The Widow's Auction (4 page)

He leaned closer, his features shadowy in the faint gaslight trickling into the carriage. Lifting his hand, he traced the lower border of her mask with one finger, grazing her cheek, then the tip of her nose, then making a detour down to her lip. Idly he outlined her mouth. “Before I indulge in a superior bottle of wine, I prefer to take a moment to admire its beautiful color.”

She tried to breathe and failed miserably. And had she imagined his emphasis on “superior”?

“Then,” he rasped, bending in to nuzzle her hair, “I sniff its bouquet and savor its scent.” He breathed in deeply, and she thought she'd shatter right then and there. He loomed so close, and this felt so intimate. She almost wished he
had
thrown her down and ravished her. She could have endured that easier than this inch-by-inch assault on her senses.

With the faintest touch of his finger, he tipped her face up to his. His eyes glittered at her like shards of silver. “Only after that do I allow myself the first sip. . . ”

That was all the warning he gave before his mouth covered hers, warm and sensuous and soft. His kiss blotted out the black night and the carriage and all her silly fears. It sent her pulse racing and startled a quiver in her belly. If this was a sip, God help her when he got around to drinking.

As if he'd read her mind, he did the most astonishing thing. He slipped his tongue between her lips. Henry had never done
that
, to be sure. And Lord Warbrooke mustn't guess that she had no idea what he was doing.

So she mimicked his actions and slid her own tongue into
his
mouth. He halted, but only for a moment. Then with a groan he caught her to him and thrust his tongue inside with a boldness that took her off guard.

She was still reeling from the intimacy of it when he repeated the motion. . . again and again, his tongue caressing the inside of her mouth, tangling with her own tongue until she was dizzy from the dance. What an odd way to kiss. . . seductive and maddening all at once. It made her hot in strange places. . . in her breasts. . . her belly. . . in that wicked place between her legs that Henry had so rudely assaulted every time they'd coupled.

She tore her mouth free long enough to catch her breath. “Dear heaven, Lord Warbrooke. This is. . . all very. . . interesting.”

Chuckling, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her cheek. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed.

“Then call me Justin.”

“Justin,” she whispered, and slid her hands about his neck.

With a guttural sound of approval, he took her mouth again, hard and deep, invading her as surely as any Roman conqueror. Scents of brandy and musk drifted through her senses as he dug his fingers into her arms to keep her close.

Which was entirely unnecessary. She wasn't going anywhere, not when he was kissing her so deliciously. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe for fear that any movement might make it all end.

And she didn't want it to end yet. Not when she was beginning to realize how very little her late husband had known about kissing. Henry's kisses had tickled her curiosity, then failed to satisfy it. But Lord Warbrooke's kisses made naughty, exciting promises that he clearly intended to satisfy in spades. The very thought made her sway against him.

He tore his mouth from hers to murmur, “Ah, Bella, you're not what you seem. . . ”

“No one is ever what they seem,” she whispered back, arching her neck as he began to kiss his way along the pulse that beat so fast beneath his mouth.

Suddenly she felt him slide his hand over to stroke her breast. At first she hardly noticed, too fogged by all the other glorious sensations to register this new one. But as his hand progressed from tender caresses to a bolder kneading motion, she gasped and drew back to say shakily, “I take it you're done with sipping.”

His eyes opened, heavy lidded and dazed. “What?”

She glanced down at his hand, still cupped over her breast. “The wine. You're done with the sipping and have decided to go on to drinking.”

He jerked his hand back. When he caught her bewildered gaze on him, his face grew shuttered. “No. . . I only got carried away.”

“So did I. But isn't that what we're supposed to do?”

Releasing his breath in a ragged sigh, he stroked her cheek. “Yes, but not yet. Not until after dinner. We have the entire night ahead of us, after all.”

Then he shocked her by leaving her side to throw himself over onto the other seat. As he laid his head back against the squabs and raised a shaky hand to shove the hair from his eyes, the streetlamps cast a lambent glow over his face. Soft light swept his taut features and the lines of strain about his mouth.

From the way he sat, with legs splayed apart, she would guess that she'd aroused him. So why had he stopped when he had? Had she done something wrong? Was it indeed as she'd feared–that she was inept at this lovemaking business? “You prefer to drink your wine slowly, do you?” she ventured to ask.

His gaze swung to her, stormy with suppressed need. “Only when the wine's worth drinking.”

“Or when you paid too much for it, perhaps?”

“Too much?” His laugh held an edge. “It's the fact that I paid so little that worries me. I suspect there will be another reckoning later that may exceed what I wish to pay.”

She could gather only one meaning from his peculiar words. “If you're concerned about getting me with child, then you needn't be. I'm not even sure I can bear children. During my marriage I was never able to conceive.”

He shifted his gaze to the window. “But you and your husband did try.”

“Of course. Many times.” Then she caught herself. She couldn't believe she was actually telling Lord Warbrooke how often she and her husband shared a bed. It was a wonder he wasn't appalled to hear a lady discuss–

No, not a lady. She was Bella, the masked widow. She could say exactly what she pleased, when she pleased.

The full reality staggered her. She really could, couldn't she? It didn't matter if he found her tart-tongued or bold or improper–he'd never see Bella again. She was truly free to say what she wished, to
do
what she wished.

Such heavenly freedom emboldened her. “And even if I could conceive, my friend showed me how to prevent it.”

His head swung around so fast, she thought he'd lose it. “Your friend did
what
?”

“Told me about French letters and sponges and such.” She waved her well-packed reticule. “She even gave me a sponge. I have it right in here.”

He gazed at her as if she'd gone mad.

“You do know about them, don't you?” she went on nervously. “I-I was told that all the ladies use them. First they're soaked in vinegar and then they're put–”

“I know where they're put,” he ground out. “I'm merely astonished that
you
do.”

“Why? Surely you didn't think I'd attend the auction unprepared.”

He looked exceedingly flustered, then mumbled, “Nice young widows aren't supposed to know about things like that.”

“To be honest, I didn't until my friend told me. She felt honor-bound to instruct me in how to protect myself, since she was the one who convinced me to do the auction.”

“Convinced you–Good God, what kind of friend is this? A whore?”

She gaped at him. “You're passing judgment on my friend after
you
bid an ungodly amount to spend the night with a strange woman?”

“I. . . um. . . that is–”

“And why is it any worse for a woman to prevent conception than for a man to go about doing the conceiving willy-nilly?”

“Now see here–”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Her dander was fully up now. “Do you
want
a lot of your little bastards running about?”

He blinked at her, then burst into laughter. “No, indeed I don't. How good of you to consider that. It hadn't entered my thoughts in the least.”

“Well, it should have,” she scolded.

“You're quite right,” he choked out, clearly trying to repress any further laughter.

His amusement annoyed her. “And if that didn't worry you, then what did you mean by all that nonsense about a reckoning? Did you think I'd steal from you tonight? Or blackmail you. . . or. . . or something degenerate like that?”

He cast her a glance of mock solemnity. “No, certainly nothing degenerate.”

“Then what?”

Mischief glinted in his eyes. Leaning forward suddenly, he caught her hands in his. “The reckoning I fear is that one night with you won't be enough for me. That I'll want you time and again. And that you'll make me pay for that need very dearly in the long run.”

Justin relished the
expression of panic that crossed “Bella's” face. It was about bloody time she realized the possible ramifications of her actions.

Good God, he'd nearly taken her right here in the carriage! And that had
not
been his intention. He'd meant only to draw her out. By playing along, he'd hoped to coax her into revealing her reasons for doing this. Then he could unmask her, give her a stern lecture, and take her home. After which, her gratitude at his discretion would make her moderate her opposition to him on the governing board.

That had been the plan. . . until she'd looked up at him with that strange, yearning expression. Next thing he knew he was spouting all that nonsense about wine and bending to kiss her sweet, lush lips. . . 

And enduring a lecture about preventing conception. From
her
of all people!

He groaned. She was tying him in knots, this enchanting creature who'd taken over Lady Kingsley–the one with the sense of humor and the tempting mouth. He was having trouble remembering who she really was, for God's sake.

The enchanting creature finally found her voice. “One night
must
be enough for you,” she said fiercely. “It simply must. After this is over, it's over. We can't meet or see each other again.”

“I don't see why not.” If he pressed hard enough, she might admit the truth. “I'm not married. And unless you entered that auction under false pretenses,
you're
not married either. So if we take pleasure in each other's company and want to spend time together–”

“I'm not that kind of woman!”

“You mean the kind to share a stranger's bed without knowing his background or his character?”

She drew her hands from his. “I mean. . . the kind to be a man's mistress.”

Ah, now he was getting somewhere. “Your actions speak otherwise. Clearly you're looking for a protector or you wouldn't be here.”

“No! That's not why I did it at all!” Her pretty eyes flashed at him through the slits of the mask.

He found her ridiculous moral outrage highly comical. “I can't imagine what other reason you'd have.”

Glancing away, she gnawed on her lower lip as if considering telling him more. Finally she sighed. “It's merely that. . . I'm testing the waters, that's all. I'm not quite ready to marry again, and I want to see if I can even bear to be with another man.”

That possibility hadn't occurred to him. Understandably so, since it was insane. “A stranger? You want to test the waters with a perfect stranger?”

“Every man is a stranger to a woman the first time she shares his bed.”

Clever wench. Settling back against the seat, he eyed her with new respect. “An interesting point and one I'd never considered.”

“Why does that not surprise me, Lord Warbrooke?” she said dryly.

“I thought you were going to call me Justin.”

“That was before you started acting as overbearing and pompous as–” She stopped herself with a look of chagrin.

“As who?” he prodded, though he'd swear she'd been going to say, “as usual.”

She glanced away. “Another man I know, that's all.”

“Ah. Your late husband, perhaps?”

“No, indeed!”

His curiosity about her deepened. “Your husband wasn't overbearing?” Kingsley had never been overbearing in public, but as she'd said, a man could be a very different person in the marriage bed.

“My husband was the most amiable man I ever knew,” she said softly.

The pang of jealousy that struck him out of nowhere made him peevish. Why the devil did he care anyway? Of course she spoke well of her late husband. He'd think less of her if she didn't.

Instead of letting it pique him, he should be using it to bring her to her senses. “What would this ‘amiable' husband of yours think of your going off with a strange man for the evening?”

“He'd be appalled,” she said in a small voice.

“And that doesn't matter to you?”

“Certainly it matters.” She eyed him through the mask with a steady gaze. “But as a friend of mine recently said, I have to stop pining after my late husband and learn how to be with someone else.”

So Justin was the “someone else” she planned to “be with” to test the waters? Like hell he was! And who was this bloody friend advising her to do all this nonsense anyway?

He only had to think a moment to come up with the answer. Phoebe Chambers. No doubt she'd been somewhere on that dais, too. The two widows were as thick as thieves. Although he'd never heard any scandal attached to Mrs. Chambers's name, she did seem the sort to know about sponges. “I suppose this is the same friend who urged you to participate in the auction.”

“What if it is?” Her stubborn chin quivered. “She gave me good advice. I don't regret following it.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said wryly. “If you did regret it, it would mean I hadn't proved much of a companion so far.” The carriage jolted to a halt, and lamplight flooded the carriage. In the next moment, the door was opened by a liveried footman. “Time for dinner,” Justin added.

As they left the carriage, he slipped his arm about her waist to lead her inside, wanting to see how she might react. He'd expected her to flinch or draw away, but instead she leaned timidly into the curve of his arm and shoulder.

Desire bolted through him, sudden and unanticipated. Bloody hell, she made him want to wrap his arms around her and kiss her senseless again. And all just by cozying up to him!

This unaccountable lust was insane. Irrational. Infuriating.

And no less infuriating because she seemed determined to satisfy it. That was the most outrageous thing of all. Lady Kingsley ready to leap into his bed for a night of wanton pleasure? It was impossible. She'd never really do it.

Unfortunately, part of him was more than eager to test her willingness. Part of him thought that taking Bella to his bed was an enormously appealing idea. Which was why he must remember that she was
not
Bella but Lady Kingsley, no matter what she pretended.

A few moment's discussion with the hotel manager and a handful of gold coins was all it took to procure them a private room adequately furnished for a night of wild debauchery.

So Lady Kingsley wanted to see if she could “bear to be with another man”? Very well, he'd humor her awhile longer. He seriously doubted that her resolve would stand firm when she was faced with the stark reality.

As they climbed the stairs behind the hotel manager, he told her, “Forgive me for not taking you to my town house, but my mother and sister are there, and I didn't think they'd appreciate my bringing a masked woman to dine. Or stay the night.”

“I should hope not. But why didn't you take me to wherever you take your lights o' love and your mistress?”

He gaped at her. “Good God, woman, do you think I have a bloody harem?”

“Well, no, but a man like you–”

“Has better things to do than loll about with a variety of loose women all day.” What kind of profligate did she think he was, for God's sake? “When I have a mistress, I keep her in a house of her own.”

“And when you don't?”

He couldn't believe he was having this highly inappropriate discussion with Lady Kingsley. Then again, until today he'd never thought to have been kissing her passionately either. “When I don't, I abstain.”

She eyed him askance.

“Men of sense don't engage in liaisons with whores.” A wicked impulse made him add, “Only liaisons with merry widows like yourself.”

She had nothing to say to that, though a pretty blush suffused her cheeks.

In the next moment, they reached their floor. The apartment they were shown into was as close to a private love nest as he could have wanted. It lacked any scandalous sculptures or lurid paintings–this was the Clarendon, after all–but the furnishings were lush, the bed prominent and inviting at one end of the room, and the fireplace stoked high enough to reveal a thick fur rug lying before it. A classic setting for seduction if ever there was one.

He watched her closely for her reaction. When she remained silent for several long moments after the hotel manager left, Justin felt compelled to speak. “Have you any complaint with the room, madam?”

She started. “Not at all. It's wonderful. Almost exactly as I imagined.”

“As you imagined?” So much for shocking her.

“Oh, yes.” She slanted a shy look his way that made his blood pound. “Though I could never have imagined what happened in the carriage.”

“Nor could I,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He tried to leer at her, though the concept of leering was foreign to him. “I merely wondered if you'd been imagining what's going to happen here.” He nodded toward the bed. “Or rather, over there.”

“Of course.” Slowly she faced him. Then with shaking hands, she opened her pelisse and let it slide from her shoulders onto the floor. “I only hope that I can be. . . um. . . satisfactory.”

When she approached him with a hesitant smile and a swing to her hips that would have done any light o' love proud, every muscle in his body sprang to attention.

Then a knock came at the door–the servants bringing their dinner. He nearly tripped over a chair in his haste to let them in. At this rate, he'd never last the night. He began to wonder if Lady Kingsley had a twin. A wanton temptress of a twin bent on driving him insane.

The servants laid out a vast spread of covered dishes and left. She surveyed the crowded table, her unabashed delight further inflaming his desire. “What's for dinner?”

Fornication. And for dessert, more fornication
. “Take a look,” he choked out.

She circled the table, uncovering the first few dishes–pea soup and turbot in lobster sauce and mutton cutlets and boiled potatoes. Then she paused, her eyes twinkling up at him through the mask. “Are you sure we have enough? Perhaps we should add another six courses or so.”

“I didn't know what you'd like, so I ordered everything that sounded appetizing.”

She uncovered the remaining dishes, her smile widening as she revealed sausages and cauliflower and pigeon pie, a capon in caper sauce and roast tongue, pickles and asparagus and a cucumber salad redolent with vinegar. Not to mention the Portugal cakes and tansy pudding that provided the final touch.

“Apparently you find the entirety of Clarendon's kitchen appetizing,” she teased. Then she added more earnestly, “It was truly lovely of you to do all this for me. You aren't. . . that is, I didn't expect
you
–I mean, the man who bought me–to be so generous.”

“Thank God I've managed to defy your expectations. You've been defying mine all night.”

“I do hate to be predictable.” She leaned low to sniff the pigeon pie, and her costume fell forward enough to reveal the lush, pale breasts hanging free within the satin sheath and lacy chemise. No corset. Good God. He thought his breeches would burst right there.

Nor did it help when she straightened, eyes gleaming, to pick up a bottle and ask, “Would you like
wine
, my lord?”

When coupled with that low, husky voice she'd adopted as a disguise, her blatant innuendo made him reel. “Are you offering me the beverage? Or something else?”

“Both, I think.”

Images of licking wine off every inch of her naked body flashed into his brain. Bloody hell, she was driving him mad. “Then I'll have the beverage.” When she actually looked disappointed, he added, “For now.”

Her tinkling laughter filled the room and made his loins tighten painfully. How much more of this teasing could he take?

She poured two glasses and handed him one with a knowing smile that made his blood thunder in his temples. Fighting to restrain his rampant urges, he held out her seat for her, then rounded the table to his own seat. Silence reigned for the next few moments as they filled their plates.

When she picked up her fork, he noted that she still refused to remove her gloves. The woman never ceased to surprise him. One moment she was offering him “wine,” and the next she was behaving with extreme propriety. Fortunately, that tiny glimpse of the real Lady Kingsley helped him bank some of his lust.

“Tell me something, Lord Warbrooke,” she said.

“Justin.” He took a couple of bites of the turbot.

“Justin. Of course.” She ate some pigeon pie as prettily as a duchess, then set down her fork. “You said earlier that you weren't married. Why not?”

He shrugged. “I never found the right woman, that's all.”

“Out of the hundreds of eligible women who parade through London every year in search of husbands, you couldn't find a single one to suit you?”

He took her skeptical tone for a challenge. Settling back in his seat, he folded his hands over his belly. “I don't fancy marrying some grabbing young female whose only object in life is to spend my money and flaunt my title under the noses of her friends.”

“My, my, you do think highly of your attractions. But surely not all women of good society are out to spend your money and flaunt your title.”

Impudent minx. “If they aren't, they're certainly hiding it well. At any rate, I have no time to separate the wheat from the chaff. Unlike most of my peers, I actually
do
something with my money and my title. I'm on the board of several charities, and I take my duties in Parliament very seriously. My mother and my sister eternally complain that I spend too much time and money on those activities. I can only imagine what a wife would have to say about it.”

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he swirled his wine. “Which is why I'd rather stick to keeping a mistress. Are you sure you won't fill the position?”