The Virgin's Auction (12 page)

That night, after a long day of careful, painstaking sewing while Peter left the inn and wandered God only knew where through the village and bleak winter fields, coming back in the twilight as withdrawn as ever, Melissa set aside the completed sleeve with a sigh. It was as near perfect as she could make it, with fine, even stitches throughout and an embroidered buttonhole at the wrist that had been her own idea.

She fingered it the flowers on the buttonhole one last time, bit her lip as she wondered if Miss
Parsit would be impressed or indignant about her taking the initiative, then resolved she would not second guess herself.

Not only did the detail showcase a little more of her ability, another would find it difficult to match her work exactly on the other sleeve. She had virtually guaranteed herself the other sleeve to sew. 

It was time to go down to dinner, but she did not want to go. After so many hours sitting here alone, thinking over all that had happened these past weeks, the decisions she had made, the way she had won free despite the odds, how she had ruined herself, she was not fit for company.

She felt vastly diminished inside, alone and lonely, overwhelmingly sad and regretful. Allowed to finally relax into the meditative task of sewing and unlock the tumult to which she had refused to succumb over these awful days when she must
needs concentrate, pull herself together and be strong, she now felt barely able to function. How could she sit in the public room and try to make pleasant conversation with Peter? How could she choke down food when she felt filled to the brim with every dark feeling?

She startled herself by suddenly bursting into tears. She thought she had done quite enough of that yesterday but it seemed that was only the beginning. Now they were here and safe from Black Jack, she could finally relax. Days of tension demanded an outlet. Initially a stream of tears, her crying became a violent sobbing. She muffled herself in her pillow, desperate not to rouse Peter from his room next door.

Hysterical, it all flowed from her. Father’s death; the mounting worry over the bills; the terrible interview with Black Jack; the decision to sell herself to raise money for their escape; the night itself, where she had stood on the auction block and heard men bid for her body; the taking of her virginity by a stranger; the loss of her plans for a family in the future; the flight from London and all she had ever known, through the night; the chill distance between her and Peter.

All came out, washing into an increasingly soggy pillow clenched tight against her face.

But such grief – however bleak and black – cannot last forever. Eventually the intensity of it passed and she was able to master herself, raise her face from the pillow and hunt for a handkerchief to blow her nose violently. Emotionally, everything seemed dulled and far away. She finished undressing, and climbed into the bed to sleep heavily and dreamlessly.

Chapter Ten

It was too little time.

James ran his hand through his hair
, uncaring it spoiled the carefully arranged Brutus over which his valet had laboured.

Should he cancel his proposed journey to the Cotswolds
? Stephie would be pleased. She had thrown a minor tantrum over the absence from town, and only by threatening to suspend her allowance had he brought her to calm.

He could see the dark shadows under her eyes, the way she was becoming thin under the pressures of th
e Season. For all she enjoyed it – the bright flame of her spirit aglow – still she had too little moderation. She pushed herself to the limit to accept every invitation, every opportunity for pleasure. He did not want her to become ill.

No, the break was important, quite apart from the foolishness of altering his plans over one elusive woman.

But what a woman. He lounged back on the leather of the winged chair, staring broodingly at the fire in his study. Even now – days later – he could see her clearly in his mind’s eye; as she had stood on that small stage, brave and frightened and defiant; as she sat in his bedroom, poised, self-assured, bidding him to stop delaying and take his pleasure; as she lay in his bed, sighing and moving as a woman did when she found delight in her body, sweetly languid, soft and welcoming.

Even just thinking about it made him achingly hard, and he muttered a curse under his breath. He would have found it amusing to have such an intense response under any other circumstances
. Amusing and satisfying, a hedonist’s dream to discover a woman who stirred him to such extremes.

Yet in his case it was the cause of
only frustration; for he could not find her and it was driving him insane.

For a week now he had images of her crowding his head
at all hours, his dreams bringing him awake spilling like a stripling boy into the sheets.

When he had first drifted from sleep in the early hours of morning
, the day after buying her, he had reached out his hand, already smiling in warm anticipation of enjoying the next hours of shared decadence. But beyond his body the sheets were cold and empty, the woman gone.

Melissa, stolen away in the night.

His body had still worn her scent, honey and musk, a heady sweetness, and he lifted his hand to his nose to savour it more fully. It evoked the memory of her, creating a visceral response that made him grin in anticipation of savouring her again.

For at that moment
– although disappointed to find the room empty and Melissa gone, he thought the loss only momentary. He assumed she would come to him once more, would seek him out and apply for his protection. Why not? He had been gentle and generous. He was well known for open-handedness with his
cherie amies.
He liked to open his pockets to the dear women, to please them in bed and out.

At first he had been certain she would reappear.

Then he thought she delayed to increase his ardour.

Only after three days did
start to look for her. His discreet enquiries turned up no clue.

She had gone, and only then did his mood sour and blacken, to think of what he had lost.

It confused him more than a little, to dwell so on a single encounter. It was not his habit to fall into infatuations. The wonders of women were manifold, and who could bear to restrict himself to only one?

Not he. Not with his body or his mind.

Still she absorbed him. Melissa. Melissa of the blue-grey eyes, dignified and composed; Melissa of the slender body, lush with girlish suppleness, high rounded breasts and pink nipples; Melissa tight and soft and deep to slide into, unbearably perfect.

Two days ago Mrs
Jennifer Hadlowe – hot-blooded Jenny with her sultry stare and strut – had given him that meaningful little nod and then dart of eyes to signal him that a certain small alcove, curtained and unobtrusive, appealed to her.

She liked to couple in public, separated from the ton by only yards of fabric, and he had several times obliged her, ready to take on the challenge of satisfying them both in the strictest silence, without disarranging her clothing enough to give away their secret.

But that night he had no taste for her abundant charms, raising two fingers to his lips to blow her a subtle kiss and shaking his head ‘no’, tiny movements only she would note.

Why?

For no earthly reason he could understand, only that the last woman to ride him was Melissa and he was not ready to replace her.

Foolishness.

For Melissa had gone, almost beyond doubt. He had racked his brains to think how he had failed to please her and had come up with nothing. He had been so careful, taking hours over the task, to softly woo her arousal. The passionate heat of her response showed the worth of his efforts.

The blood on the sheets had made him glad to remember that gentleness, to have resisted his drive to take her hard.

No, he had pleased her. Yet still she had flown and not returned.

He frowned at the snifter of brandy on the side table, cupping it in his hand to warm it then taking a mouthful.
The burn of it slid down his throat.

It was too little time left to find her before leaving town tomorrow for the countryside, and at
two in the morning he had abandoned his futile wandering from one high-class brothel to the next and come home, intending to sleep, only to end up here, sunk in a strange melancholy that confounded and exasperated him.

Yes, insane, undeniably so, beyond the bounds of reality or good sense. He needed to forget that single encounter and move on, accepting it was never to be repeated.

No woman should cause such an obsession, most certainly not after so short an interlude.

But oh, such a woman.

Such
a woman.

Melissa.

He heard a faint stir in the hallway, then the front door shut with a muffled sound as if someone was attempting to be quiet. He wondered idly what a servant might be up to at this hour and then registered that the quick patter of footsteps over the marble was the sound of dancing slippers.

“Stephanie Anne
Carstairs,” he declared ominously in ringing accents.

The footsteps halted, and then there was a pause before they came towards him much more slowly. At the last moment before they reached his study door he thought to pull one of the books on the nearby table onto his lap, open, to hide his embarrassing arousal, now diminished.

A head with the most delicious collection of dark ringlets poked around the door. She gazed in at him, a rueful little moue on her pretty face.”

“Oh come in,” he said in exasperation.
“Now what have you to say for yourself, pest, getting in at this hour when we have a considerable journey to make tomorrow?”

She stopped just inside the door and tilted her head to one side, thought for a moment and then ventured, “I love you?” batting her long lashes at him.

He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at her. Evidently deciding greater blandishments were required she padded quickly over the carpet and folded into a graceful puddle at his feet, putting one hand over the other and placing them on his knee, her chin on them, and looking up at him soulfully. “I love you
very
much.”

He sighed, and tapped her on the nose with a forefinger. “Never kneel to a man, pest. It sets a bad precedent.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, all innocence, but the twinkle in her eye made him think uncomfortably she was not as ignorant as he might prefer.

“I mean kneeling to men gives them the idea they are to rule over you, and since I have never known you to prefer a ruler-”

“Decidedly not!”

“Indeed, decidedly not, I recommend you not create the illusion of subservience. You may be misunderstood.”

“Yes, James,” she said meekly, casting down her eyes.

“So get up, pest.”

“No James,” she said, still meekly, and he took hold of one of her curls and tugged on it.

“
Ow.”

“Tell me what our aunt is thinking to keep you out so late. Surely she does not imagine it is wise to stay at a ball until
four in the morning when we are departing tomorrow at nine.’

“I may have let her forget we are leaving tomorrow, though we are certainly not going at nine.” She said it firmly, her heart-shaped little face turned up to him again, and he frowned at her.

“Yes, we are. I have called for the horses at nine precisely.”

“Then I shall take them to Mary Fullerton’s
al fresco
morning tea, for that is when I said she could expect me. I shan’t be ready to go with you until after noon at the very earliest.”

“Stephanie-”

“You can’t expect me to cry off now. I saw her not three hours ago and assured her most particularly I should be there.”

“You are incorrigible,” he exclaimed, exasperated.

She met him glare for glare for a moment, then the expression melted away and she laid her cheek back on his knee.

“Are you
very
angry with me?” she asked wistfully.

“I . . . you . . .” he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, lost in the flickering shadows above his head, and breathed out slowly through his nose. “
No
,” he finally told her, begrudging the word.

She grinned at him, dimples appearing. “I thought you would not be,” she confided.

“We will go to this morning tea together – I assume I am invited?”

“Of course you are! You need not even ask. Mary will be in transports of delight to have you appear.
Such a coup.”

“Delightful,” said James, depressed by the prospect. “We shall go together, with your baggage loaded in the carriage, and continue straight on before noon,” he finished sternly.

“But what of my morning gown? You cannot expect me to wear it on the road. It will get filthy with dust.”

“Then wear your travelling gown to the
morning tea.”

“Why, I cannot do that, James darling-”

Stephanie,” he warned her, eyebrows rising ominously.

Her shoulders rose and fell in a little huff. “Yes, James,” she said, her jaw thrust forward so she almost pouted.

“Otherwise I know how it will be. You will want to change gowns and it will take you hours to choose, and then more hours to pack your bag-”

“Bags.”

“Bags, and then it will be close on evening and we still in London. I promised George we would be with him by Tuesday-”

“Oh he will not mind, and if we are staying in town tomorrow night
there is a splendid masque-”

“Stephanie.”

“Well I do not see why we need to go at all, or why you cannot go by yourself. I should like of all things to stay.”

“You will not be staying. You will have at least a week in the peace of the Cotswolds, maybe two,
and if you continue to argue with me it will most definitely be three! I don’t wish to hear another word about it. You are to be ready to depart at nine tomorrow morning, and we will not leave until your baggage is fully loaded, nor will we turn around for anything. If you are late you will only cut into your own time at your friend’s morning tea. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.
And I am not deaf, you know. You need not raise your voice at me.”

“No. I
apologise, my dear.”

“I only feel sorry for Cranston, you know. Up so late tonight and then needing to wake again so early as to pack my bags-”

“Do you mean to tell me you have bid your lady’s maid to stay up all these hours merely to wait for you?” he exclaimed, truly wroth now. “That is the outside of enough. That poor woman needs her sleep. Show some consideration. If you cannot treat your staff properly then I will take them away!”

“Oh, no, no, she is probably asleep. I did not specifically ask her to stay up,” said Stephanie hurriedly. “I only meant she has probably chosen to stay up out of a sense of duty. She is very good like that.”

“I hope not, or I shall need to have a word with her. You cannot be allowed to run the servants ragged over your whims.”

“I did think that since it is her job-”

“Darling, no. If you will keep such hours as these you must see to yourself when you arrive home, or tip her heavily.”

“Some of my friends go home hours later than I and they don’t-”

“We are not they, my dear. We are not so unkind.”

“Oh. I had not thought of it as unkind.”

“I know you had not. You are a good girl, with a good heart.”