The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  Her head fell back as his hand came up to clasp the back of her skull, cradling it gently. “Let me go, please,” she said dreamily.

  “Of course,” he replied, his hands adjusting her body more comfortably into his. He felt so good pressed against her, strong and hard and warm. “So the seamstress doesn’t want to embrace. Perhaps I should address myself to the lady of quality.” He lowered his mouth to press against hers again, still softly seductive, a delicate lure.

  She moved her own mouth against his, kissing him back, uncertainty and desire a piquant mix. Her hand rose between them with some difficulty, feeling the smooth, hard plane of his abdomen under the linen of his shirt.

  She took a deep breath, pulling back from his mouth a fraction of an inch. “Let me go,” she whispered between his lips.

  “Of course. It seems I must speak to the woman. The woman who torments me in my dreams. Whose scent drives me to distraction. That sweet spice that makes me think of such pleasure.”

  His hand coaxed her head to lie on his shoulder, where he gently plundered her mouth, his other broad palm scooping under her bottom to cup and lift her, grinding her subtly against him so a shudder of pure sensation shot through her, making her gasp.

  “Ah, no. We . . . must not.” Her hand reached around his torso to pull him closer, straining against him. She longed to burrow under his clothes and rub herself against him. Her other hand discovered the buttoned placket of his shirt, above his waistcoat and under his cravat. She slid her fingertips through the small gap so they rested on the crisp hair of his chest, heated skin and heartbeat beneath.

  Ah, to stand like this forever in the circle of strong, gentle male arms. To always feel so cherished. His hand enfolded her wrist.

  “Do tell me, little bird. What do you want?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she said hazily.

  “Perhaps then you would like . . . this.” He lifted her face to his and kissed her, a hot, dark kiss, sucking languorously on her mouth and welcoming her tongue to stroke him. She sank deep into that kiss, lost and drowning in the heady sensation of it. She gasped and moaned.

  The door opened suddenly and in bustled a serving maid. The young woman stood still in astonishment for a moment as she took in the scene she had interrupted, then hurried to set down her laden tray and escape from the room.

  Melissa froze, hot shame making her flush from head to foot. She struggled convulsively to be free, but his arms were implacably firm. He waited through the clatter and bustle of the serving girl’s hasty work. The door closed behind her with a bang.

  “No, not this! Let me go! I can’t . . . I just can’t!” She glared at him, angry and beseeching. She was breathing heavily as if she had just run a mile, almost sobbing. He met her eyes boldly with the heat of his passion still riding high behind his widened pupils.

  “You are wrong. You can. But perhaps this is not the best time. And I,” he smiled grimly, “I am very wrong to torment you. I shall try to be patient; though it will not be easy. No, not at all easy. . .”

  Slowly he relaxed his arms, setting her free. She whisked to the other side of the table, bracing her palms against it and watching him warily. He watched her too, intent, so she felt she was under the gaze of some predator.

  Yet he did not approach her again, instead taking his seat at the table and serving a selection of the food onto his platter with barely a glance downwards, then beginning to eat. Eventually she sat too and helped herself to a couple of slices of fresh bread, butter, a sharp-tasting cheese and some pickle, her gaze flicking briefly to the platters before her, then back to him.

  She dared not look away, to be unready if he should approach her again. She would run. Most certainly she would run, if he came to her. Good manners could go hang.

  They ate in silence, she meeting his stare across the narrow table as the tension grew and grew to be almost unbearable.

  She longed to knock her platter to shatter on the floor, or fling food across the room, or at him, only to break the loaded silence. How could she possible uphold her role as polite young miss if he would not play the other part? He was challenging her and she did not know how to answer that challenge, other than to meet it head on.

  Under every other confused emotion ran still that current of arousal that threw her further off her stride by casting up a series of shocking images before her mind’s eye: returning to his side to press against him; pulling his cravat off and unbuttoning his shirt to access that broad male chest she had touched so briefly; unbuttoning him further down to free that hot, hard shaft she had felt rise against her stomach.

  A wave of heat suffused her, and she was certain she blushed with it. Her mouthful of food, sharp and savoury as it must be, might yet have been tasteless for all she registered as she forced herself to chew and swallow. She licked her lips and watched his eyes follow the movement. Her clothes were so hot, so tight. Constricting. Her skin prickled.

  “You are playing with fire,” he said softly, almost whispering.

  At that she finally looked away, keeping her head down, her attention on her plate, working to clear it. As she posted the last forkful into her mouth, she rose, dipped a swift curtsey to him and skittered for the door, rushing down the hall and out into the courtyard as if pursued.

  The curricle was pulled up to one side of the yard, fresh horses in the traces with a groom at their heads.

  Obviously he travelled fast. He must be very wealthy, to afford such extravagance.

  She climbed in, feeling the light carriage dip and sway with her weight. The rain clouds had moved on and a watery sunlight made the puddles between the cobblestones glisten. She pulled her shawl up around her Spencer, shivering a little in the cooler air outside. The hood had been folded away again.

  She was at once itching to be gone and dreading Mr Carstairs appearance. This situation became more intolerable with every hour. If only they had never stopped. For a rare few minutes they had achieved a neutral converse. Now what would he say?

  As he came out into the courtyard, fastening the buttons of his caped greatcoat, she steeled herself to meet his gaze, nod politely and then look away with every appearance of casual disinterest. He climbed into the curricle, took up the reins, commanded the groom to step back from the horses and they were off.

  Not a word did he say to her and after a few minutes of silence she felt a peculiar mingling of relief and despair creep over her, as the tense excitement waned and she began to think once again of her own appalling behaviour.

  What sort of ungovernable creature was she becoming?

  Though truth be told, it seemed to be all in the presence of this one man. So perhaps it was not only her. Perhaps it was some peculiar alchemy between the two of them. Even worse, fate seemed determined to push them together in a run of bad luck that would be comical, if not farcical, were it happening in a novel or a play.

  It was far from comical when it was her livelihood and thus also Peter’s at stake. She had no future if he ruined her position, lowly as it was.

  Would it do any good to beg him to leave her to her own devices now and forever once they reached London? Perhaps so, for with him there and she (and Peter, pray God!) returned to Bourton there was no need for them to meet again. Oh, he might visit his friend again in the future but if he would refrain from seeking her out she might be once again at peace.

  She rubbed the thick worsted of her gown between her fingertips as she considered asking him outright to leave her alone, trying to think how she could phrase it while she still needed his help to get to London. She could not find the words, and be certain not to cause offense; or at least, not to cause further offense.

  With a sigh she decided this was not the moment. She must wait, and cast him off once they had reached their destination. Again she wondered if he expected some profit from this enterprise. But then he had not mentioned it at the inn; had instead stated his desire to be forbearing, though his actions spoke otherwise. Was he strugglin
g against a better nature too?

  She felt like laughing; or crying. Two virtuously wicked people caught in the same snare, she mused.

  Then she caught herself. It would not do to think of him as too human. Too like herself. Far safer to view him always as a member of that dangerous gender: man.

  At the next waypoint for the stage, Mr Carstairs dismounted to make enquiries in the taproom. She trailed him inside. There they discovered a pretty blonde lad had indeed been on the Stage. Last night, that was. He had been marked most particularly, as he had bought what he said was his first pint of ale.

  “He did well, the lad,” said the barkeep indulgently. “Got it down in one, an’ the other men as was on the stage clapped him on the back an’ offered to buy him another. But no no! said he, with his face all a wrinkle from the sourness of it.” The man slapped his considerable paunch in high good humour, chortling. “An’ off they went. ‘Bout midnight it were, I reckon. A little late on the road but then that’s always so when it’s Mr Farnham’s night on. Don’ like to travel at speed, that one.”

  Melissa bit her lip at the news Peter’s journey had been well underway in the depths of the night. “There is no way we shall reach him before he is in London,” she murmured to Mr Carstairs as he pressed a coin into the hand of the gratified barkeep. She watched the transaction with a sigh, adding it to the mental tally of what she must pay Mr Carstairs or otherwise stand in his debt – awful thought.

  “I suspect you’re right. We must make the best time we can, and trust to Providence he will be easy to find in London. Do you have an idea of the direction he will take once he’s there?”

  She swept her skirt up in one hand and sidestepped a large steaming pile of manure in her path. “Some idea,” she said guardedly.

  He waited, but when she did not elaborate, said: “I do hope you will consider me at your disposal, Miss Merry.”

  “Sir, no. You have already been much, much too kind. I could not possibly inconvenience you further.”

  “Come now. There is no chance I will leave you to flounder about alone with no resources. Or is there some relative or friend to whom I may take you?”

  She stopped at the side of the curricle and looked off into the middle distance. “No. There is no one.”

  “Then you must let me help you.”

  “No, I must not,” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze. “You are really . . . you are too kind, but it is impossible I should ask for more help.”

  “I do not see –”

  “I don’t want your help!” She emphasised each word fiercely, exasperated by his persistence, his inability to understand he was the last person she could bear to be so indebted to, and ashamed she should need him so.

  She caught up her skirts to climb in, heedless of how she exposed her ankles to him, and scrambled upwards awkwardly, refusing the hand he offered in silence.

  He came around to his own side and climbed in, flicking the reins and clucking at the horses to bid them to a walk. A surreptitious glance sideways told her his lips were pressed together and his brow lowered. Finally he asked: “So what will you do, then?”

  “I will decide that when I get there.”

  “Do you have a place to stay if you cannot find Trevor immediately?”

  “I shall find something suitable.”

  “No friends, no relatives, no money, and yet you will find something suitable? I think not. I would offer you a room in my house but you would be the only woman there. With no proper chaperone . . .”

  She read his hesitation as uncertainty over her preferences. No gentleman would invite a young woman to stay in his bachelor residence, as it would irreparably harm her name. Yet he sought to ascertain if she held the same standards to her own name. Not that it was relevant. Staying with him held the same repugnance as receiving any sort of further aid from him.

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend me a sum of money with which I might pay for a room at a good inn? Once Trevor is found I shall be able to repay you in full.”

  As they left the last of the small houses behind he urged the horses to a canter. “If that is what you prefer,” he said.

  She took a deep breath and gave him a small, wintry smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, do not thank me,” he said impatiently. “It is little enough, to be sure. I do not understand why you balk at my help. It is clear you are in desperate case. I cannot feel right to leave you to manage alone.”

  “And yet you must. For I swear I need no help.”

  He threw back his head, shaking it in disagreement. “You are alarmingly stubborn.”

  “Yes. You had best give over trying to convince me. My mind is quite made up.”

  “But what have you to lose by giving way?”

  “What have I not to lose?”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  She raised her chin. “Dignity. Pride. Self respect. These are not mere bagatelles.”

  “I have no earthly notion what you mean,” he said, and she thought she heard scorn in his tone.

  She matched the tone, anger leaping inside her. “You speak of ‘feeling right’,” she said, goaded beyond endurance by his stubborn refusal to take ‘no’ for an answer. “How can you possibly imagine I would ‘feel right’ to be so beholden to a man who has played such an unpleasantly significant role in my life? All I wish – all I wish – is to be allowed to forget you ever existed.”

  She threw her hands into the air, as if entreating a recalcitrant God to have mercy. “I must think of it as the greatest misfortune that you have come upon me so many times when I am in the exigencies of distress.”

  “Ah, now we come to it. Plain speaking indeed, ma’am,” he said, turning towards her, and his eyes flashed. “I have ever stood ready only to assist you in what I perceive to be – according to your own hints – a difficult time. At every turn I have intended only the best for you. I do not see why this prejudice –”

  “Only the best!” she cried in outrage. “Only the best! How can you possibly describe what occurred between us that night to be the best? How can you conceive offering me carte blanche to be ‘the best’? You have a high opinion of yourself indeed if you think such degradation can be uplifted only by its connection to your person.”

  “Degradation is it?” he said, his temper visibly rising. “Let me tell you, since your ignorance leads you to mistake the matter, there was nothing of degradation between us. We shared a most agreeable . . . trade.”

  “There it is. A trade. A trade. That such a thing should become commerce, that my body should be trade – ”

  “You were willing, madam. I saw no sign from you at any time you were not willing. You even hurried me along, so perfectly in accord were we.”

  “Perfect accord? Hah!” she spat, eyes narrowed venomously. “That was not accord. That was haste to be done and gone.”

  His eyebrows went up, his eyes widening in surprise. “I treated you with every kindness –”

  “Nothing could make that night kind. Can you imagine, can you possibly imagine how it feels to be forced to sell that which I was taught to hold sacred and inviolate? Can you think any sum of money would be enough to buy that and peace in my heart? No! A thousand times no!”

  “Then what would you have of me? What should I have done, then, to satisfy your sense of right?”

  “I don’t . . . there was . . .” she stammered, floored by the question. “You should have left me alone!”

  “But you did not ask me to. You sold yourself to me. You came with me to my home, my bed and then told me to hurry myself. By what sign was I to know I must leave you be?”

  “You . . . should . . .” she grasped at straws. “It is not right to deflower a virgin.”

  “Someone has to. We are all deflowered one time or another. Even I.”

  “That is different. A woman trades that for the security of marriage, to have children.”

  “Good God. If marriage and children is your aim,
what in Heaven’s name were you doing on that block, auctioning yourself off? There is no true path from one to the other.”

  “It was not my aim, to be sure,” she said, on the back foot now. “But I had supposed a time might come when . . . But it is no matter now. I only wish . . .”

  “What?”

  “I wish I need never have been there,” and now, without volition, her voice held a pleading note. In immediate response his posture softened, and he lowered his head and leaned towards her, saying gently:

  “A better man than me might agree with you, but I’m afraid I am not that man. My virtue does not extend to wishing that night undone. Though I am sad to know you regret it.” His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb resting on the softness of her lower lip. “I did try to do right by you. And I cherish the memory of it.”

  “And I wish you had no memory of it,” she sighed dismally, reduced almost to tears by his unexpected sympathy.

  “Was it really so awful?”

  “No, not awful. Just . . . Not awful.”

  He laughed a soft, rueful laugh. “Not awful. Damned with faint praise indeed. You must surely give me leave to strive for a better record than that, little flower.” He spoke lightly, but she reacted as if shot, starting back and throwing up a hand as if to ward him off.

  “There, that is it. That you think the door has been opened, and now you may pass freely through it.”

  This time he did not react to her indignation, staying calm and answering offhandedly: “In all honesty, ‘freely’ was never my thought. It has been my experience that a chere amie is a most expensive creature.”

  “That is not . . . ah,” she flung her hands outwards in exasperation, “can’t you see that is not at all what I mean. Have I not just said that this should not be a transaction? It is not right.”

  “What you have said is the sort of transaction you prefer is one where you receive marriage, not money. That is also a transaction, is it not?”