The Virgin's Auction (18 page)

He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression halfway
between smouldering and amused; though she could not think what might amuse him; unless it was the oddness of their conversation, in the context.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said, releasing her from the heated moment, sexual interest once more cloaked behind civility.

She found herself breathing quickly, almost a panting of mingled fright and excitement. Her nipples were hard inside her bodice.

“I don’t have much in the way of family. Stephanie and I have but the one aunt and she’s hardly the maternal type. I had the devil’s own job convincing her that bringing
Steph out would add to her consequence. She is worried it will age her in the eyes of the bon ton to have an adult niece noised abroad.”

“You are indeed quite sunk in domestic matters,” murmured Melissa.

“Sunk. Yes. Not my milieu, as you say. Still I shall see her well puffed off. She’s a sweet thing and deserves the best of good husbands.”

“Someone of good breeding and comportment, I daresay.”

“I daresay,” he repeated.

Melissa looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. She couldn’t account for it, but his casual agreement hurt. Good breeding and comportment were the very last things she herself had demonstrated since they met. That was the standard by which prospective spouses should be judged, and obviously she fell far short of the ideal.

It’s not as if the thought of marriage to him ever crossed my mind, she thought with gritted teeth. Yet no one enjoyed the knowledge they were not good enough.

All those
years in Father’s house, thinking she had nothing, yet ignorant how much further there was to fall. There had been no freedom, no funds, no dowry, to be sure; but she had possessed intact reputation and acknowledged position in the world. Free to move in polite society, if not in the rarefied heights of it.

Even now there was further still to fall, frighteningly close now her financial reserves were all taken and she was threatening her livelihood by cavorting alone through the countryside with a dashing blade of the gentry.

She might never find her money or worse, Peter, then return to Bourton to find her position quite evaporated.

Not that she would care much if something dreadful
had
happened to Peter.

She fought the wave of desolation and despair threatening to engulf her, fought it down sternly.
Instead she focused on the road spinning away so swiftly under the hooves of the horses, pulling them closer and closer to Peter. They might yet catch him, and no harm done. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

With an effort she dragged her attention back to pick up the threads of their conversation.

“Will your sister be cross at your departure?”

“I imagine so. But she will live through it. I fancy she has been much indulged lately. It is making her head swell.”

“How very unpleasant.”

“Quite.”

“When do you think we shall arrive in London?” she asked, thinking of Peter again.

“I hope we will not need to go so far. Are we not just behind him?”

“Well I . . . I don’t know, exactly. I think he left sometime late last evening.”

“And how did he go?
On foot? On horseback?”

“I don’t know. Could he have gone by foot?”

“If he walked all night at a brisk pace, keeping to the road, he could make the village of Witney and take the stage from there; although if I were a young lad making a bold escape, I should hire a horse and ride hell for . . . er . . . as fast as I could. He could exchange horses at any exchanging post along the way.”

“I don’t believe he has even been astride a horse. So I hope he has not hired one,” said Melissa, with an awful picture of Peter lying cold and still in a ditch somewhere, rising in her mind’s eye.

“Can he drive a cart? Might he hire one of those? Or someone’s gig?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Does he know anyone who might drive him to the city, or some part of the way?”

“Oh, I had not thought of that. I don’t know.” She knew frustratingly little, in fact. All she knew was he would make for London.

“Well, we can stop to ask questions as we go, or we can make our best possible speed and simply hope to overtake him. There are alternate roads, so we can’t be certain he is on this one.”

She had not considered that possibility. “So we might miss him and never know it?”

“It is possible. But we shall hope for better fortune than that. This is the most direct route and the Stage travels this way.”

“Then I suppose it makes sense to go straight to London,” she said slowly, quailing at the thought of such a distance travelled alone with Mr
Carstairs. Not to mention a night alone in an inn with him. Or would they drive on through the night until they reached London? “I am putting you to a great deal of trouble.”

“Not so much. I had planned to be back in the city these past three days. I only stayed because I was finding the countryside so love
ly.” Here he flicked her a warm glance to say exactly what part of the countryside held such appeal.

She blushed and ducked her head, forgetting for a moment she was to act oblivious to his hints. “Mr Mayhew will miss you, I’m sure.”

“He will languish in my absence, and no doubt come flying at my heels,” he said with a snort. “No, George is well used to me. We do not stand on ceremony.”

“It is very agreeable, to have such friends.”

“Yes, so it is.” He consulted a pocket watch. “Now, it is almost noon. What say you to halting at an inn at Oxford for a nuncheon? We may as well make our stop in this weather.” He nodded towards the flurries of rain beyond the shelter of the hood. “It might have passed in another half hour.”

She reluctantly murmured an assent, itching to keep driving on through the bright daylight hours without pause. But a bite to eat would not delay them long. It would also seem very strange to Mr
Carstairs – and inconsiderate to him after his generous assistance – to set such a desperate pace that there was no time for a quick meal. He did not know how grave the situation was, in truth.

Chapter Sixteen

It was not long after his inquiry they entered the bounds of Oxford. He pulled into the coach yard of a large inn. It was well-tended with several hostlers seeing to the carriages, wagons and horses. A young blond lad came to hold the horses’ heads and Mr Carstairs climbed down and came around to hand Melissa out of the carriage.

She stepped briskly over the cobbles and into the inn, ready to order a meal. The maid standing in the passage swiftly sized up her plain but well cut clothes. “Can I help you, Miss?”

Suddenly it occurred to Melissa how rude it might look to Mr Carstairs to order a private room and a meal, as she had been about to do. She had no way of paying, so he must bear the cost. She hesitated.

At that moment he entered, stooping a little to clear the doorway and filling up the narrow passage with his broad shoulders and large frame.

“A private dining room and a small meal for two. And make haste. We are in a hurry.” He removed his hat and greatcoat as he spoke and the maid took them from him, hanging them on a hook and smoothing the several capes of the coat.

“The second door on your left if you please, sir.”
She bobbed a respectful curtsey.

The room had an interesting outlook onto the busy street, clattering with people of all ages going about their business.
Melissa moved to stand behind a chair by the window, clasping the top of it nervously. Mr Carstairs took another chair, lounging at ease and running an absent hand through the hair just released from his hat. She watched his fingers tunnelling through the thick strands and felt again that frisson of awareness, so unwelcome and persistent.

“Goodness, what a pace we have been travelling,” she babbled, trying again to be polite and proper. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your help. I was quite at a loss to know what to do next, with all my funds gone. Please be certain I shall pay you back in full once we come upon him.” She stopped, and bit her lip.

For a long moment he said nothing, merely gazed at her and tapped the fingers of his hand thoughtfully on the arm of the chair. Melissa felt her heart beat faster. When he spoke she jumped.

“I shall be most offended if you do. It is so satisfying to the soul to be a knight errant.
Protecting the damsel fair.” He said it lightly, but in the heavy pause that followed she imagined he was comparing her to a pure, chaste maiden and finding the metaphor fit poorly. A grim expression had come into his eyes.

“I said to myself I would not,” he said softly, so softly she was not sure he spoke to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I would not,” he repeated, louder. “I would not press you. Nor make myself more disgusting to you with repeated advances.” He paused, as if waiting for some response. But she had nothing to say. It was this she had feared, when leaving
Bourton alone with him.

“Yet you stand there, looking like . . . that . . . and I can’t . . . You puzzle me so, you know? I do not know what to make of you.
Lady or seamstress, seductress or gently-reared maid. Almost in the same breath I long to protect you from your troubles, and the next to ravish you senseless. I can’t quite,” and here he came lightly to his feet and stalked towards her as she backed hastily away, “make up my mind as to what to do with you.”

“Then do nothing,” she said hastily, groping instinctively for some sort of weapon with the hand behind her. There was only a window seat and some stuffed cushions. “There is nothing that needs doing. I need nothing. In fact I can probably find other transport. So really, truly nothing needs to be done.” He was at her side now, his hand rising towards her. He spoke as if she had never said a word: 

“That sweet little seamstress? She seems such an innocent. I want to protect her; to see the fear gone from her eyes. And I think she is afraid of me. So I should not torment her; should just leave her. Or treat her like a brother would; though I do not feel at all… brotherly.” He moved even closer as he said the words. She felt his sweet breath feather her lips; the heat of his body so near hers.

“But then you have not been a seamstress today. You have been a polite young woman of quality, driven through the countryside. You really are
very mysterious.”

She was terrified of what he might do next or – even worse – what she might do in response. That day in the fields had taught her to fear her own wanton nature. Even now, the awareness of him had sharpened into an excitement to have him so close, alone with her in this room.

She considered running, or lashing out physically, or calling him names again. She considered and did nothing, frozen with indecision, her breath coming fast, blood a heavy beat in her ears.

“There is such a huge gulf bet
ween these women you are. One who would sell her body and use it so very erotically and the other,” he trailed his fingertips lightly down her cheek, “who is covered in blushes like a schoolroom miss when she is barely even touched; a virtuous lady, no less.

“You see my predicament?” His fingertip moved on to her neck, where they drew delicate circles.

Thought evaporated.

“Tell me, what should I do, hmmm? Do you think that shy seamstress would like a shy kiss? Like this?” He dipped his head just far enough to slowly press a soft kiss on her mouth. Her lips parted on a sigh and her eyelids drifted closed.
“Perhaps she would like to be held, like this.” He folded her into his arms, slowly, cautiously.

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 wo
uld 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.