The Virgin's Auction (27 page)

“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 behaving 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.

He could not mistake her anger now. There was dismay on his face.

“It is really the only course open to you,” he said, shaking his head at her, beseeching her understanding. “You cannot hope to redeem your position in any other way. Not on anything but the most temporary terms.”

“This is very noble of you. I am really quite moved,” s
he spat the words at him. “I had not dreamed you would seek to sacrifice yourself to save me.”

“I admit I have not acted always with your best interests at heart, but as your husband that would all change,” he said earnestly. “I would take the best of good care of you.” He finished with a little nod of agreement with himself, a warm glow lighting his eyes as he held out a tentative hand to her.

“Like your most treasured possession.”

“Exactly.”
He nodded again, his brow lightening at her understanding of him.

“A meticulous ruler, available to lead and guide me through life.”

“If that is what you desire,” Uncertainty dawned on his face once more.

She watched the changes of expression, watched him flounder to convey his meaning, and it did not touch her. A wall was up in front of her, towering
between them, and all she could see was his arrogance, his patronising intent to fix her, control her, keep her as a petted possession now he knew the facts about her birth. She was hurt and she was fighting it the only way she knew how: with anger to push him far distant and keep herself safe from him. 

“It is most emphatically what I do
not
desire. It is what I abhor. Marriage is a trap and the only thing, the
only
thing that could make it the least tolerable is if there is considerable love in the matter. Which any fool could see is not the case here.”

She paused
, having made it crystal clear what she needed from him, longing for him to give her the words that would set her free, the agitation in her so powerful she trembled with it.

A
moment longer she waited, in case he had some rebuttal to offer, but he was silent, wearing a sick expression. She curled her lip and shook her head in a pitying sneer.  “I see you think to do the right thing. I see your intentions are for the best. But you must understand I want nothing to do with your plan. It is
bondage
, sir; bondage of the most unpleasant, most iniquitous sort. I am only recently free of the ownership of one man and not eager to find another to command me.”

His eyes were narrowed and dark, his face closing in,
more wintry by the second. “You speak most vehemently. Are you certain you know your own mind on this matter?”

“Most certain.”
Her tone left no room for doubt.

“And you will not change it?”

“I will not. Nothing could compel me to enter into marriage under these circumstances.” Inside her was that small part of her that watched all this with horror, crying out to her ‘Take him! Take him anyway you can get him. Do not walk away!’ She strangled it without compunction, the contemptible part that would be even a slave if only she could be near him, could love him.

“Then that is your final word?” He was grim, and white about the lips.

“Have I not already said so?”

“I see. Well then there is nothing left to
say.” He sat at his desk, took up his quill and fiddled absently with it, staining his fingers with ink.”

“I shall go.”

“Yes.” He stood politely when she did, gave her a bow and watched her leave the room.

Carefully she closed the door behind her and to her surprise found herself on the floor as her legs folded beneath her. She sat there for a long moment, trying to breathe, to think clearly. Seeing his face in her mind’s eye, hearing his words in her ears, she crammed her fist in her mouth to stop from crying out.

It was dreadful. To at one moment have everything she had ever wanted extended to her on a platter, and at the same time everything she had always dreaded . . . oh, it was anguish.

And yet, she was certai
n she had made the right choice; for as she told him, marriage to him would be the worst sort of bondage, more awful even than that which had bound her to Father. To be tied for the rest of her natural life to a man who did not love her, subject always to his whim yet without any of the gentleness or compassion which the tender emotions could bring, that would be unbearable indeed.

Made only worse by her burgeoning love for him, a frightening intensity of feeling that lodged in her throat ready to choke her if she thought about it.