Love's Portrait (5 page)

“Thank you, my lady. I have twenty pounds—do I hear forty while I share with Lady Plumton as to how I came by this silk square?” Julia turned back to the first bidder, her mannerism far from the restrained woman he was accustomed to seeing in his shipping office. “First I must tell you that I’m sworn to secrecy not to reveal the identity of the friend who acquired this infamous handkerchief.”

“I bid thirty pounds, Mrs. Westgard.” A matronly woman raised her hand to bid on the item. “How did your friend acquire the handkerchief? Is it from one of St. Claire’s discarded lovers?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fellowes. No, this item was not given freely. It was taken right from underneath the great man’s nose itself. My friend, who shall go nameless, entered the lion’s den, simply to acquire this handkerchief.”

“Good heavens! Do you mean your friend…oh my word.” Mrs. Fellowes went silent.

“I bid fifty pounds if you tell us what lion’s den, Mrs. Westgard,” said a timid looking young woman on the front row.

Julia, hazel eyes shining with mischief, moved to the other side of the room and smiled at the bidder. Folding his arms across his chest, he bit back a grin. The minx was enjoying keeping these women on tenterhooks.

“Thank you for that bid, Miss Alverton. In fact, the lion’s den was no other than…” Julia paused for effect. “Morgan St. Claire’s very own room at the Clarendon.”

The collective gasps in the room merely widened Julia’s smile, and her mischievous pleasure made it difficult for him to restrain his laughter.“Oh no, Mrs. Westgard…surely not.” The woman called Miss Alverton shook her head in horror.

“I’m afraid so, although my friend confessed it was a frightening adventure.”

With a dramatic gesture, she held up his handkerchief for inspection. “As you can see, here are the illustrious initials of the man himself. So which of you lovely ladies dares to own a genuine Morgan St. Claire handkerchief? All without having succumbed to the man’s licentious charms?”

Her blithely spoken words made his muscles tense with annoyance. Licentious. The woman was about to find out just how unrestrained he could be in the bedroom, and he’d make damn sure she was begging for more before he finished with her. Relaxing back into his seat, he studied Julia’s lush, voluptuous figure.

He knew what hid beneath that modest gray dress of hers. His eyes narrowed as he watched her continue to encourage the bidding for the handkerchief. The snug material of her gown clung with seductive longing to her breasts. The pattern slid downward to a pointed vee, just below her waist, before the material covered her hips in a graceful swag to the bustle behind her.

The image of her portrait entered his mind, and he visualized exactly what that vee was pointing too. A nest of reddish-brown curls lay beneath that meek gown, and he had every intention of exploring the velvety folds those curls covered—and soon.

“Do I have any more bids ladies? I have a hundred pounds from Lady Plumton, do I hear a hundred twenty?”

“Two hundred pounds.” He watched as the sound of his voice reached her. The color drained from her face as she finally caught sight of him in the rear of the room. For a long, dramatic moment, the room was fraught with a loud silence that only sheer astonishment could create. Seconds later, a bevy of excited whispers erupted in the room with dozens of eyes fixed on him. He ignored all but one woman in room and arched his eyebrows at Julia.

“I…Mr. St. Claire…I…I don’t think this auction is open to bidders outside of the Society for Lost Angels.”

“I see. Lady Eldred, I was given to understand that my bid would be welcome today, did I misunderstand?” Slowly rising to his feet, his gaze sought and met Lady Eldred’s mortified expression.

His hostess’s plump face flushed with embarrassment, and he watched the older woman rise to her feet and nod. “Yes, Mr. St. Claire, I did tell you we’d be delighted to have you bid at our auction. I…I failed to mention this to you before the meeting started, Mrs. Westgard. I do apologize, my dear.”

The woman turned toward Julia, whose face resembled a statue. Despite her lack of emotion, the anger in her tight smile was more than evident. He could almost see her brain working on a way to escape the trap into which she’d stumbled.

“Well then, Lady Eldred, Mrs. Westgard, since I’d like to bid on this item, I repeat my bid of two hundred pounds.”

“But you—” She glared at him as he smiled. Sweet Jesus, she was captivating when she was angry. And she wasn’t just angry, she was furious. His smile broadened.

“Two hundred pounds, Mrs. Westgard. Do I hear any other bids?” He glanced around the room, enjoying the looks of shock and curiosity on the faces of the women surrounding him.

“I bid three hundred pounds.” Confidence glowed from Julia’s features again as she tilted her head at a stubborn angle. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth and forced a polite smile to his lips.

“Four hundred.”

“Five.”

“One thousand.” Damn the minx. He’d extract a suitable punishment the moment he had her alone.

“Two thousand.”

A stand off. She was hell bent on saving herself from the wager she’d made. No doubt, she’d continue to outbid him until she was penniless. Her anger was almost tangible as he narrowed his eyes to study her. But he had no intention of letting her win. In fact, he intended to teach her a harsh lesson. No one—
no one
ever stole or cheated Morgan St. Claire.

“Before I make another bid, Mrs. Westgard, I’d like to view the merchandise.”

Without waiting for her agreement, he skirted the chairs in front of him, moving along the side of the room until he reach the front row where Julia was standing. As he drew near, her body was no longer supple and relaxed. Her stance was as rigid as a brick wall. He extended his hand and waited for her to drop the silk square into his palm. Although her face was serene, he saw her fingers tremble as she gave him the auction item. Bending his head, he pretended to study the handkerchief.

“You seem determine to win our wager, Julia, but I have no intention of losing.” He lifted his head to stare into her strained expression as she took in his quietly murmured words. “Shall I continue bidding or do I explain how you really came by this handkerchief.”

The sharp inhale of her breath indicated his words had struck home. He turned toward the waiting members of the Society.

“Ladies, I’m thoroughly convinced this is indeed my handkerchief, and I offer up a bid of five thousand pounds.”

He turned his head to look at Julia. The defeat was evident in her eyes. But it was the look of vulnerability in her hazel gaze that tugged at him. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but it was most certainly a disturbing one. She drew in a deep breath before forcing a smile to her mouth.

“Sold to Mr. St. Claire for five thousand pounds.”

The moment her words faded in the air, the room filled with the loud buzz of conversation. Watching Julia, he frowned. He should be feeling elated right now. He’d won. She would be in his bed soon. A sharp pang of regret rocked him as he drew in a quick breath at the realization that he wanted Julia to come to him willingly, not bought and paid for like a whore.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

Her eyes and face empty of emotion, she nodded her head at him. “You’ve won our wager, Mr. St. Claire. What time am I to present myself for your disposal?”

The cool mask of detachment angered him even more. The problem was—he wasn’t angry with her. He was furious with himself. When in the hell had he suddenly taken to bedding women who didn’t want anything to do with him? And there was no doubt she didn’t want anything to do with him.

Teeth clenched in frustration, he studied her in silence for a long moment. Beneath his gaze he saw the veneer of her cool composure crack slightly. No, he refused to bed a woman who was unwilling. But damn it, his body still wanted her. Suddenly, his lips curved upward.

Genuine pleasure filled him as he offered her the most charming, gentlemanly smile he possessed. Hazel eyes flashed with first surprise and then a guarded expression. He gave her a slight bow.

“Mrs. Westgard, are you planning on attending the St. Claire Fete next Friday?”

“I…yes…as an investor, it’s my obligation to make an appearance before the company’s employees.”

“Excellent. I hope you’ll save me a dance then. The party can sometimes be a bit rowdy, but I can assure you, I’ll not let you come to any harm.”

“I am quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr. St. Claire.”

“Indeed.” His smile broadened at the flush of irritation that tinged her cheeks as her lips tightened into a straight line. “Well, then. I’ll take my leave.”

“But I…”

“Yes?” He arched an eyebrow at her, fully aware that she was completely bewildered by his actions.

“I…I thought that…”

He nodded and leaned toward her, deliberately keeping his voice low. “Our wager still stands, my sweet. However, I think we should become better acquainted before payment is made.”

“Oh.”

“I look forward to our next meeting.”

Surprise and puzzlement pulled her mouth into a lovely pout. The sight stirred the beast in his trousers. Sweet Jesus, if they were alone—no, he needed to hold a calm and steady course with her. Julia was going to be the most difficult challenge he’d ever faced. But she was a prize he intended to win. With a quick nod, he turned and walked away. Time for a change in plans.

∫

Morgan threw his pencil down onto the open ledger in front of him in disgust. Leaning back into the soft leather of his office chair, he closed his eyes in pain. Hellfire and damnation, this headache was one of the worst he’d suffered in months. He dragged in a ragged breath as a wave of nausea roiled in his stomach.

Bloody hell, he should have gone back to his suite at the hotel an hour ago. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Welkins, always had some of his special tea ready for brewing and he could use the stuff now. The throbbing in his right temple hammered away at him, increasing the level of his pain. The sound of his office door opening was a banshee’s wail as the pins squealed in their hinges.

“Whoever you are, get the hell out of here, or I’ll cut your heart out,” he snarled, refusing to open his eyes as the light made the pain worse.

“I believe you would.”

Julia’s cool tone caught him by surprise. His eyes flew open to meet her haughty gaze. What the devil was she doing here? Another sharp pain gripped his temple, and he closed his eyes again as he swallowed a groan. God damn it, he didn’t want her to see him this way. It made him appear weak, and the last thing he wanted was Julia Westgard thinking that he, Morgan St. Claire, was weak.

“Go home, Julia. I’m not in the mood for any questions today.”

“Well, I am. I noticed The Merry Widow’s manifest indicated it brought into port a cargo of tea, spice and silk. I was wondering if this was a normal shipment. She’s made the same run on other occasions, but in less time.”

He didn’t give a bloody farthing how fast or slow the Widow was, he just wanted her to leave him be before he lost the small meal he had eaten at the noon hour. Gripping the arms of his chair, he lurched to his feet.

“Get out, Julia.” His wounded roar filled the office and accentuated the throb in his temple. With great effort, he barely suppressed the churning in his stomach. “Get out now or I’m likely to say or do something we’ll both regret.”

His strength ebbing away, he collapsed into his chair. Eyes closed, he waited to hear the obnoxious sound of the door closing behind her. Instead, he heard the quiet rustle of taffeta rounding the corner of his desk.

“Damn it, Julia. I want you out of here.”

“Hush, it’s obvious you’re not well.” The warmth of her hand rested on his forehead for a brief moment as if checking for a fever. “Do you suffer from migraines often?”

“Yes,” he growled.

Her fingers gently stroked his throbbing head. The light touch on his skin could have been a feather, but it was enough pressure to ease his pain a small fraction. Inhaling a deep breath, he released it as her fingers slid through his hair to soothe his scalp. Beyond the door, he heard the noisy workings of his staff. He was grateful for the buffer, but he knew he’d have to traverse through the outer office to reach his carriage.

“You should be at home, resting.” The gentle whisper made him catch her hand and halt her healing caress.

“I had work to do.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m going home for some peace and quiet.”

Forcing himself to stand, he gripped the edge of the desk to keep from swaying as the pain in his temple lashed out with the renewed strength of a hot branding iron. A quiet noise of disgust flew from her lips, but he was too focused on remaining upright to look at her. Her firm hand pressed against his arm as he willed the churning in his stomach to stop.

“Sit down, now. I’ll order your carriage and call one of the men to help you outside.”

“No,” he rasped as loudly as his head could bear. “I’ll walk out of this office under my own volition. I’m not some weak fool, unable to handle a minor headache.”

She made a sound that was quite close to a snort. It made him want to smile. If he’d not been feeling so miserable, he would have.

“You’re a stubborn man, Morgan St. Claire.”

“Yes.”

“I propose a compromise. I’ll order your carriage, and when it arrives, I’ll help you reach it safely.”

The idea of Julia Westgard escorting him to his carriage struck him as terribly funny. No more like humiliating. But he didn’t have the strength left to argue. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time he’d let the woman have her way.

“Fine.” Sinking back down into his chair, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the warmth of the burgundy leather.

The whisper of taffeta echoed in the office as she moved toward the door. He waited for the squeal of the pins in the hinges. When it came, the sound made him flinch. The throbbing pressure in his temple reinforced its message that he remain still. He complied. If he didn’t he’d never make it out of the shipping office without showing his staff he was nothing more than a weakling.