The Widow's Auction (3 page)

Well, he'd make sure she realized it by the time this night was over. He'd win this bid if he had to go into debt to do it. Because there was no way in hell he was passing up this chance to best the superior Lady Kingsley.

Isobel frantically tried
to pick out the two men who'd placed bids, but it was difficult in the cramped room. This sordid assembly of drunken men making indecent comments wasn't at all what she'd expected. If one of these unkempt fellows had been the one to bid, she'd simply die.

She should never have listened to Phoebe. She should have realized this would turn out to be awful. How could it not? Scanning the room again, she fought to ignore her spinning head and the close, stale air that pressed in on her until she feared she'd faint.

And the embarrassment. The absolute mortification of being up here on public display. . . 

“A hundred pounds,” the first voice called again, and this time she located it.

Her heart sank. Oh, dear, not Lord Bradford. She'd had enough trouble resigning herself to this course of action. But to have it be
him
who bid on her. . . Why, it was too much to bear! He would guess who she was the instant she neared him! Even if by some chance he didn't, she couldn't endure having that disgusting creature put his hands on her.

Heavens, this was such a dreadful mistake! She should have fled the moment she realized what this was like.

But she'd seen what had happened to some poor woman who'd balked earlier. They'd teased and taunted her and then unmasked her. . . Oh, no, she dared not risk
that
.

All she could hope was that someone would bid against the earl. A futile hope. The highest bid so far that night had been a hundred pounds for a lithe beauty who'd flaunted her wares with the practice of a dockside tart. No one would bid that much for a blushing miss who looked utterly out of place amid the flashy gowns and low décolletage of the other widows.

“Two hundred,” a dry voice called out from right beside Lord Bradford, and her heart leapt.

Until she saw who it was. Lord Warbrooke? Here? Oh, dear Lord in heaven. Only by holding on to the auctioneer's arm did she keep from fainting. This was even more horrible! Lord Warbrooke would surely use this to his advantage if he won. Oh, if only she could flee!

God Almighty had clearly handpicked the two men she'd least want to see her here. It must be His idea of an appropriate punishment for a woman engaging in such a rash and immoral act.

She could think of no other reason than divine intervention for Lord Warbrooke's presence. The very eligible and self-assured marquess didn't need to purchase companionship; he could have all he wanted for free. And if he did purchase it, he wouldn't do it at an auction where he might actually lose.

“Five hundred,” Lord Bradford said with an air of triumph.

Perspiration ran down her nose from beneath her satin mask. No one in their right mind bid five hundred pounds for one night with a woman. Certainly no one would bid
more
than that, even Lord Warbrooke. And though being won by either man would be disastrous, she was sure Lord Bradford would be the worse of the two. Lord Warbrooke might send her temper soaring half a dozen times a week, but her instincts told her he'd never hurt a woman. Strip her of her pride perhaps and play havoc with her self-control, but not hurt her. Whereas Lord Bradford. . . 

She shuddered.

The bidding had so rapidly escalated to a competition between the two men that the rest of the audience was speculating on the meaning of it in hushed whispers. Chairs creaked and glasses clinked as people drank, but eventually even those sounds died out as everyone held their breath for the outcome.

“Going once–” the auctioneer began.

“A thousand pounds,” Lord Warbrooke called out.

A collective gasp and then wild applause shook the audience, but shock stunned her into silence. The man had lost his mind. A thousand pounds? For some woman he didn't even realize he knew? It was an obscene amount of money! Lord Warbrooke was rich, but a thousand pounds would tax any man's finances.

Apparently Lord Bradford thought the same, for with a curse he rose and slammed down his glass, then pushed his way out of the room. He wasn't going to bid again. Thank heavens.

The auctioneer said, “Going once. Going twice. . . ”

Oh, Lord, but that meant Lord Warbrooke had won her for the night. What was she to do now? She'd been mad to try this. Mad!

“Sold!” the auctioneer said.

Though her heart threatened to thunder its way right out of her chest, she could do nothing to prevent this disaster. Keeping a firm hand on her elbow, the auctioneer ushered her off the dais, barely giving her time to don her pelisse and grab her large reticule before he led her into the crowd. With a feeling of impending doom, she saw Lord Warbrooke rise from his seat and head toward them.

Dear heaven, she was trapped. His lordship wouldn't take kindly to any refusal to honor the bid. Even if she could think of a reasonable explanation for refusing, he'd demand reparation. Or worse–he'd demand that they unmask her.

“A thousand pounds–that's quite a bid,” the auctioneer told her as he steered her across the room. “Largest one we've ever had. That means seven hundred fifty pounds for you, Bella.”

At last the reality of how much Lord Warbrooke had paid for her sank in.
Seven hundred fifty pounds
. Why, she could easily fund
three
scholarships with that money! And it would be
Lord Warbrooke's
money, too. There was a perverse sort of justice in that. If she brought seven hundred fifty pounds to the meeting next week, that would sway them all to her side.

But not if Lord Warbrooke figured out who she really was. Oh, and he would certainly enjoy exposing her wicked nature before the governing board, wouldn't he? He'd make her sound like the worst wanton imaginable, while he, being a man, would receive no censure at all.

Then she'd never be able to face any of them again. She'd lose control of Henry's charities, for who'd want an immoral woman like her on their boards? And then what would become of the charities? Pushy men like Lord Warbrooke and Lord Bradford would always hold sway.

No, she couldn't let that happen. There was only one thing to do. Keep Lord Warbrooke from figuring out who she was. Surely she could do that for one night. How difficult could it be?

Especially considering how Lord Warbrooke regarded her–as a serious, highly proper lady. He would never expect Lady Kingsley to be participating in this sordid auction. He certainly wouldn't expect her to go through with it after she'd been won, so if she went along willingly, she might allay any suspicions. She was safely masked, and the auction rules said he couldn't remove the mask without her permission.

Of course, Lord Warbrooke had never been one for following rules. . . 

She squared her shoulders. No, she wouldn't let him intimidate her. She must play her part so well–acting like a widow eager for his attentions–that he would never,
ever
dream it was her.

Yes, that's what she must do. Be bold, be daring. Be the wicked Bella.

Besides, she
had
wanted to find out if she was capable of being a true wife to a man. She just hadn't expected to perform her experiment on
him
, of all people.

A shiver of anticipation swept through her despite all her fear. She tried fruitlessly to squelch it. She did find him attractive, after all. And if any man could guide her through the “pleasures of the flesh,” it would be
him
, with his Roman conqueror's blood and his heated looks.

Suddenly he was upon them, and she had no more time to decide. But she'd already made her decision. Bella–and only Bella–was spending the night with Lord Warbrooke.

“That's quite a bid you placed, sir,” the auctioneer said genially as Lord Warbrooke met them. “I'm afraid I don't know you–”

“I'm the Marquess of Warbrooke.” His lordship's eyes never left her masked face. “A guest of Lord Bradford's.”

The auctioneer chuckled. “I daresay he wished he hadn't invited you.”

“No doubt.” Never one to waste time with pleasantries, he held out his arm to her. “Shall we go, madam?”

His gaze was so searching and curious she feared she'd already given herself away. Scrambling for a further way to disguise herself, she pitched her voice at a lower timbre. “Of course, my lord.”

His eyes narrowed. “You sound different from before.”

The hint of challenge in his tone raised her hackles. Lady Kingsley might have to endure his impudence, but Bella didn't. “My voice is higher when I'm nervous, that's all.”

His gloved hand curved warmly over hers, making her breath catch in her throat. “Why were you nervous? Surely you've done this before.”

“No, never.”

“That makes two of us,” he admitted as he led her toward the door, leaving the auctioneer behind.

A devilish mischief seized her. “I hardly believe that. You seemed to know precisely what you wanted and how to get it.”

“I should hope any man above the age of seventeen would.”

“Yes, but few men above the age of seventeen would pay a thousand pounds for it. I do hope I can make it worth your while.”

His dark smile curled her toes. “You've already made it worth my while. Whatever follows will just be icing on the cake.”

That drew her into a panic. Perhaps she'd underestimated the safety of her disguise. Oh, Lord, what if he'd already guessed who she was? What if he was toying with her, waiting to see how far she would sink into depravity before he exposed her? “Wh-what do you mean?”

His hand stiffened on hers. “I finally got to publicly humiliate a man I despise. That was easily worth a thousand pounds.”

“Oh.” Despite her relief that he hadn't guessed her identity, his explanation filled her with an unaccountable disappointment. “So this wasn't about me at all. Any woman would have served your purpose. It was merely a battle between you and Lord Bradford.”

“Not quite.” His heated gaze made a slow circuit of her body. “I bid on you because I wanted you. And I wanted no one else to have you.”

His possessive tone and the glitter in his eyes ought to have sent her fleeing. Instead, it melted her into a puddle.

Swallowing hard, she glanced away. She shouldn't react so powerfully to his attentions. She should keep up her guard.

Yet some ancient feminine part of her exulted to hear how badly he wanted her. Even if only for one night. Even though he thought she was Bella, an anonymous widow of no consequence.

They were outside now and descending the stairs toward his waiting carriage. When he handed her in, a feeling of inevitability swamped her. She was going home for the night with a man. Not just any man, but one descended from the Romans who'd briefly ruled Britain, a man used to conquering and commanding and–

Oh, dear, what a ridiculous imagination she had. It was all the fault of this flimsy toga-like costume Phoebe had loaned her. It made her feel like the spoils of war–a vestal virgin being carted off over some soldier's shoulder.

How silly was that? She'd chosen to do this, after all. It wasn't as if she was acting against her will. So why did she feel like a statue being hauled away as so much plunder?

As she settled against the squabs, Lord Warbrooke instructed the coachman, then got in, too. Her heart pounded faster when he dropped onto the seat beside her instead of opposite her. Nor did her nervousness ease when he removed his gloves one finger at a time, exposing hands every bit as strong and finely shaped as she'd imagined. Hands that would soon be roaming over her body, stripping off her clothes, and doing God knows what other things.

The thought turned her knees to water. Oh, how she wished she'd asked Phoebe to be a bit more forthcoming on what to expect.

He reached for her hand and started to unbutton her glove.

“No!” she protested, jerking it back. “I'd rather leave it on.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, which she never let
anyone
see.

“Part of your disguise, is it?” he quipped.

“You might say that.” She was being silly. What did it matter if he saw Bella's hands? Still, she'd rather keep her hands covered. They weren't at all pretty.

“It doesn't matter,” he bent close to murmur. “As long as you're willing to remove the pertinent items of clothing when the time comes, I don't much care if you keep your gloves on.”

His blatant innuendo made her jerk her head up, only to find him eyeing her with decided mischief. Why, the scoundrel was deliberately provoking her!

Well, two could play that game. “I'll remove the pertinent items of clothing
now
, if you prefer.”

At first her frankness seemed to startle him, but then he smiled. “No need to rush, is there?” After ordering the coachman to drive on, he returned his probing gaze to her. “Are you hungry, Bella?”

She gazed at him warily. Did some other wicked meaning lie behind the question? Or was he merely asking if she wanted food? “To be honest, I'm famished.” She added, for clarification, “I had no chance to eat, I'm afraid.”

“Neither did I.” He tossed his gloves on the opposite seat. “So I thought our first order of business should be dinner. We'll dine in private at the Clarendon.”

She relaxed against the seat. “You mean you don't want to throw me down and ravish me right here?”

“Is that what you expected?”

“Actually, I did. You paid a lot of money for only the one night, after all.”

“True.” He shifted on the seat to see her better. “But I'm not foolish enough to guzzle an expensive wine the moment it's set before me. Especially when it's so very fine.”

An unwarranted thrill coursed down to her toes. She ought to take insult at being compared to a bottle of wine. But a
fine
bottle of wine. . . well, that was another matter entirely, wasn't it?