The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  Not that he had examined the logic of the matter too closely. He was too consumed with convincing her to furnish his bed again. For never had he felt such a mountainous lust as for her fair body, nor lost himself so completely in his enjoyment of a woman.

  Nor yet been so devastated at finding one gone from him the morning after, with no note or direction where to find her.

  He had paced his empty bedroom in the chill light of dawn, in a turmoil, looking again and again at the tousled sheets, the small, bright stain of blood. His room had never felt so empty, so forlorn as it did in that moment when there should have been a warm, willing woman in it. Not just any woman. He had convinced himself she would re-emerge, that he only need wait.

  Then time had proven that assumption wrong also.

  He had thought finding her again the greatest stroke of good luck and pursued her single-mindedly until she confronted him with a new and horrid vision of his place in her life.

  Then fate gave him the opportunity to make her glad of his presence – helping her find her missing brother – and he seized on it, never weighing up why her good opinion was so crucial to him.

  Helping her felt good; the noble course of action. And as she came to lean on him he discovered a fierce satisfaction at the chance to protect her.

  It was the right course, too. For on that journey she saw sense and agreed to be his mistress. Oh, the relief at possessing her again! It was like food to the starving. Like water to a thirsty man.

  It was like coming home.

  They had saved her brother, then saved her. Though he had managed neither alone. She was clever and resourceful, finding a way to fetch him when trapped. Without her assistance the Runner and he might never have found her, with no exact pinpoint of Black Jack’s location other than a general knowledge of the area in which he operated.

  Surveying her on the journey back to his townhouse after his rescue of her he felt such pride of possession. She was a woman to cherish: intelligent, loving and brave; and beautiful with it. His body had sung with exultation to think he could have her in his bed again that night; surreptitiously of course, so as not to alert her brother or the servants.

  But now it had all changed. It wasn’t only the presence of his sister in the house, nor yet the ball. There would be hours after the ball in which to disport in private.

  Yet . . . it felt wrong. Looking at her now, it felt wrong to imagine bringing her to his room in shadowy secretiveness. Stripping her and possessing her, that bright and beautiful woman lowered and . . . dirtied by her association to him.

  Look at her there. No one would guess she was not chaste and pure. She looked like the pinnacle of lovely womanhood, pale and perfect, waiting for a husband.

  Only he knew differently.

  Her father and he had changed that reality for her.

  That was what he was refusing to acknowledge. He did not have all the information, but he thought he had enough. Her father had lived in the City, been at least well enough to do to need a man of affairs. He sought a moneylender who turned out to be a villain, presumably borrowed from Black Jack and then died some time afterwards.

  He might easily have been a gentleman, though he might also have been in trade. Peter would know. He should ask the boy.

  When Peter fled she told James she feared Peter was going to pay a man who had already been repaid. So she must have used some of the money from the auction or from some other source to repay her father’s debt, and had still enough left over for Peter to steal from her and attempt to use it.

  Why then had she been in the Cotswolds? Why not stay in the City? And why had she been so certain Black Jack meant Peter and her ill?

  Why take up the lowly trade of seamstress when she had some money? She could have lived for a time on that, waiting until her brother reached his majority, then depended on him for an income. Or become a governess, though that was truthfully a harder proposition when one had a brother to house and care for.

  So the possibility did exist that she had been a gentleman’s daughter all along. And he had debauched her. Between her father’s criminal neglect of his family’s security and his own hedonism she had been spoilt for marriage and a respectable future with some decent young man.

  Broodingly he watched her with those young men. She would have done it too; secured a husband and her place in society. She had a winning way about her, a gracious charm coupled with humour and intellect. Perhaps she could even have garnered wealth or a title through marriage and risen even higher.

  But now she would have nothing.

  He had ruined her. Secretly, so only a prospective husband would ever need know. But that was ruin enough.

  But he could redeem her, just as easily. All it would take was marriage. And when the thought flickered through his head if he gifted her with sufficient dowry some buck could be found to take her, regardless of her virginity or lack thereof, he quashed it instantly, shaken by the moment of sheer rage that had risen within him at the thought of another with the right to touch her, worship her body, get children on her –

  He heard a snap, and looked down to discover he had broken the stem of his empty wine glass right through with the force of his grip.

  He set the pieces down on a nearby table and looked at them lying there.

  What if he was wrong? What if she was not of good family? What then? Could he make her his mistress with no guilt, enjoy her then eventually set her aside? Surely he could not marry her regardless. He owed more to his family, more to his good name than that.

  Though bedamned if that seemed to matter quite so much when he imagined keeping her always to the shadows of his life, never seeing her again at a ball such as this. Happy. Talking with animation to Percy Fuller, who was forty if he was a day, but had a bright, enquiring mind behind that saturnine face. She seemed to have discovered it, for she laughed out loud, as did he, then they shared a conspiratorial glance. Yes, she was happy.

  He wanted to see that look always on her face. Or the other one: that dreamy, peaceful gaze with a delicate smile hovering about her mouth, the way she looked standing alone after dancing with the Honourable Richard Long.

  He wanted to be the one to put the smiles on her face. He wanted to make her happy.

  He was a fool.

  And doubly a fool for the things he had said to her before they left his townhouse. He had meant well, had thought to spare her the strain of maintaining her charade in front of such a critical audience; though in all honesty his greater concern had been for his own reputation.

  But he had hurt her. She hid it well, but he saw the quiver of her lip and the way her eyes had glistened, before she gave him that glare he was coming to recognise: resolve, all resources brought to bear to defeat a foe.

  That she must summon bravery to face him – that he must be counted amongst her enemies – no, he did not relish that thought at all. When he remembered the wave of tenderness that had washed through him as she wept in his arms today, he thought he could spend a lifetime protecting her from all harm and think his years well spent. Though he suspected she would protect him right back, with whatever savagery was required.

  He grinned again at the chamber pot conjured by his mind’s eye. Not to mention the knife. She drew her enemy’s blood without hesitation, all the while commanding James to spare the man’s wretched life. So that he need not bear the death on his conscience, no less.

  “She’s a fine piece. Looks just like that gel you bought at Dukey’s.”

  Slowly, coolly he turned his head to survey the man at his shoulder, leering cheerfully in Melissa’s direction; Nash, who had almost bought her at auction before James stepped forward.

  There was a moment’s silence as his mind raced, though he kept his face calm and still.

  “Yes, remarkable resemblance, isn’t it? I thought the same when I saw that tavern girl. This is Miss Spencer, a long time friend of my sister’s. I bought the one as I couldn’t ravish the other; much as I wanted
to.”

  “I thought the tavern girl was gentry.”

  James snorted in apparent amusement. “Gentry? Hardly. Pretty enough, but common as muck underneath her dress.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting under that dress. Be a mite cheaper by now, though I do like a nice virgin.”

  “She’ll be in some brothel or other, I’ll warrant.”

  “Best mind your manners around that tender filly,” he indicated Melissa with a tilt of the head, “or you’ll find yourself leg-shackled.”

  “Well she’s of age now. And it’s time I set up my own nursery. I could do much worse. Save me squandering a fortune on blondes at damned auctions, eh?”

  “Eh? Oh yes, yes, quite. So I’m to wish you happy, then?”

  “If the lady will have me. And I do mean that she will.” And thus he committed himself, throwing all caution to the wind. Forget what he owed his name or his ancestors. He was hedonist enough to take what he wanted and let the rest go hang.

  “A man like you can buy what he wants,” said Nash with a hint of sourness, “and we must take your leavings.”

  “It’s the way of the world, old chap. No use repining.” He gave him an insincere smile and walked away, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow at the thought of the damage Nash or any of the others who had been there that night could do to his half-formed plans.

  Was he about to smirch the honour of his name by taking a known fallen woman as his bride?

  But as he looked at her, at the slender perfection of her, elegant and poised, all other considerations fell away. And as she turned towards him with that social smile painted on her face and hidden anger simmering in her eyes, he knew he would have her, whatever the cost. Have that mysterious, complex woman, plumb her depths, bathe in the fire of her and find a harbour in her soft arms.

  She would be his.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Melissa woke with a start, already anticipating some fresh disaster. But the room was empty and still, the faint bustle of London muted outside the curtained windows. The clock on the mantel was too difficult to make out in the dim light but when she got out of bed and approached it she saw it was almost eleven.

  So this was what it was to be a member of the bon ton, up until three in the morning then sleeping late, only to rise and start the round of social engagements again. Not that any of the engagements going on today would include her. But she might anticipate receiving cards from callers this afternoon, and some of the invitations that arrived in the next several days would have her name engraved upon them.

  She was a success in London society.

  What was she to do now? Did the contract she had verbally agreed with James still stand? Was she to be his mistress? Now that their siblings were in the same house, now his sister had been introduced to her and she had been introduced to society as her friend, it became awkward.

  Let him be seen to set her up in some private house where he discreetly came to visit and people would talk, either about him bringing his mistress to a ton party, or that he had given a slip on the shoulder to his sister’s friend.

  Either way he would come off looking very unpleasant.

  In addition she had used her true name to all and sundry, thus making it more difficult for Peter to avoid the connection to his fallen sister. She had perhaps destroyed her own future with her impulsive, angry reaction. She should have taken James’ suggestion – no matter how offensive – and stayed home. For now the ball was finished and she had nothing at all. Her money was all gone – they had not recovered it from Black Jack – she could not easily be James’ mistress, and the path of a debutante, so well started last night, was not one she could hope to follow with no resources, no sponsor or backing.

  She had burned her boats.

  He had not come to her last night. She fell asleep waiting, half hoping for and half dreading his visit. Would she welcome him? Would she send him away? She hardly knew.

  But if he came, he did not wake her.

  Now what?

  She wanted to cry.

  There was nothing for her in the Cotswolds. She had no doubt Miss Parsit and the widow would close their doors in her face if she dared return to ask for her place again. Two nights she had been gone, and only one of those with her brother. Though they could lie, she supposed, and say she had caught him immediately and then travelled slowly back on foot to Bourton.

  So perhaps it was not impossible. She had the life of a spinster seamstress to look forward to, at least.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  A soft knock fell on the door.

  “Enter,” she called out, and a wisp of a serving maid came in on silent feet.

  “Miss, the master asked if you might attend him in the library at your earliest convenience,” she lisped, and Melissa nodded and thanked her. “Would you like some hot chocolate, Miss? And a sweet pastry?” Receiving an absentminded affirmative, the girl curtseyed and left.

  Melissa began to dress, her fingers fumbling on the ties of her plain and sturdy round gown.

  There was a numb sort of dread in the pit of her stomach. She did not know what she would say to him, or he to her. She rather thought it would be uncomfortable, whatever it was. She must not cry. Even if it hurt dreadfully, she must be calm. Serene.

  Her pride was all she had. And little enough of that left.

  She knocked firmly on the door to his study then let herself in without waiting for an answer.

  He looked up from his desk and smiled at her.

  “One moment,” he said, finishing the sentence he was writing then set the quill back in the inkwell. “Won’t you take a seat?” He came around the desk as he spoke, gesturing to one of the leather winged chairs that bracketed the fireplace, moving to the other and waiting until she sat before seating himself.

  She searched his face but could not read the expression there. He looked calm but perhaps there was some emotion he was repressing: his eyes gleamed strangely. She waited.

  He clasped his hands between his knees, then unclasped them and stood again, and paced several steps up and down. She watched him with growing bewilderment. Finally he said, still in motion:

  “I think it best we should marry.”

  She stared at him, all motion, all thought suspended. The silence drew out. Finally she managed: “I . . . er . . . pardon?”

  “We should marry. It will give you the sort of life you ought to have had. With balls and other social events, the intellectual stimulation you wanted and also the opportunity for a family. I will happily sponsor Peter’s education. He will be able to choose his profession. He tells me he would like to be a Professor, though he has yet to settle on a single field of knowledge.”

  There was another long pause as she scrambled to put her thoughts together in some coherent order, eventually lighting on his minor point. “You have spoken to Peter of . . . of this?”

  He turned to her, his hands behind his back, still that queer thrumming tension in him she could not interpret. “Not as such. I have only enquired as to his ambitions in the most general of terms.”

  “This is quite unexpected.” That was an understatement. “I had not thought you would . . . after all that has passed between us I thought . . .” she lifted one hand in an abortive gesture. “Why? Why mention marriage?”

  “It is the only way to restore to you that which was lost. Now that I know you are truly a gentleman’s daughter –”

  “How do you know this?” she demanded, fixating on him with a sudden burst of clarity, a relief after the long moments of slack-jawed uncertainty.

  “I had it all from Peter. He is so straightforward. He spoke of your history in such terms that it was clear how I had misjudged you.”

  “Straightforward. You must have found that . . . refreshing.” Her words had an edge.

  “You must admit you have adopted some considerable subterfuge in your dealings with me,” he responded defensively. “Not that I blame you. You were clearly be
having as you thought you must.”

  “You are too magnanimous.” Her sarcasm bit more deeply. She was overwhelmed by the suddenness of his offer, by the mass of doubts that screamed at her it could not possibly be a good idea. Not when it tempted her so, to surrender everything to that perfect picture he painted.

  She took refuge in hostility, desperately needing a moment to think it all through.

  Marriage was a trap. She had always known that. One should never enter into it unless one was in a position of power, and the whole institution took every power from the wife and gave it to the husband. The only possible balance was if he loved her desperately.

  “I don’t want you to fear telling me the truth in the future. I want you to disclose your thoughts freely.” He held his open palms out to her like half an embrace, a frown forming on his brow.

  “Ah.” She stood, took several steps away and said with her back still turned: “So in the future when we are wed, I am to share my every thought. At which point you will what? Tell me what to do and how to do it?”

  “No, of course not. I would not presume to direct you.” He paused, corrected himself meticulously: “At least, there may be some small matters of which you are uncertain, where my assistance would be of benefit to you. At which times I would be entirely your servant.”

  She turned, her head lowered, looking at him intently from under her brows. “Tell me again why we are to be married. In your considered opinion.”

  She waited to hear of meek tenderness, of profound care for her. Of love and a desire for a shared life. As it did not come she felt a boiling rage rise up in her, a frustration that here was everything she wanted, yet it was all dust and ashes.

  He gave with one hand, he took away with the other. He tormented her. It was anguish. She wanted to say ‘yes’ and she could not. If life had taught her anything it was that she could not say ‘yes’ to this unless he loved her more than anything. Not when she loved him so much that she was helpless before him. She could have gnashed her teeth at him for setting this cruel choice before her.