The Virgin's Auction (28 page)

It was that, more than anything, more than even marriage vows, which would make her a hopeless slave to his will.

No, she could never marry him without love. It was unthinkable. His pity, his belated sense of honour and duty, they were not enough.

Her decision was the right one. The sole choice she could possibly make.

Now she had only to live with it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

In the small hours of the morning, her resolve broke.

For hours she had tossed and turned, trying to put aside her thoughts of him. Trying to concentrate on the vexing question of how she might bring herself and Peter safely through the next weeks and months with their circumstances so reduced. The removal of Black Jack gave her more options. Yet the path was murky before her.

Still, no matter how these worries should have consumed her, all she could think about was James. All she could see was his still face in those final moments, his eyes dark and distant.

In the darkness the fear that kept her from him seemed a weak and pitiful thing, no
match for her stronger longing; the keen desire to lie with him, enraptured by his touch. Or stand next to him and face the world with a champion on her side.

As she circled round and back again to the same inner conflict, the duality suddenly came clear.

She was afraid of marriage. Of the legal tie to a man, that she should depend completely on him for her wellbeing.

At the same time she had no fear of James.
None.

The abuses that had rendered her father so vile had come after he was in his cups. At times the assaults were random. More often they were in response to some imagined slight she had offered.

Never, never once had she spoken to him as she had spoken to James, reviling him, castigating, with sarcasm or rage.

With her father she had been a meek and quiet mouse.
A nonentity. Seeking always to please or disappear from notice. Eventually in adulthood she learnt that cold dignity served her better to ward him off.

With James she was so different; n
otwithstanding the personas she had used to confuse him, to throw him off her scent.

In his company she grew increasingly bold, forthright and outspoken. He, with his tolerance, his acceptance of her odd fits and starts, taught her to be as outrageous as she liked without fear of reprisal. Even when provoked to anger he answered her still in words, not with fists. And still with
respect, whether he agreed with her or no. She had been vile to him yet he rewarded her with a feeling of safety in his presence.

She felt like a tree that had just been logged, falling to lie in a completely new direction. She felt
safe
with him. Safe. Of all bizarre, confounded feelings to have with a man.

How could that be?

Safe.

But how did that translate to marriage? Would that state destroy her security, change his behaviour somehow?

It might if he came to resent her; as he surely must, over the years, when he had time to repent a choice made out of necessity.

Though why had he made it at all? Was it only honour and duty? She had done nothing to compel him, had not ever expected him to take that step.

Any necessity lay only within his mind.

Or his heart.

She kept seeing that last look of his, as he sat at his desk before she walked away. He had seemed . . . injured somehow. As if an assailant had crept up behind him and coshed him over the head. Stunned, and waiting for the pain to arrive.

She wanted to comfort him, to soothe that pain and take it away.

Her heart yearned to hold him, and her compassionate soul brought up that picture again and again: the strong capable man stilled, shoulders bowed, ink on his fingers and . . . and
heartbreak
on his face.

Finally she threw back the covers. She simply
could not stand
it
. She had to know if her memory betrayed her. If indeed she had touched his heart.

The house was silent and dark. She stole along the edge of the floorboards so
they would not creak a betrayal. Her fingers glided over the walls, marking doorways for her. Was this his room? She opened the door and it moved silently ajar on oiled hinges. She could make out the shapes of a piano and a couple of music stands. Ah, the music room.

His was the next doorway. The curtains were shut tight so no moonlight penetrated. By memory she made her way to the bed. She could hear his breathing but could not tell if he slept.

For long minutes she stood by the side of the bed, indecisive, waiting for some acknowledgement from him, some sign he knew she was there. Finally she climbed up on the bed and edged towards him. He was a dark bulk, the faint scent of him warm, stirring a curl of heat deep within her.

Too shy, too uncertain to wake him, she lay her head on the pillow by his, breathing him in, feeling his own breath soft on her face. There was a smell of port about him too.

Had he been drinking? She didn’t approve of that. But the scent was not strong, nor was there any hint of more noisome smells like vomit or urine, which accompanied overindulgence. He smelled sweet, if a little fruity. A moderate amount then.

She could not help herself. Lying there next to him, she imagined sharing his bed every night, free to reach out to him, touch him,
pleasure him. Wrap herself in that great masculine body and sink down sweet and hot in the slide to bliss. She imagined him a bulwark in the night, a friend to talk to and laugh with. She loved his laugh, deep and husky, full bodied. A woman could get drunk and giddy on a laugh like that.

For a long time she lay and thought in the dark, wishing things could have been different. Then his breathing changed as he tossed his head fitfully. She heard a muttering, as if he spoke beneath his breath, though she couldn’t make out what he said.

He flung out a hand and it landed a hair’s breadth from her face. She startled, then, greatly daring, laid hers in it. He gripped her so hard she almost cried out in surprise. He spoke again, and it sounded like her name, Lissa.

“I beg your pardon?” she said softly. His other arm came around her shoulders, drawing her in close, her nightgown and the bed
linen bunched between them. Her cheek was pressed against his and when she tilted her head so she could draw breath, it came away damp. Was he weeping in his sleep?

“So sorry . . . forgive,” he
murmured, his words barely intelligible.

“Of course.
Of course I forgive you.” She did. She forgave him for the night of the auction, for his assumptions about her then and since. She knew how they had come about. If she was not brave enough to tell the truth, of course he would not understand. “Hush now.”

“Sweet.”
His lips were pressed against her temple, kissing her in soft touches, his humid breath moving her hair.

“Hush. Go back to sleep. Or wake up. But do not fret,” she said kindly, feeling a thrill to care for him, to comfort him in this secret, stolen moment. Perhaps he would never know she had been here, but she would-

“Love,” he said.

The hand that had crept up between them to stroke his cheek stilled.

“
What
was that?” she hissed.

He twitched, gave a convulsive heave and landed face down in her thinly covered bosom. Immediately his hands joined his face, cupping and shaping her breasts tenderly so her nipples stood up in sharp points and she felt the tug of heat deep within. He writhed closer so his body lay partially on hers, foiling his attempt for greater intimacy by wrapping her even more snugly in the layers of the bedclothes.

Her own hand discovered he was naked. She hesitated for a moment, thinking about the propriety of taking advantage of his unknowing self for her own pleasure. Then she succumbed, launching a bold foray down the front of his chest and wrapping her fingers around his pulsing maleness. He gave a throaty growl of approval that recalled her presence of mind.

“James, you must stop this. We need to talk.”

He made a compliant rumble without pausing for a second in his fumbling attempts to unclothe her.

“James. James!” she whispered, as he found the way into her nightgown through the neck of it and rolled a bare nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

She gasped and sighed, squirming up the bed a little to give him further access. He immediately took advantage, sliding his free hand over her waist and then burrowing into the bedclothes to locate her thigh, then her knee. She felt the hem of her nightgown begin to rise as he gathered the fine fabric. Then that hand was on her bare flesh, sliding back up until it found the moist heat of her. He groaned.

“Sweet.
Sweet love.”

“You should really stop,” she told him dreamily, then gave a jerk and a quiver as he slid a finger into her, his thumb unerringly finding that uncannily sensitive spot. Even half
sotted and mostly asleep he still knew how to make her eyes roll back in her head. She must wake him. She really must.

In just a moment.
For when she woke him he would probably stop, and what he was doing just now felt . . . incredible.

She relaxed, lying back on the pillow, and felt the roughness of his cheek on hers as he quested for her mouth. She gave it to him and he covered it with his own, applying a gentle suction and delicate thrusting that mirrored what he was doing with his fingers.

Then he propped himself up on his elbow, all other motion stilled. She felt her own heart pounding. She couldn’t see his face, but a profound wash of embarrassment ran through her, to imagine what he must be thinking right now.

“Melissa?” he said softly.

“You were expecting someone else?” her tone was acidic, defensive.

“No, of course not.
But I wasn’t exactly expecting you, either.”

“Well here I am,” she declared.

“Yes, so you are.” His fingers twitched then withdrew from her body, leaving her bereft. “I beg your pardon if I . . . if I didn’t . . .”

She couldn’t bear it. She could not bear the caution she heard in his voice, his return to careful civility. She bitterly regretted the loss of her laughing, devil-may-care lover. She had po
ssessed him for too little time. Moments, in the span of her years. It simply wasn’t fair. She wanted more. She wanted
him
.

“James, I . .
. ” She could not think of the words to tell him what she felt, so she said: “Yes,” and hoped he would understand it.

“Yes?”

Then without her mind involving itself much in the matter, her mouth took control and let the truth out: “Yes, I will marry you. I don’t care if it’s a stupid decision. I don’t care if I regret it later. I love you and I want you and I need you, and the rest of the world can just go hang.”

“Oh,” his soft exclamation was full of wonder.
“Oh Lissa! Lissa darling.” He gathered her close in his arms, holding her like something precious and infinitely fragile that might break if he made the wrong move. “Thank God!”

“James, do you love me?” she demanded, bold in this one instant.

“Do I love you? What sort of question is that? Why else would I give you my name?” he demanded incredulously.

She felt stupid, but answered him in a small voice: “Honour.
Duty. Charity.”

He laughed softly, burying his nose in the groove where neck met shoulder and drawing a long, happy breath. “Ah, the scent of you is so fantastic. I might wish I were so noble, and feel flattered you think it could be true, but honestly?” He squeezed her a little tighter. “Honestly I am near crazed for wanting you, and even when I have you I am still crazed. You fill my head. I can’t think of anything else. All I want is to be near you, all the time.” His fingertips flexed over and over as if relishing her. “I want to be able to barricade myself in this room for days on end and spend it all discovering you. I want you to be mine, and I yours. So no, it is not a matter of
honour
,
duty
or
charity
.

“Oh,’ she said breathlessly. “Oh well yes, that does explain it.
Very eloquent. You could have told me this earlier, you know. I would not have refused you.”

“I don’t even remember exactly what I said. As I told you, I am crazed. Trying to talk straight requires the marshalling of all my resources.”

“You seem to be managing adequately now,” she smiled a hidden smile.

“Now I’m euphoric.
You, my wife? For a lifetime? It makes a difference.”

“So I may expect more sanity in your dealings with me?” she teased.

“It is rash to make promises, but the possibility exists.”

“I didn’t realise you loved me,” she told him in the gentlest of reproaches that he should have hidden it so well.

“Did you not? It seems to me it must be obvious to all. Even Nash saw how I could not stop myself looking at you all that night at the ball and he barely knows me. I can only imagine what a besotted fellow I must have seemed to all and sundry.”