The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  Yet she had already fallen down that ladder; had done so to earn a living with her brother by her side, far from the dangers of London. She was still the gentleman’s daughter but only in her own mind.

  Was that not simply self-deception?

  All she had left was the appearance of modest respectability. Why did she cling to that so hard? What did it give her? She was never going to take a husband, because of her dreadful secret, so it was not about retaining the prospect of marriage. Miss Parsit would probably not employ her if she were not respectable, but did that pitiable income matter if she was sponsored by Mr Carstairs?

  Mr Carstairs. James. That vital, laughing, charming man; so strong and capable, his commanding presence sweeping aside obstacles. What would it be like to let him wrap her up and care for her? To stop worrying and plotting and scrimping. What would it be like to have his patronage? To surrender the dull, arduous grind of her life for the exciting ride he offered her?

  How would it be to go to bed with him at night, to wake to him in the morning? To repeat those strange, wonderful hours of the auction night over and over again. Could the human body bear so much pleasure? Was it possible?

  She remembered how he had looked when he spoke of his sister, all tenderness and indulgence, teasing and cosseting. Would he treat his lover like that? She tried to imagine it and found the picture frighteningly compelling; compelling because she longed for it so intensely; frightening because of the loss of control. Could she really hand the reins over to another and let him direct her?

  Life with Father had taught her that control was the only way to deal with the anxiety of life ruled by a man. His unpredictability meant anxiety, chaos and pain. Nailing down every detail, holding the reins firmly, sitting in the middle of the web, whatever metaphor she chose to use, the truth remained the same: she felt safe when she had control, anxious and terrified without it.

  That was why she bounded herself about with rules. In the midst of chaos, rules gave a structure and a certain course to follow.

  Rules upon rules upon rules. Those of society, of God and filial duty, of care and protection of a helpless little brother, and the tactical rules involved in the avoidance of an unhinged drunkard’s fists.

  And now the newest set of rules: those of a working girl, humble, hard-working, grateful, without ostentation. Dress plainly in drab dresses that display nothing to advantage, so as not to attract unwanted attention. Do not make eye contact with your betters. Bow and scrape. Be polite, deferential, don’t offer your opinions, don’t speak up. In effect, so far as you are able, disappear entirely as a person.

  She was good at it, too. Good at learning the rules, at following them so closely she could fit in with people’s expectations and be liked as a pleasant, sweet young miss. But oh! Sometimes she longed to run wild, and screech and carry on like she was demented, sick of the boredom of it and the underlying, grinding fear of others’ disapproval. Of being ruined by a thoughtless misstep.

  With Mr Carstairs there were no rules. No comfortable, safe path to tread, narrow and controlled. But equally there were no rules to be constrictive, to choke the very soul from her.

  With him she felt terrified by boundlessness and trying to resolve that freedom with the rest of her existence. She could not know him and be safe, in control, living a predictable life.

  Beyond that lay the awful, alluring possibility she could know him and be free. Be truly herself – her intellectual, assertive, tempestuous, hedonistic and – now she found – vulgarly sexual self. The person she kept locked up inside so tightly she never escaped, because life had taught her there was no place for a girl to be like that.

  A mistress could be like that. A woman of pleasure: running her own household, her only duty to entertain a particular man with earthly delights, and intellectual pursuits if she so chose.

  She could enter for the first time the salons of London. Not fashionable London, to be sure. Not somewhere she might encounter the young ladies who were her friends. Nor be acknowledged by anyone of standing in the eyes of the world. But safe from Black Jack under an assumed name, far from his aegis, she could be a part of infinitely exciting society.

  She might launch Peter, if Mr Carstairs were true to his word; Eton and then Oxford or Cambridge under his own name, never entering London and his connection to her a secret, no relationship acknowledged between them.

  Of course she would have to put herself under the power of a man, where she had sworn she would never be again in that moment she knew she was free forever from Father.

  Though less under his power than she would have been under a husband, if she had married as she had once thought she would. For a married woman was truly her husband’s possession. At least a single woman could keep her own money and property.

  If she did become pregnant any child she bore would be a bastard. That was the stone cold truth of it. She would condemn them to wretchedness. But perhaps there was a way around that. She could take whatever money she had and go settle again in a small community, styling herself a widow and raising her child alone. Perhaps Peter would come and visit her incognito. If she was quiet, pleasant and respectable she might be accepted and thought well of. It might be a good life.

  And a child. A little baby. She remembered Peter as an infant. He had been the focus of her young life, a golden boy. She could have another baby as she had had her little brother, but a baby of her own this time, to raise, to nurse and cuddle, a child of her body to send forth in the world.

  And there would be bright, shining months or maybe even years in London in the society of intelligent men and women, feeding her mind, blossoming under the influence of education and ideas. Even if Mr Carstairs soon tired of her, with a house and a place of her own she could get by very frugally there if she did not become pregnant. That at least was one skill she had for certain.

  Most of all – and it made her head spin to think of it, think of him this way – there was the particular man himself. If she allowed herself to think of him not as the nemesis of her goals, but as the agent of them; not as the man who would tempt her from her path, but as the one who would smooth it, why then she could stop shutting her eyes and ears to him, look at him and truly see.

  So she did. She sat short inches from him, at a slight angle, and examined him under her lashes. A beautiful man, really, with a profile like a carved statue, noble and fine, dark hair waving back from it, tucking into his collar; smartly dressed in a caped greatcoat that made his shoulders – already broad – look impossibly wide. Leaning forward slightly, hands gloved, strong and steady on the reins. He thrummed with masculine power, controlled and brooding.

  He was a lure to her. She wanted to turn to him, touch him, learn him. See the smile break out across his features and warmth rise in his eyes as he looked at her. She wanted to know him, understand the mystery he posed.

  It had never occurred to her a man could hold such attraction the desire to be near him could be stronger than the fear. This, then, was why women did foolish things with men. Men like this one, charming and impossibly well formed, the epitome of feminine fantasy and desire.

  He made her want to do foolish things.

  Thought the most foolish was already done: her chastity gone, never to return. So why not? Why in hell not take the life she wanted, sin and sin again for the sake of a truer freedom and joy than she had ever known? Why the hell not? she repeated silently to herself, feeling the thrill of the taboo word resonate with her reckless decision.

  “Mr Carstairs?” she said.

  “Yes?” He turned to look at her with his eyebrows raised.

  She did not know how to be subtle or charming in this, how to describe her feelings or hint at the delicate furls of hope that lay within her. So instead she said with almost militant firmness:

  “I want a house. A townhouse in a good area of London, in my name. A small staff suitable for . . . ” she thought ‘catering to your needs’ but said: “. . . hospitality. Clo
th for good clothing. And most of all, schooling for Peter and your patronage if it is needed.”

  She watched his face carefully and saw a spark light and burn in his eyes, but his tone was calm and businesslike when he said: “That sounds quite reasonable. I shall make you an allowance also; and pay for the best modiste. As skilled as you are, I think you might prefer to spend your time in other pursuits. And we shall fill your library together, perhaps? A pleasing diversion.”

  He pulled in the horses, bringing the carriage to a halt, and looped the reins. Then he turned to her, taking her hands in his own and looking full in his face, that warm light she had imagined in his eyes, and a tender little smile about his mouth. “This is a good choice for you. I swear you will not regret it.”

  She said nothing, but found her gloved fingertips resting on his cheek, an impulse not restrained in time by her more sensible self. But it pleased him, she saw, as he put his hand on her back and drew her close in to him, resting his forehead on hers for a long moment as he smiled into her eyes at close quarters.

  Then he dipped his head a little to take her mouth in a gentle, languorous kiss and she discovered to her surprise yet another sort of decadence: to be calmly kissed by a fully clothed man in an open carriage in the spring sunshine for all the world to see. To let her eyes slowly drift closed as she gave herself over to the subtle pleasure, her hands sliding up until her arms were wrapped around his neck and he was taking her weight. Until he lifted her into his lap and tilted her back; until she felt submerged in the sweetness of it, her nostrils full of the scent of clean linen and warm man.

  She sighed and drifted, letting herself enjoy the moment. She had bought this dearly, and would pay for it in many tomorrows. So for now she would savour the goodness of kissing a beautiful man in the sun. Tomorrow could wait.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As afternoon faded into evening the traffic on the road became heavier, carts, gigs and carriages to and from the capital crowding the highway and requiring more attention given to driving. But Mr Carstairs made the task look simple, maintaining a witty flow of conversation as they went. She took her own part, feeling at times shy and self-conscious. More than once he took her hand to kiss or to hold in his lap, though always she drew it back when some other vehicle came into sight.

  She thought him a little peculiar, truly, to want to touch her so constantly. She was not used to such physical contact with another. It made her feel tingly and unsettled, super sensitive to him. His thigh lay closer to her, brushing her skirts sometimes. She did not draw away, but she took note, and blushed, and wondered if he did it deliberately to stir her, and why.

  It was a different world: the world of touch. Foreign to her. Not quite comfortable. But she would not let on. If he liked the feel of her then she would learn to like the feel of him too, beyond the initial startlement.

  Once she took his hand and brought it to her own lips, experimentally, and he laughed and kissed her ear then gave her a seductive glance that – even half-teasing – sent a bolt of fire through her to centre between her thighs and make her squirm on her seat.

  He talked about the planting they could see going on in the fields, and mentioned his own land where crops were also going in. She asked intelligent questions about his methods and was surprised when he knew only a little of the specifics of the topic.

  He had a factor for such matters, he said, and she thought if she had land of her own she would know everything about its care and make the very most of it. But then those who had always known plenty could perhaps afford to be casual about what they possessed, and its care.

  She had not, and she felt the lack keenly. She longed to accumulate security for herself and for Peter, beyond the funds he had taken that she still hoped to recover.

  She asked about hunting – thinking it a typical pastime for a young man of means – and found him far more knowledgeable there, able to discourse at length on the subject of his horses, his dogs, the type of ground he liked and the virtues of different parts of the countryside for different game. In another man she might have been quickly bored by the topic, but he told funny stories of his adventures, of spills and of things his companions had said or done, that made her laugh out loud.

  He was not boastful, and was quick to tell an amusing tale that made him the butt of the joke as much as anyone else.

  As night drew on he asked her if she wanted to stop and continue their journey the next day.

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed, and then amended: “At least, if you are asking my preferences then I would prefer to start tomorrow in the city, for I think there is no time to be lost.”

  “In that case I wish you will come and stay at my house, rather than some inn. With my sister away from home there is no need to be circumspect.”

  “But the servants . . .”

  “My staff can be trusted to be discreet; though we can certainly smuggle you upstairs without anyone knowing, if you prefer.”

  She remembered being smuggled in another night, and blushed in the dim twilight. “And leave early in the morning,” she said in tacit agreement.

  “I know you are good at that,” he said with a raised eyebrow, proving his thoughts had run in line with her own.

  “Discretion seemed the better part of valour,” she acknowledged, then changed the subject. When it was almost too dark to see, he lit the carriage lamps. They provided scant illumination on the road, close to the ground as they were, but with the moonlight and a slower pace it was enough for the horses.

  He raised the hood to reduce the wind and fetched blankets as well, from the same cubby where he had stored her portmanteau, wrapping one solicitously about her.

  Oh, but it was odd to be taken care of so. She murmured her thanks, drew the blanket up close under her chin and snuggled into the corner, exhaustion creeping over her after the day’s many upsets and the long hours in the carriage.

  When he put an arm around her and drew her in to his side, she started out of her doze. He shushed her and told her to go back to sleep. For long minutes, uncertain, she sat awkwardly stiff under his arm, but eventually she surrendered and let herself relax onto him, her head falling naturally into the curve of one shoulder.

  He managed the reins one-handed with no visible discomfort, and he was deliciously warm in the chill of the evening. She burrowed in against him, yawned once, twice, fought to keep her eyes open and failed.

  She roused briefly when they made the transfer from dirt road to cobbles, the horses’ hooves ringing out noisily on the stones. She blinked hazily out of the blanket that had been pulled up around her head like a hood, then sank back down through the layers of sleep.

  An unknown length of time later she woke again as he pulled up in a good-sized stable yard. When he got down and reached out his hand for hers she realised they must be at his home, as she looked up at the back of the house and tried to match it with her recollections of the front. She did not know the time but it must be very late, or extremely early in the morning, as the city was almost silent.

  He brought her to stand in the shadow of the doorway, her bag at her feet and the blanket still hooding her, before going to the stable and rousing a boy from the quarters above the stable. The lad came out yawning and rubbing his eyes but took the head of the horses willingly and began to unharness them. He was awake enough to catch the coin his master flicked to him and to grin and touch his cap.

  Mr Carstairs came to her and let her inside, keeping his body between her and the yard so the stable lad should not catch sight of her even in the dim of the inner hallway. Inside was a single candle burning on a hall stand.

  “Were they expecting you?” she asked.

  “These past three days, as I said. Though even if not there is always to be a light. I frequently change my plans, and prefer not to rouse the house falling over things in the dark. Now this way, and no talking, miss. Or some nosy someone will be sure to poke their head out. Shush.”

  Obediently sh
e trailed in his wake on silent feet, eerily recognising the hall though she had not realised she would remember it so clearly. He took her hand to lead her up the stairs and again she felt the echo of the earlier night.

  She could feel her heart crowding high in her throat as she realised he must expect her to share his bed again. Stupid, but it had not occurred to her. And what reason could she possibly give to shy off? None, of course.

  She began to tremble, but was not certain if it was from fear or excitement.

  They reached the top of the stairs. He did not release her hand, instead drawing her onward, opening his bedroom door and entering with her still in tow. When he released her to step towards the candlestick on the mantel, she spoke sharply: “Please, don’t light them. Leave it dark.”

  He turned towards her but she was outside the circle of candlelight now, and she was sure he could no longer see her. So she walked towards him. “I’d prefer not to be reminded of . . . to be reminded.”

  He examined her face but she kept it calm and serene, wishing to give no hint of the emotions churning inside her. Finally he held out a hand to her and she placed her own in his without hesitation. He smiled at this. “Show me what you do want, then,” he said.

  It took a great deal of her courage to pull him towards the bed, take his candlestick and put it on the bedside table, then turn back towards him and reach for his cravat. He watched her quietly but did nothing other than walk where she wanted. His chest rose and fell more swiftly under her fingertips as she began to unknot the crisp, white cloth, but he stayed still.

  She opened his greatcoat, then under that the horn buttons on his coat of navy superfine. Beneath that was his lawn shirt half-covered by his waistcoat.

  When she took a single step nearer him to make it easier to see the tiny buttons at his throat, he dropped his head and inhaled just above her hair, and she remembered what he had said about the scent of her and trembled even more, drawing in a laboured breath. She wanted to do this, and yet at the same time could not quite believe she really was.