The Widow's Auction (2 page)

That evening, Justin
did something he wouldn't have considered under any other circumstances. He agreed to join the odious Lord Bradford for dinner at the Mayfair Bachelors' Club.

Justin had never had a desire to join or even visit Bradford's club. The organization was made up of young rascals, all of whom competed to see who could be the more debauched. But thanks to this morning's disastrous meeting of the governing board, he needed the young earl's vote. If Bradford voted with Lady Kingsley, others might be swayed to their side and that simply wouldn't do.

Lady Kingsley. He snorted. If not for that bloody woman voicing her unfounded opinions this morning, he'd be having a nice dinner at home instead of having to endure some undoubtedly inedible meal in Bradford's company. He still smarted over her parting jabs about his motives for serving on charitable boards. The lady had to be the most annoyingly superior creature in Christendom.

And it was a pity, too. Because beneath her lofty airs lay a pretty woman whose good taste, fine breeding, and intelligence would make her a very good wife for some man. That is, if any man could put up with her high-minded nonsense long enough to marry her.

Bradford met him at the door as he arrived, then quickly led him into a cavernous room packed with gentlemen. A stench of sweat and tobacco and brandy hung in the air, exacerbated by the summer heat. Justin surveyed the mob with distaste. “Is it always this crowded on a Friday evening?”

“Only tonight. It's the Widows' Auction.”

That's when he noticed the dais erected at the front of the room for the occasion and the array of masked females lined up to one side of it. Good God, the infamous Widows' Auction. That explained the smell of lust permeating the room. He should've guessed Bradford would frequent a club notorious for such nonsense. “Perhaps we should go elsewhere–”

“No, indeed!” Bradford nudged him in the ribs and winked madly. “Where's your spirit, man? I never miss this. You'll like it. It's great fun. Who knows? You might even find a lady worth having for an evening.”

Justin shot Bradford a skeptical look, but Bradford missed it in his eagerness to assess the “goods” being offered. Justin sighed. If he wanted Bradford's vote, he'd have to endure this. At least until the man bid on some hapless female and took her off.

“Very well,” Justin said, though the whole thing disgusted him. He supposed it wasn't any different than taking a mistress or bedding a soiled dove, both of which he'd done often enough in his salad days. The act of love was a viable tender in all levels of English society. But an auction made it seem so much more blatant.

As they took seats at a back table, a servant scurried over to offer them wine and take their order for dinner. At the front of the room, an auctioneer barked attributes of women as if they were horses on the block at Tattersall's. Justin shivered involuntarily. What woman in her right mind submitted to such a bloodless description of her fine qualities? And then to go off with the highest bidder. . . 

But a glance around the room told him no one else shared his distaste. The other men cried their bids with regularity, heedless of the lewd comments and jesting of their companions. Even the woman presently on the dais seemed to revel in the attention, for when some balding fellow won the bid and went to claim her, she smiled as sweetly as a schoolgirl.

Justin shook his head. There was no accounting for human behavior, was there? He turned back to Bradford, whose attention was fully engaged by the activity on the dais. “Now about this proposal of mine–”

“Give it a rest, won't you, old fellow?” Bradford interrupted. “We can talk about all that later. Don't know why you even care what happens with that damned school anyway. A man like you dabbling in all this reform nonsense. . . I tell you this–once I inherit the title and I'm not on Father's leash anymore, I'll flee that governing board at once. Boring stuff, all of it.”

“Some of us see it as our Christian duty,” Justin said tightly.

“Well, I'm not one of them.” He flicked his hand toward the dais with a smug grin.
“That's
my Christian duty–looking after the widows and orphans. That's what the Bible says to do, y'know.”

If Bradford had ever read one word of a Bible, Justin would be much surprised. “Somehow I don't think this is what the writers of the Bible had in mind.”

“Don't be so sanctimonious. You're not exactly immune to lust yourself. I've seen how you eye Lady Kingsley in those meetings.”

Justin started. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Lofty Kingsley of the governing board. Personally, I think Mrs. Chambers would be a bit warmer in bed, but I wouldn't kick Lady Kingsley out if she showed up in mine, to be sure. And judging from how fiercely you two spar, I'll wager you wouldn't kick her out of yours either.”

“That's absurd. I've never thought of Lady Kingsley in that way.”

“Not even when she wears that dark blue gown that's a little too smug? The one that makes her bubbies stick out in front, and her bottom look plump enough to make a man want to sink his teeth–”

“Not even then,” Justin snapped. “And you shouldn't talk so crudely of Lady Kingsley. She's not that kind of woman.”

Devil take Bradford. Bad enough that Justin had indeed thought of her “in that way” from time to time. Hearing that Bradford did, too, annoyed him in the extreme.

It was ludicrous anyway. The woman would never countenance attentions from either of them. She filled out her gowns well, but so did cold marble. And her rigid morality was surpassed only by her worshipful adoration of her late husband.

Those two must have made quite the dull pair. Justin had barely known the viscount, but Lady Kinglsey spoke of him as if he were a saint. No doubt her background was equally colorless and respectable, or Saint Kingsley would never have married her. And she wouldn't be continuing his legacy with such single-minded determination.

Not that he didn't admire what she'd done with Kingsley's charities. But a young woman ought to have more of a life than a short marriage and a long widowhood, locked away from the world like some pharaoh's wife in a sarcophagus, waiting to join her lord and master in the afterlife.

He looked at the dais. Then again, some widows
ought
to be locked away. He'd never seen so many gaudily dressed, overpainted females in all his life, tittering and gabbling in their low-cut gowns and feather-trimmed masks. He wouldn't pay a farthing for the lot of them.

Except perhaps for the one being led onto the dais now.

“Deuce take it, would you look at that blonde,” Bradford broke in. “What a fine wench. A damned beauty, I'll bet. It's a pity about the masks–stupid rule, if you ask me, though easily got round if the woman agrees. Most of 'em do. . . given a little persuasion.” He winked at Justin, who shot him a baleful glance in return.

But Justin couldn't keep his gaze from the dais for long. He hated to agree with Bradford, but that was indeed a “fine wench.” Her freely flowing blond hair stood out among the indeterminate brown and hennaed coiffures of her companions. Her simple white satin mask covered the upper part of her face, allowing only a glimpse of her eyes through the slits, though it did expose a generous, soft mouth and flushing cheeks. Like Bradford, he wished he could see the rest, but he had to admit that the mask heightened her allure. Beneath it lay the mysteries of a woman, mysteries any man would want to explore.

Especially when coupled with her gown, a classical Roman sort of thing, probably a leftover costume from some masquerade ball. The white satin draped her curves suggestively, skimmed her breasts and hips so snugly that it drew a man's eye inexorably to her attractions.

Which were ample and unmistakably female. He cursed when his loins grew heavy. But he wasn't made of stone, after all.

“What's your name, luv?” the auctioneer asked the woman.

“Now see here,” she said in an oddly imperious voice, “I thought this was supposed to be anonymous.”

Everybody laughed at her haughtiness, including Justin. Where had they found this impudent chit?

Strange, but her voice sounded familiar. He'd swear he'd heard it before, and recently, too.

“Not your real name, luv,” the auctioneer said, smiling. “Your auction name. Don't want the gentleman wot buys you calling you ‘wench' all night, do you? Just choose a pretty name. Like Lilith, perhaps, or Delilah.”

“I certainly will not! If I must choose an immoral name, at least it will be something original. And certainly nothing as appallingly obvious as that!”

As laughter rolled from the audience, Justin's eyes narrowed. This morning a certain unyielding woman had called his ideas “appalling” in just that superior tone of voice.

No, it was impossible. Unthinkable. Lady Kingsley? She would never do something like this.

Or would she? She was a widow, after all. And she had the same blond hair and the same height and build as this woman. Not to mention the superior manner. Despite how he tried to banish the absurd thought, it continued to niggle in his brain. He leaned forward, wishing he could move closer still.

“Give us a name, luv,” the auctioneer prodded.

The woman steadied herself. “You may call me Bella,” she said primly.

His heart hammered in his chest. Lady Kingsley's given name was Isobel, but he'd once heard Mrs. Chambers call her Bella. That was too much of a coincidence, given the other similarities.

Impossible it might be, and unthinkable it certainly was, but the woman on that dais was Lady Kingsley all the same. He'd stake his fortune on it.

The little morally superior hypocrite! She had no business looking down her nose at
him
when she was here offering her body in a highly scandalous auction.

It made no sense at all. Why would she do such a thing? Could it be for the money? From what he understood, the participating widows did receive a substantial portion of the proceeds, but surely Kingsley had left her well enough off that she didn't need to do
this
.

Not for herself, at any rate. But might she do it for the sake of her precious scholarly endowments, her new pet project? It would be just like her to go to such lengths to thwart him.

Whatever her reasons, the bloody woman was insane to do this. No doubt about it.

The auctioneer began his pitch, describing Lady Kingsley's assets with a boldness that made her duck her head. But not before he'd glimpsed the scarlet blush on the part of her face showing beneath the mask.

Good. She
ought
to be embarrassed, damn it. And what had she expected? This was a bachelors' club, for God's sake. They didn't mince words.

All the same, he grew inexplicably annoyed when her blushing drew laughter and sly comments from the men in the crowd.

“I say,” Bradford spoke up beside him, “I think I know that little filly. Does she seem familiar to you?”

Justin froze. Bad enough that Justin had guessed her identity, but if Bradford did, he'd ruin the woman for certain. The thought didn't sit well. “Never seen the chit before in my life.”

“I could swear–”

“Do you come to this auction every year?” Justin broke in.

“Wouldn't miss it.”

“Then perhaps you saw her here before.”

Bradford's frown cleared. “You must be right.” He settled back against his chair with a smug smile. “Might even be the one I bid on last year. She was yellow-haired and saucy, too, though a bit plumper. Still, could be the same one. I hope it is, for that one gave me quite the night to remember. You know these widows, randy as hell without a man in their bed. Think I'll bid on this Bella.”

Bloody hell. Justin had meant to squelch Bradford's interest, not fuel it. “Do as you please, but she looks pale and sickly to me. Hardly worth the money.” And if Bradford believed that, then he didn't have eyes in his head.

Unfortunately, Bradford's eyes were securely in place in. and in good working order, too. The second the auctioneer solicited bids, Bradford bid fifty pounds.

Justin didn't stop to think; he just reacted. “Seventy-five pounds!” he called out.

“What the devil are you doing?” Bradford hissed. “I told you I wanted her. You trying to show me up? Is that it?”

“I want the woman for myself, that's all,” Justin said coolly. “You told me I might find a wench worth bidding on, and I have.”

It would cost him Bradford's vote on the proposal, not to mention God knows how much money, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't about to let Bradford win her. Bradford would take advantage, blackmail her into sharing his bed. The very thought chilled Justin's blood. One thing he knew–no matter what maggoty reason she had for coming here, Lady Kingsley would
not
enjoy any liaison with Bradford.

Besides, Justin had reasons of his own for wanting to win her. He wanted to know precisely why she was doing this. He wanted to see how far she'd take it.

And yes, some ungentlemanly part of him wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine. Lecture
him
on morality, would she? After tonight, she wouldn't try
that
again, not if he had anything to say about it. Oh, yes, he'd make her eat her words, he would.

But first he'd give her enough rope to hang herself. Let her quake in her boots when she saw who won the bid. Let her think he truly meant to bed her. If that didn't mortify her into begging his mercy, he didn't know what would. The foolish woman
needed
to be mortified if she was going to embark on idiotic schemes like this.

No, what she needed was to have someone strike the fear of God into her. Which he fully intended to do. Judging by her blushes, this was her first time at the Widows' Auction. She couldn't possibly realize how foolish, how dangerous this game was for a woman with her sheltered upbringing.