The Virgin's Auction (19 page)

She rubbed the thick worsted of her gown between her fingertips as she considered asking him outright to leave her alone, trying to think how she could phrase it while she still needed his help to get to London. She could not find the words, and
be certain not to cause offense; or at least, not to cause
further
offense.

With a sigh she decided this was not the moment. She must wait, and cast him off once they had reached their destination. Again she wondered if he expected some profit from this enterprise. But then he
had not mentioned it at the inn; had instead stated his desire to be forbearing, though his actions spoke otherwise. Was he struggling against a better nature too?

She felt like laughing;
or crying. Two virtuously wicked people caught in the same snare, she mused.

Then she caught herself. It would not do to think of him as too human. Too like
herself. Far safer to view him always as a member of that dangerous gender: man.

At the next waypoint for the stage, Mr
Carstairs dismounted to make enquiries in the taproom. She trailed him inside. There they discovered a pretty blonde lad had indeed been on the Stage. Last night, that was. He had been marked most particularly, as he had bought what he said was his first pint of ale.

“He did well, the lad,” said the barkeep indulgently. “Got it down in one, an’ the other men as was on the stage clapped him on the back an’ offered to buy him another. But no
no! said he, with his face all a wrinkle from the sourness of it.” The man slapped his considerable paunch in high good humour, chortling. “An’ off they went. ‘Bout midnight it were, I reckon. A little late on the road but then that’s always so when it’s Mr Farnham’s night on. Don’ like to travel at speed, that one.”

Melissa bit her lip at the news Peter’s journey had been well underway in the depths of the night. “There is no way we shall reach him before he is in London,” she murmured to Mr
Carstairs as he pressed a coin into the hand of the gratified barkeep. She watched the transaction with a sigh, adding it to the mental tally of what she must pay Mr Carstairs or otherwise stand in his debt – awful thought.

“I suspect you’re right. We must make the best time we can, and trust to Providence he will be easy to find in London. Do you have an idea of the direction he will take once he’s there?”

She swept her skirt up in one hand and sidestepped a large steaming pile of manure in her path. “Some idea,” she said guardedly.

He waited, but when she did not elaborate, said: “I do hope you will consider me at your disposal, Miss Merry.”

“Sir, no. You have already been much, much too kind. I could not possibly inconvenience you further.”

“Come now. There is no chance I will leave you to flounder about alone with no resources. Or is
there some relative or friend to whom I may take you?”

She stopped at the side of the curricle and looked off into the middle distance. “No. There is no one.”

“Then you must let me help you.”

“No, I must
not
,” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze. “You are really . . . you are too kind, but it is impossible I should ask for more help.”

“I do not see –”

“I don’t want your help!” She emphasised each word fiercely, exasperated by his persistence, his inability to understand he was the last person she could bear to be so indebted to, and ashamed she should need him so.

She caught up her skirts to climb in, heedless of how she exposed her ankles to him, and scrambled upwards awkwardly, refusing the hand he offered in silence.

He came around to his own side and climbed in, flicking the reins and clucking at the horses to bid them to a walk. A surreptitious glance sideways told her his lips were pressed together and his brow lowered. Finally he asked: “So what will you do, then?”

“I will decide that when I get there.”

“Do you have a place to stay if you cannot find Trevor immediately?”

“I shall find something suitable.”

“No friends, no relatives, no money, and yet you will find something suitable? I think not. I would offer you a room in my house but you would be the only woman there. With no proper chaperone . . .”

She read his hesitation as uncertainty over her preferences. No gentleman would invite a young woman to stay in his bachelor residence, as it would irreparably harm her name. Yet he sought to ascertain if
she
held the same standards to her own name. Not that it was relevant. Staying with him held the same repugnance as receiving any sort of further aid from him.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend me a sum of money with which I might
pay for a room at a good inn? Once Trevor is found I shall be able to repay you in full.”

As they left the last of the small houses behind he urged the horses to a canter.
“If that is what you prefer,” he said.

She took a deep breath and gave him a small, wintry smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, do not thank me,” he said impatiently. “It is little enough, to be sure. I do not understand why you balk at my help. It is clear you are in desperate case. I cannot feel right to leave you to manage alone.”

“And yet you must. For I swear I need no help.”

He threw back his head, shaking it in disagreement. “You are alarmingly stubborn.”

“Yes. You had best give over trying to convince me. My mind is quite made up.”

“But what have you to lose by giving way?”

“What have I not to lose?”

“What on earth do you mean?”

She raised her chin.
“Dignity. Pride. Self respect. These are not mere bagatelles.”

“I have
no earthly notion what you mean,” he said, and she thought she heard scorn in his tone.

She matched the tone, anger leaping inside her.
“You speak of ‘
feeling right
’,” she said, goaded beyond endurance by his stubborn refusal to take ‘no’ for an answer. “How can you
possibly
imagine I would ‘
feel right’
to be so beholden to a man who has played such an unpleasantly significant role in my life? All I wish –
all
I wish – is to be allowed to forget you ever
existed
.”

She threw her hands into the air, as if entreating a recalcitrant God to have mercy. “I must think of it as the greatest misfortune that
you
have come upon me so many times when I am in the exigencies of distress.”

“Ah, now we come to it. Plain speaking indeed, ma’am,” he said,
turning towards her, and his eyes flashed. “I have ever stood ready only to assist you in what I perceive to be – according to your own hints – a difficult time. At every turn I have intended only the best for you. I do not see why this prejudice –”

“Only the best!” she cried in outrage.
“
Only
the
best!
How can you possibly describe what occurred between us that night to be the
best
? How
can
you conceive offering me
carte blanche
to be ‘the best’? You have a high opinion of yourself indeed if you think such degradation can be uplifted only by its connection to your person.”

“Degradation is it?” he said, his temper visibly rising. “Let me tell you, since your ignorance leads you to mistake the matter, there was nothing of
degradation between us. We shared a most agreeable . . . trade.”

“There it is.
A trade. A
trade
. That such a thing should become commerce, that my body should be trade – ”

“You were
willing
, madam. I saw no sign from you at any time you were not willing. You even hurried me along, so perfectly in accord were we.”

“Perfect accord?
Hah!” she spat, eyes narrowed venomously. “That was not accord. That was haste to be done and gone.”

His eyebrows went up, his eyes widening in surprise
. “I treated you with every kindness –”

“Nothing could make t
hat night kind. Can you imagine, can you
possibly
imagine how it feels to be forced to sell that which I was taught to hold sacred and inviolate? Can you think
any
sum of money would be enough to buy that
and
peace in my heart? No! A thousand times no!”

“Then what would you have of me? What should I have done, then, to satisfy your sense of right?”

“I don’t . . . there was . . .” she stammered, floored by the question. “You should have left me alone!”

“But you did not ask
me to. You sold yourself to me. You came with me to my home, my bed and then told me to hurry myself. By what sign was I to know I must leave you be?”

“You . . . should . . .” she grasped at straws. “It is not
right
to deflower a virgin.”

“Someone has to. We are all deflowered one time or another.
Even I.”

“That is different. A woman trades that for the security of marriage, to have children.”

“Good God. If marriage and children is your aim, what in Heaven’s name were you doing on that block, auctioning yourself off? There is no true path from one to the other.”

“It was not my aim, to be sure,” she said, on the back foot now. “But I had supposed a time might come when . . . But it is no matter now. I only wish . . .”

“What?”

“I wish I need never have been there,” and now, without volition, her voice held a pleading note. In immediate response his
posture softened, and he lowered his head and leaned towards her, saying gently:

“A better man than me might agree with you, but I’m afraid I am not that man. My virtue does not extend to wishing that night undone. Though I am sad to know you regret it.” His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb resting on the softness of her lower lip. “I did try to do right by you. And I cherish the memory of it.”

“And I wish you had no memory of it,” she sighed dismally, reduced almost to tears by his unexpected sympathy.

“Was it really so awful?”

“No, not awful. Just . . . Not awful.”

He laughed a soft, rueful laugh. “Not awful.
Damned with faint praise indeed. You must surely give me leave to strive for a better record than that, little flower.” He spoke lightly, but she reacted as if shot, starting back and throwing up a hand as if to ward him off.

“There,
that
is it. That you think the door has been opened, and now you may pass freely through it.”

This time he did not react to her indignation, staying calm and answering offhandedly: “In all honesty, ‘freely’ was never my thought. It has been my experience that a
chere amie
is a most expensive creature.”

“That is not . . . ah,” she flung her hands outwards in exasperation, “can’t you see that is not
at all
what I mean. Have I not just said that this should not be a transaction? It is not
right
.”

“What you have said is the sort of transaction you prefer is one where you receive marriage, not money. That is also a transaction, is it not?”

“Yes, but . . .” she folded her arms, tucking her hands into her armpits mulishly. “I do not wish to bandy words with you. You are determined not to understand me, and I can see neither road nor reason to make you.”

“It must certainly be distressing to associate with such a debauched creature as myself. I quite take your point.”

“I am sure
you
do not think of yourself in such terms.”

“Well, perhaps I have only learnt to think of myself as
mildly
debauched. But I see you are set on educating me, so I must needs learn to regard myself anew.”

“You are ridiculous, sir.”

“Yes, I am sure. And also debauched. Possibly also depraved,” he added judiciously.

“I wish you will not mock me.”

“Say not that I mock you. I rather mock myself. I had thought to have only the best part in this, but I see I have been painted the villain.”

“I made it clear how I thought of you. It can come as no surprise.”

“Say rather I fooled myself you were out of temper with me. That your harsh words sprang thus rashly.”

“That too.
But I am not disposed to think well of one who – ”

“Saved you from Mr Nash.
A fate truly worse than death.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr Nash. The highest bidder at your auction, before I stepped forward.”

She was silent, trying to recall. The events from that night had become a little muddled in her head, with some moments standing out in painful clarity, and others misty and fuddled. She had forgotten the repellent man who had so nearly bought the right to take her home and strip away her maidenhead.