that. Who knew where he would think to go, to look for their ‘creditors’. Ah, poor Peter all alone in wicked London.

  With frenzied hands she rummaged through her small closet, snatching up a change of clothes, hat, reticule, portmanteau and . . . her fumbling fingers found only air where she had expected her purse to be.

  “What? Where…” She threw her armload aside onto the bed and returned to the closet, frantically sweeping the corners of the shelf, then the floor amongst her shoes. The shoes were flung out onto the rug, the closet emptied but still there was no sign of that precious purse with its load of hard-won notes and coins.

  “Oh no. Oh no! Peter!”A sick churning clenched at her guts. She did not know if it was rage or despair she felt more. That foolish, prideful boy! Turned thief and stolen their future from them, then headed straight into the very trap she had fought so hard to escape.

  She sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. This was catastrophic! No money, no way to chase him, and he with enough to travel impossibly swiftly if he only knew how to use it. Would anyone be foolish enough to hire out a carriage to a stripling boy? Surely not!

  No, no time to despair. Perhaps the widow might lend her enough for a coach ticket to London; or Miss Parsit. It grated to even ask when she already felt she owed them dearly – l
et alone the explanation she must make of her need for funds – but that was immaterial if they might help her save Peter from himself.

  She hurried back down the stairs but reached the bottom just as Mr Carstairs was let into the house by Victoria. Confound it all, one catastrophe after another!

  “Oh, and here she be right now, sir. Mr Carstairs is here to see you, Miss.” The girl was all aflutter with having a gentleman in the house, her eyes bright and one hand laid on her chest.

  “Thank you Victoria. That will be all,” Melissa dismissed her sharply, wondering how to get rid of him.

  He stepped towards her, a cool look on his face, almost stern as he opened his mouth to say something.

  His words died unspoken as he took in the wide, frightened eyes in her pale face.

  He had seen that look before, in a crowded, smoky alehouse in London. He had planned to come here and with dignity make it clear she was safe from him, from any renewal of the offer she had found so unpleasant.

  He was a gentleman.

  Never, ever had he taken a woman against her will. And though everything he knew of women and their desires told him she lied, though he was certain her body craved his beyond reason, as he hers, still he believed she did not want it to be so.

  Her words would be enough to control him; though it was a crime against nature to set aside such strong desire.

  He wished she could see that as clearly as he, wished she knew how rare this connection was, brightly burning and nearly irresistible.

  Still, he was no brute.

  And whatever he had thought of the woman who had shared her body with him, or the dim, fluttering creature she had become here, in this village, he had not meant to rouse such repugnance.

  His intention was to convey – through a nice blend of haughtier and civility – his message of restraint. With good fortune he might not even have to mention it directly.