The Virgin's Auction (16 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Melissa and the widow were sitting eating breakfast when little Victoria entered. Victoria was the widow’s chambermaid, a sweet girl Melissa guessed to be twelve or thirteen years old.

“
Scuse me, Marm, the post has come,” she said, placing two envelopes by the elbow of her mistress.

“Thank you, Victoria,” said the widow, turning the first letter over to read the name of the sender. “Oh lovely!” she exclaimed in delight, breaking open the wafer with a thumbnail. “And this one is for you, dear, she continued absently, passing over the other envelope.

Melissa took it from her hand, mystified that anyone should write to her here. Was it an invitation? But no, the hand was familiar. It was Peter’s handwriting. She frowned. Why would he take the trouble to frank her a letter when he could talk to her so easily? Or no, it wasn’t franked, only sealed. She broke the seal and spread out the single sheet.

Melissa felt the blood drain from her face.

‘Dear Sister,

Perhaps you – a woman – cannot understand the dishonour of failing to pay one’s debts. I, however, have every intention of repaying our creditors and re-establishing our place in the world. I shall write again once I have done so.

Yours

Peter’

Convulsively she released the napkin clutched in her hand, letting it drop beside her half-emptied plate.

“Please excuse me, madam,” she said in a strangled voice, rising quickly from her place and –without waiting for a response – hurrying out the door and down the passage to the stairs. She passed Victoria, polishing the mahogany hallstand.

“Victoria, was Master Trevor’s bed slept in last night?”

“I couldn’t say for certain, Miss,” ventured the maid cautiously.

“Was it made up or were the covers thrown back?” Melissa’s voice was tight with tension.

“It was made up neat as a pin, to be sure, Miss.”

She felt her heart sink in despair. Peter never, ever made his own bed. He must have left sometime after dinner, which had been at six pm. Only Cook might have noticed he had not eaten breakfast, but then he often skipped breakfast altogether.

Sweeping up her skirts in one hand, she took the stairs two-at-a-time. He must have taken the stagecoach to London. He could not afford anything faster. Not with his pockets empty other than the small sum he had made from his gardening. She could use her funds to hire a carriage and four – ruinously expensive but a far better choice than trying to catch up with him on the stage when he had so many hours start.

She might be able to catch him before he reached London. No, she
must
catch him before that. Who knew where he would think to go, to look for their ‘creditors’. Ah, poor Peter all alone in wicked London.

With frenzied hands she rummaged through her small closet, snatching up a change of clothes,
hat, reticule, portmanteau and . . . her fumbling fingers found only air where she had expected her purse to be.

“What? Where…” She threw her armload aside onto the bed and returned to the closet, frantically sweeping the corners of the shelf, then the floor amongst her shoes. The shoes were flung out onto the rug, the closet emptied but still there was no sign of that precious purse with its load of hard-won notes and coins.

“Oh no. Oh
no
!
Peter
!”A sick churning clenched at her guts. She did not know if it was rage or despair she felt more. That foolish, prideful boy! Turned thief and stolen their future from them, then headed straight into the very trap she had fought so hard to escape.

She sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. This was catastrophic! No money, no way to chase him, and he with enough to travel impossibly swiftly if he only knew how to use it. Would anyone be foolish enough to hire out a carriage to a stripling boy? Surely not!

No, no time to despair. Perhaps the widow might lend her enough for a coach ticket to London; or Miss Parsit. It grated to even ask when she already felt she owed them dearly – let alone the explanation she must make of her need for funds – but that was immaterial if they might help her save Peter from himself.

She hurried back down the stairs but reached the bottom just as Mr
Carstairs was let into the house by Victoria. Confound it all, one catastrophe after another!

“Oh, and here she be right now, sir. Mr
Carstairs is here to see you, Miss.” The girl was all aflutter with having a gentleman in the house, her eyes bright and one hand laid on her chest.

“Thank you Victoria. That will be all,” Melissa dismissed her sharply, wondering how to get rid of him.

He stepped towards her, a cool look on his face, almost stern as he opened his mouth to say something.

His words died unspoken as he took in the wide, frightened eyes in her pale face.

He had seen that look before, in a crowded, smoky alehouse in London. He had planned to come here and with dignity make it clear she was safe from him, from any renewal of the offer she had found so unpleasant.

He was a gentleman.

Never, ever had he taken a woman against her will. And though everything he knew of women and their desires told him she lied, though he was certain her body craved his beyond reason, as he hers, still he believed she did not want it to be so.

Her words would be enough to control him; though it was a crime against nature to set aside such strong desire.

He wished she could see that as clearly as he, wished she knew how rare this connection was, brightly burning and nearly irresistible.

Still, he was no brute.

And whatever he had thought of the woman who had shared her body with him, or the dim, fluttering creature she had become here, in this village, he had not meant to rouse such repugnance.

His intention was to convey – through
a nice blend of haughtier and civility – his message of restraint. With good fortune he might not even have to mention it directly.

He had also thought – first and foremost – that he must find a re
ason to see her again; knowing that hunger was foolish, knowing it would only frustrate him more yet unwilling to deny himself that gut-clenching thrill of gazing upon her, seeing the reluctant response in her body as it inclined to him, the darting looks, the flared nostrils.

Certainly
she would think of him again – how could she not if she felt only half of what he did? He wondered if she would come to regret her stern denials.

He would like her to repent. He would like her to return to London and come to his house, all knowledge and heated challenge, to duel with him until they found their way back into his bed.

He thought she might if he only gave her room, for still he did not understand why she held back.

It was crazy.

Why deny each of them pleasure when they had already shared it and found it so good? Why refuse herself the luxury he offered when he had already demonstrated his willingness to lavish her with funds?

Yes, his restraint might win her over, and even if it did not it was still the correct course. Meanwhile in seeking
her out he had a final chance to match wits with her.

But that expression on her face shook him from his preoccupation with his own lust for her.

But that look on her face called to something deeper within him, pushing aside any other consideration.

Instinctively he caught up one of her cold hands and chafed it gently, concern and a bewildering desire to fight dragons for her rising simultaneously in his chest.

She raised her face to his, her jaw set mutinously, and he saw her rage against him was still there. Who would have guessed such a ferocious creature lurked behind the composure and bovine stupidity she had shown him by turns thus far?

She intrigued him more than any woman he’d ever met. He would know the secret of her. But first he must remove that awful fear she wore like a cloak.

“Something has happened, little one. What is it?” he said, bending his head close to hers and speaking softly so they would not be overheard.

“I cannot . . . that is, it is nothing; nothing for you to concern yourself over.” She pulled her hand free, walked quickly to the door and yanked it open. “Good day to you.”

“Ah, no.”
He stepped up beside her, placed his palm flat on the door and gently eased it closed again. “You cannot think I would leave you to cope with your problem alone? Come. Tell me all.”

“I wish you would go! I do not see how you can be of any use at all!” Her tone was angrily dismissive, but he took no offense.

“There’s no need to snip at me.” He took her hand again, feeling it lie small and bare in his own gloved one. He felt the fine tremors that seized her, and longed quite violently to keep her safe from whatever threatened her. Still holding her hand in his he led her the few steps into the parlour, she too dignified to struggle. He shut the door behind them.

“No point in sharing your troubles with the household. Now,” he put one large, warm hand on her shoulder and gave her the gentlest of shakes before pulling her against his broad chest and wrapping his arms comfortingly around her. “Tell me what has happened.”

“You presume too much,” she said. It sounded ridiculous, spoken into his body. And even as she said it, her hands crept up to hold him. It felt bizarrely wonderful. Had she ever had a man hold her like this? Never; nor wanted a man to do so.

Men were not made for comfort.

Yet he felt so solid, a calm rock in the midst of her terror. She buried her face in his jacket. Just for a moment. One breath of linen dried in the sunlight, and warm spice and clean male. Then she shoved him away. He didn’t move, so she was propelled a few feet across the carpet, whirling to turn her back on him as she went.

“No doubt.
Tell me anyway.”

“My brother P - Trevor has taken our money and gone to London.”
God. Oh God, it was all ruined if she could not catch him quickly.

“That was very ill-mannered of him,” he said in a puzzled tone, walking to her side to look down at her face. She kept her eyes averted. “Is it a great deal of money?” Was it her imagination the words were weighted with the implication of the twelve hundred pounds that had changed hands between them?

“Perhaps not great to some, but I was depending on it.” She bit her lip.

“Do you expect him to spend it all?”

“I . . . ah . . . yes. That is, spend it, give it away or have it stolen from him.”

“
Well certainly it is shocking that a boy should take his sister’s funds,” he paused, and Melissa flushed hotly as she thought of their shared knowledge of how her money had been earned. It was so wrong to have this conversation with him; with any person, but with him in particular; so wrong to put herself in his power in any way. But she was afraid. Terrified, and so alone. “He must be a hardened soul indeed if you think he will spend it all in the short time it will take for you to catch him.” Mr Carstairs teased her, his head bent towards her, his eyes gentle.

“Yes . . .
that is . . . no, not hardened or evil but . . . he thinks to repay a debt I have already paid off. I do not trust the person to whom he seeks to give the money. They may well take it from him then . . . pretend the transaction never occurred.” She tried to stitch it together into something that sounded plausibly coherent, and peeked at him from under her lashes. Would he accept her stammered explanation? The urge to tell him more, to – God! – lay the whole problem at his feet confused and appalled her. What was wrong with her?

He considered her words a long moment,
then seemed to make his mind up to something.

“Well let’s not waste any more time. We shall fly after him.”

“We?” she blinked at him stupidly, her mouth falling open. “Mr Carstairs, I do not think-”

“No, no time for arguing. You can argue on the way. Pack a bag and I’ll come and fetch you.”

“Fetch me?” she repeated blankly.

“We shall take my carriage, of course. Pack that bag quickly, for I shan’t be long.”

“Mr Carstairs, there is
absolutely
no way . . .”

But she was talking to thin air. With his firm tread he was swiftly out of the room and a moment
later the house. Through the front window Melissa watched him untie his horse and mount, stirring the big bay to a trot then a canter.

She gaped after him, astounded, thinking he must surely be deranged.
She to travel in his carriage? Mr Carstairs carriage, on the road to London? Alone with him for mile after mile, hour after hour; after the things she had said to him; the things they had done together.