The Virgin's Auction (6 page)

“Certainly,” replied
Carstairs, his assessing glance taking in Mr Tell in turn, perhaps wondering what his connection was to her, exactly. “Number eleven Stanhope Street in Mayfair.”

Mr Tell nodded, and
Carstairs drew Melissa away. She came falteringly, as if she had forgotten for a moment how her legs worked. But he did not pause or wait. His step was firm.

There was a kind of false security in having his solid form next to her, the back of her hand pressed against his side. He was tall and broad, towering over her by almost a head, and when he transferred her hand to his other so he could wrap the nearer arm around her shoulders, the clasp shielded her from the brush of other men as they pushed past or pushed nearer to get a closer glimpse of her.

It was protection of sorts, and she felt an atavistic urge to huddle closer, cleaving to the most powerful male in the room to keep her safe from the others.

Which was foolish of course
. He now posed the greatest threat to her.

He guid
ed her through the crowded room and out into the street. There the chill air hit her like a slap in the face. She shivered, and drew unthinkingly closer to him, withdrawing again when she realised what she was doing.

He glanced down at her, but she drew the hood of her cloak forward to hide her face. She could not bear to be looked at in this moment. Not by anybody. What had she done? What was she doing?

“Summon a hack,” he said to one of the fellows standing by the door, slipping a silver coin into his hand.

“Yes, sir,” came the respectful answer, and the man hurried off.

“James!” called a loud voice from the tavern door. It was the other man from the tavern, Melissa remembered dimly. The one who’d stood beside Carstairs; his match in a black evening coat, the froth of a well-tied cravat at his throat. “What the devil are you up to?”

Carstairs
simply smiled at him, mysteriously; ominously, to Melissa’s frightened eyes.

A hired carriage swept around the corner and pulled up with a clatter of hooves on cobbles. The coachman leapt down on nimble legs to hold the door open.

“I’ll see you next week, George. I trust you can get home safely by yourself,” said Carstairs, handing Melissa up into the hack, saving her from her stumble with a swift, strong motion and climbing up after her, signalling to the coachman.

“Good God, man! Buying a virgin at auction! What do you plan to-” but the other man was left behind at the curb and they were away.

Chapter Four

The two of them sat in silence for long minutes, swaying with the movement of the carriage. Carstairs watched her with a warm smile curling the corners of his mouth. He was handsome, his features noble. In another context she might have found him disconcertingly attractive. But this was the man who had bought her virgin night.

All she felt was fear.

No, no that wasn’t quite true. Underneath that was another emotion she couldn’t quite identify. A tingling sort of awareness. Her heart was still beating too fast, and as she drew in deep, shuddering breaths she suddenly found she could smell a fresh, masculine scent of sandalwood and male that must surely be him.

The tension built higher and higher as he held her gaze. She felt heat rising to her cheeks. She wanted to press her chilly fingertips to them yet she held still, captivated. She stopped breathing altogether.

What could she say? Was there anything one could say in such a situation?

Finally it was he who looked away, out at the passing street. She could breathe again. The dancing black spots in her vision began to recede.

The journey to his residence seemed endless, and yet too short. When they reached it she was still unprepared.

The house was very grand, she saw with a glance, unable to absorb any details other than that it was set back a little from the street. Her mind was consumed by other things. Gently she was handed out of the hack and led up the front steps, her hand captured by his, curled unresisting within that gloved grasp. Her hand was cold as ice, and she had started to shiver.

Mr Carstairs unlocked the door and brought her inside. A single candle stood burning in the hall. By its light she could see only a little of the polished marble floor and dark wood panelling. The place seemed vast, their quiet footsteps echoing oddly.

With his free hand Mr
Carstairs picked up the candlestick, smiled at her reassuringly and then in breach of all reassurances drew her with him to the stairs and up, up to the bedrooms above.

It was all so unreal;
that she should be in this stranger’s house for the entire night; that he would have the freedom to do as he liked with her body when she knew him not at all. It was so outrageously out of kilter with the politeness of mannered society, fitting ill with his distinguished appearance, his speech, his protective attitude. She could not imagine them removing their clothes and doing . . . what she had only vague notions of.

Up one level of stairs, and they turned right. At the end of the shadowy hallway he opened a door. The room he ushered her into was large.
Very large. The light did not reach the corners. It did reach the bed, however.

The bed stood in solitary splendour against the wall. It was lush and ornate, a sleeping place for a heady sensualist.

Mr Carstairs did not take her there directly. Instead he led her to a small settee to one side, gesturing her to sit, and waiting until she did. Then he went calmly around the room, lighting all the candles until it was fairly blazing with light. He added two logs to the banked fire and stood over it until they began to burn, a poker hanging idle in his hand.

All this time he said not a word. Melissa could barely focus her mind on one thing, her thoughts were so scattered and panicked. She was alone with a strange man. There was nothing to stop him doing whatever he liked to her. He could hurt her if he pleased. She wanted to run. But she had been purchased. They had a contract. She must honour it. He had no reason to hurt her if she honoured the contract.

Oh, but she
wanted
to
run
! Back down the stairs. Her fingertips twitched. She seized the carved arm of the chair and hung on like grim death. She wanted to run away. He was so tall; a tall, strong man, so much more powerful than she.

She knew what a strong man could do to a helpless smaller person if he was angry.
Angry and drunk. Father had taught her that.

He wasn’t drunk. Or at least, he didn’t show the signs of it. He would be rational. And if she gave him what he wanted – what she had promised and he had paid for – he would be happy.

She must keep the contract. Then she could run, run fast and forever. Then she
would
run, she promised herself, like a reward offered for good behaviour. Only hold on now. A happy man would have no reason to hurt her.

Much.

Much more than he had to.

She looked Mr Carstairs over. Yes, clearly a strong man. The way he moved bespoke a great deal of muscle under his clothes. When he had taken off his coat and hung it over a chair, his thick thighs, fine waist and broad shoulders all became evident. With his back turned to her and one arm propped against the fireplace mantel, she was free to gaze at him unseen, and so she did.

Other than Papa, she had never seen a full-grown gentleman in h
is shirtsleeves. He seemed very . . . male. His calves were shapely, and as for his buttocks-

Melissa’s cheeks burned a fiery red as she realised what she was doing. She looked abruptly
to one side, ashamed of herself and confused.

The wood in the fire popped sharply, and then began to crackle as tongues of fire slicked around its rough edges. Mr
Carstairs turned away from it and towards her.

“Would you like to join me in a glass of wine?” he asked. His voice was warm and smooth, and there was a glow in his eyes.

“Thank you. Yes, I shall,” she replied precisely, as if he was a lady friend offering her tea. If he stayed polite and conventional she knew what to do, how to respond. She was proud of her calm voice. Show no fear.

He had all the power. She would not give him the knowledge of her fear as well. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

And sometimes fear made things worse. Sometimes it made a man attack.

She would stay cool and controlled, watch him for clues of what he wanted,
try to give it to him, to meet her obligations. He would be pleased and he would not harm her. Everything would be . . . probably no worse than she could tolerate. She was strong. She had borne a great deal of pain before. If she was good and obedient there was no reason for him to hurt her.

She repeated the same thoughts over and over in a round, almost a chant inside her head.

At an ornate trolley nearby he filled two glasses from a decanter of red wine. He came towards her, holding one out. She took it from him and sipped slowly, eyes downcast. She was startled when he sat down beside her, and not on the nearby chair a polite distance away.

“That gentleman who shall be collecting you tomorrow.
He was your…?” he trailed off, eyebrow raised. He was wearing a smile again. It lightened his features considerably, changing him from aloof to charming. She did not trust it.

“A friend,” she replied.

“I see. And you do sound like a lady. I wondered if that was merely an auctioneer’s gilding of the truth. Though I suppose any lady’s maid might sound the same.”

She remained silent. She did not care
if he thought her a lady or not; though maybe he would be displeased with his bargain if he thought her common. But no, she need not fear that. She
was
a lady, she knew how to behave, there would be nothing to disappoint him about her conduct. Her litany of self-reassurance continued under the surface, and her face stayed calm and still.

“Not common to find one of our
sort on that stage, though. May I ask what took you there?”

“Why, money of course,” she replied baldly, and he was startled into a chuckle.

“Yes, certainly,” he said, amusement rich in his voice. “What else but money? How very obtuse of me. I beg your pardon. And your name is…?” he prompted.

“Melissa,” she replied.

“Just Melissa?”

“Yes. If . . .
if you please.”

“If that is what you prefer. Melissa it shall be.” He leaned back into the settee, one arm resting along its back. His hand was very close to her neck. She wished she had given him a false name. It had not occurred to her to make one up. Truly she did not want him free with the name spoken only by close friends and family, a private possession.

“Sir, I do not wish to delay matters.” She could not bear the suspense of action. It must be done. Done and finished, and she gone from the site of the deed. “I would prefer to have things over and done. Perhaps we could proceed?” Now she sounded strained, despite every effort. She buttoned her lip and sat still, waiting to see how he would respond.

He looked her over, that single eyebrow raised again. The smile lingered on his lips. For a moment there was no sound but the cheerful crackle of the fire. It seemed incongruous. “Yes, perhaps we could,” he finally said.

She put her glass on a side table and reached up to untie the ribbons at the nape of her neck with clumsy fingers.

“Let me help you,” he said.

“I am quite capable, thank you.”

“Let me help you,” he repeated. His tone remained soft, but the command was clear.

Her hands dropped to her lap. After a moment she turned in her seat, facing away from him so he could reach the ribbons.

But he did not begin to untie them directly. Instead she felt his finger lightly stroke the length of her neck between her hairline and the top of her dress. She shuddered abruptly, deeply, as the sensation sent chills chasing all over her body.

“You have very soft skin,” he said. The warmth of his breath fell upon her, and she held back a second shudder.

His finger travelled along the top of her dress. Then she felt a tug within her hair. A second tug, and she realised he was taking out her hairpins. Her
hands lifted, then fell back into her lap. She could not protest. He had bought her for the night.

Suddenly, finally, it seemed very, very real.

She was right here, this moment, with a strange man who might do . . . oh . . . anything. She knew not what he might do; truly, anything at all.

She
panted with terror, trembling with the effort of holding still, quiescent under his ministrations.

Her eyelids closed as she sank inwards into darkness. Every muscle was
taut in dread apprehension of what he would do next.

A man given such limitless power over her.

Slowly he unwound her hair from its thick coil on her head. The length of it came down over her back, reaching just past her waist. He eased his fingers through it.

She felt the sensation right through her. She was not used to being touched like this.
Softly. Subtly. Her scalp felt as if it was on fire, hot and prickling intensely. She sat very straight, very still, as he separated the strands and spread it out like a cloak, then coiled it into a single long rope. What on earth was he doing? Playing with her hair? How strange.

It felt . . . it felt . . . soothing.

Like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck, she had the helpless urge to relax, melt, let go of all tension.

She fought it of course
; a silent inner battle for dominance over her body. This was a cold, inhumane bargain she was forcing on her own shrinking flesh for Peter’s sake. No more, no less.

Yet it was so . . . delicious. Even while her mind churned, her body responded with foreign
knowledge, welcoming, softening under a sort of spreading lassitude.

He did not stop, but ran his fingers up over her scalp, tunnelling through the thick weight of hair, then running down to the tips where it curled. Again and again he did it. Melissa felt as if she were in a trance. She wanted to sink back into him and rest in those hands. She remembered Mama brushing her hair when she was a small ch
ild. It felt a little like that; enough for instinct to try and soothe her. But she must not forget the danger. 

She sighed.

His fingers moved on to her neck, feathering gently up and down that slender column.

He must be very close to me, she thought as she felt his breath on her again. Then there was the lightest brush of skin against skin, laid on her shoulder. Another, and another, till she realised it was his lips that touched her. Towards her neck they came, those lips. She waited for the tension to return, but it was not there.

Her body was waiting for his touch. It knew something she did not. It
wanted
something she did not.

Up her neck wandered that delicate brushstroke, and reached the corner of her jaw. His fingers, wrapped deeply in her hair, began slightly to pull, bringing her head around.

She had no choice but to lean towards him, and found his broad shoulder there, waiting for her head to rest upon it. She sank against him, and his mouth settled on hers as lightly as a butterfly.

It was so soft.
So incredibly soft. She had not known a man’s mouth could be like that. Like . . . rose petals. Like . . . like nothing else she knew.