The Widow's Auction (5 page)

“Certainly not!”

At this hint of the real Lady Kingsley, he couldn't help laughing. “Such a disappointment. You'll force me to seek out one of those bits of muslin who cavort through the theaters.”

She stared down at her plate. “You
could
look for a wife who might support your aims.”

Like her. It was an intriguing thought, one he'd had before. But he'd always been stopped by two things–her overly fastidious moral sense and her adoration of her late husband. While the first was obviously in question, the second still rankled. He didn't fancy following an act like Henry Lamberton.

And even if he could, he could never get past her dislike of him. Even if at the moment that dislike seemed decidedly absent.

“I haven't had much luck finding a wife who'd ‘support my aims,' ” he replied. “In my experience, most women of good society would rather entertain callers and redecorate their town houses.” All except Lady Kingsley, that is.

She cut her meat with precise little jabs. “Isn't that what you'd. . . um. . . want of your wife? Someone who'd tend the home fires while you're out
doing
something with your money and your title? Someone who'd stay behind the scenes to make you look good?”

“Good God, no. . . er. . . Bella.” Bloody hell, he'd almost called her Lady Kingsley and given himself away. It was easy to think of her as the alluring Bella when she was melting in his arms, but not so easy when she started talking like the officious viscountess. “Such a soft-brained creature sounds deadly dull.” He shot her a perplexed look. “Why would you assume I'd want that sort of wife?”

Swallowing, she concentrated on dicing her potato into bits. “Men with political aspirations usually prefer it.”

He pounced on her slip. “And what makes you think I have political aspirations?”

Her head shot up, her face showing panic. “I-I. . . isn't that why you serve on all those boards and such? What other reason would a marquess have for doing so?”

Still smarting from her earlier allegations, he snapped, “Can't a man with political aspirations also have a social conscience? And be interested in politics precisely because of that conscience?” He leaned back and glared at her, daring her to repeat her unfair assertions from this morning.

But she mostly seemed surprised by his statement. “Well. . . I. . . yes, I suppose so.”

He relaxed. “That's why I'd prefer a wife who'd participate in activities where she felt useful–either to me or to others. If that turned out to be working for reform at my side, I'd welcome it.”

Suddenly it occurred to him that he might use this conversation to coax her into revealing her true identity. “Besides, there are times when a woman's fine instincts and knowledge of domestic life can be a real asset, especially on charitable boards.”

“Oh?”

“Take, for example, a governing board I serve on for a boys' school.” He drank some wine, gazing at her over the rim of the glass, but she wouldn't look at him. “With coal prices being what they are and our budget limited, we were having trouble heating the two large halls the boys slept in. It took a woman on the board to figure out that we were attacking the problem from the wrong angle. Instead of heating the rooms, she said, we needed to heat the beds.”

Bella seemed to have developed an inordinate interest in her cucumber salad, given the way she dredged the slices back and forth through the dressing.

He went on. “Lady Kingsley suggested that during the day we store the boys' blankets in a closet adjacent to the chimneys that lead from the kitchens. She also said the lads should put hot bricks from the oven into their beds every evening before bedtime. Between the warmed blankets and the bricks, the boys are kept quite comfy, and we aren't forced to pay exorbitant prices for extra coal.”

“What a good idea.” She lifted a smug gaze to him. “This Lady Kingsley sounds very resourceful.”

He stifled a grin. “Oh, yes, very resourceful indeed. But then it takes a woman to be resourceful in such matters. We men would have spent all our time trying to figure out how to lower the cost of coal in England so we could afford to purchase more for heating Lamberton School.”

She laughed, and the warm sound settled in his chest. They are in a companionable silence for a few moments.

But he wasn't done with her yet. “Of course, those womanly instincts and emotions can sometimes also be a liability.”

“How so?”

“I recently suggested that we build a factory on the grounds of the school. And this same astute lady–reacting as the gently bred creature that she is–opposed it without even listening to my proposal.”

She drew her mouth up in a mutinous line. “Perhaps the idea of child labor revolted her.”

“Ah, but these are older boys, eager to learn a skill and find ways to support their parents and siblings. Besides which, I don't mean to have them do anything taxing. The way I envision it, the factory's activities can be integrated with their studies. They'll learn about mathematics in class, then see it applied at the factory. They'll learn how to run a business through the factory, then be more motivated to read those books and essays that inspired the men of trade who went before them.”

“I see. It does sound. . . rather intriguing when you put it like that.” She toyed with a piece of asparagus, twirling it round and round on her plate with her fork. “And did the other members of your board approve of this idea?”

“Some of them. Not all.” He broke off some bread and buttered it. “In fact, that's why I was at that auction–I was trying to convince Lord Bradford to support my position.”

Her gaze shot to his. “But you bid against him!”

“Yes. I bid against him.” He added dryly, “I think it's safe to say that I've lost
his
support.”

“Why would you do that? Enter into a foolish bidding competition when it went against your best interests to do so?”

Tossing the bread aside, he leaned forward to clasp her hands. “Because I couldn't bear to see a woman as lovely and refined as you in the clutches of a man like him.”

The blood drained from her face. “So you were trying to. . . to protect me?”

He nodded. All right, so that wasn't all he'd wanted to do, but that had certainly been part of it.

“You weren't really wanting to spend the night with a widow at all?” she asked in a small voice.

“No. It's not my sort of entertainment. I only bid because Bradford did.”

Drawing her hands free of his grasp, she murmured, “Then you don't really want to bed me.”

Her plaintive tone confused him. “It's not that I don't
want
to bed you exactly. . . it's just that–”

“I should have known.” Her head was bowed, and she kept twisting her hands together. “I was afraid of this–that I might lack the figure and the. . . the female attractions to tempt a man like you–”

“Good God, I only wish that were true,” he broke in. She was making him feel awful. And were those tears glimmering in her eyes, for God's sake? “See here, Bella, there isn't a bloody thing wrong with your figure or your female attractions. If this were a different situation, I'd already have you naked in that bed.”

Her startled gaze swung to him. “What do you mean–a different situation? Even if you started out by trying to protect me–and I do appreciate that–you did win me. And you can tell I'm willing to go through with my end of it. I
want
to be naked in that bed, so why not take advantage of it?”

“Because you only think you want it, that's why! You don't really want it.”

She rose from the chair, her eyes bright. “You have
no
idea what I want!”

“Not a sordid night with a stranger, I'll wager.” He rose from his chair, too, his blood running hot as he waited, hoping she'd admit that he wasn't a stranger to her. When she only glanced away, he snapped, “No matter what your foolish reasons for participating in that auction, you couldn't possibly have known what you were getting yourself into.”

“I knew precisely what I was getting myself into: a night with a man. That's all I wanted!”

“Someone who might abuse you or hurt you?” He dropped his voice to a threatening murmur. “You don't know what men can be like.”

Her head snapped around, her fierce eyes boring into him. “Then perhaps you should show me!”

Without warning, she began to unfasten the ties that held her flimsy satin costume together, and all the blood in his body rushed to one inexorable spot.

She freed the last tie, then shimmied defiantly out of her gown to reveal a chemise so sheer he could see the tips of her breasts straining against the silk. He couldn't help it–he gaped at them, his mouth going dry at the sight.

“Devil take you, Bella!” His muscles tightened, and the heaviness of his desire settled between his thighs. “You won't stop this madness until I give you a taste of what you think you want, will you?”

That seemed to provoke her even further. With a grim, determined smile, she thrust her breasts up for his perusal. That made it even worse, for the loving drape of the silk left nothing to the imagination. They were perfect–as plump and luscious as he'd imagined in his fevered fantasies of her.

She strode up to him, practically daring him to touch her. “If you want me naked in that bed, Justin, then do something about it. Because no matter what your reasons for bidding, you paid a lot of money for one night with me. So I think it's time you put your mouth where your money is.”

When she began to unbutton her chemise, revealing her lovely bare skin inch by inch, all his control snapped. Taking the few steps to meet her, he caught her head in his large hands. Need surged through him as he stared down at the full, tempting lips and the eyes that gleamed mysteriously behind the white satin mask.

He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her.

She'd made him desperate to bed her, but it was impossible. Because it wasn't only Bella he'd be bedding, but Lady Kingsley, too. And though Lady Kingsley seemed to think she wanted this, once she came to her senses, she'd hate him for taking advantage of her whim. She'd never be able to face him across the table at meetings, and their encounter would lie solidly between them until it became an ugly thing they couldn't get around.

He wished there could be more between them. But much as he'd teased her about taking her for his mistress, that would never work. Nor could he marry a woman still in love with the gentle Saint Henry. What Justin felt for her wasn't gentle, and he'd be damned if he'd compete with her late husband for her affections.

But he could at least make her see the idiocy of what she was doing. “Never say I didn't warn you,” he growled, then brought his mouth down hard on hers.

He'd tried to be careful before, heedful of the sort of woman she was and sure that she'd stop him at any moment. But now anger rode him, anger and desire and a need to put her silly notions to rest once and for all. So he spared her nothing in that kiss, taking her mouth with all the passion he was capable of, making sure not to blunt the force of his desire in any way.

But she didn't seem to mind. Her mouth was eager beneath his, warm and open and yielding. She tugged at his coat until he shrugged out of it, and then she went to work on his waistcoat buttons.

A haze of need fogged his brain. He filled his hands with her breasts, reveling in the full weight of them, the nipples that pebbled beneath his touch even through the fabric. Oh, God, she was soft. . . and sweet and more woman than he'd ever imagined. He had to taste her or he'd go mad.

Trailing kisses down her neck, he shoved her chemise off her shoulders and down far enough to bare both breasts–both beautiful, bountiful breasts. They made his mouth water. He dropped to one knee so he could kiss them properly.

She smelled of lemons and woman–a scent designed to entice. And it was working, too. All he wanted was to lay her out and take her like a savage.

He settled for taking her breast in his mouth instead, laving it with his tongue, teasing the sweet little nipple with his teeth. When she uttered a groan and arched into him, that only maddened him further. He sucked and caressed her lush breast endlessly, fondling the other with his hand, until he was so aroused he thought he'd erupt right there.

Bloody hell, he must end this soon, before he did something he regretted, before he cried out her real name.

Which he now realized he could never do. They might not have lain together, but they'd done and said enough to mortify her for life. So it was best that she think he hadn't guessed her identity. Then she could return to her real life without embarrassment, repenting only in private the reckless encounter from which she'd escaped by the skin of her teeth.

But before he thrust her aside, he'd give her something reckless to repent, by God.

So he slowly slipped his hand under her chemise. . . 

Isobel was already
half in ecstasy from what Justin was doing to her breasts. Henry had never even touched her breasts, but Justin made up for it with his wicked lips and flicking tongue. Who would have dreamed it could feel this exciting to have a man's mouth there? The way he teased and sucked. . . it sent a luscious heat melting down through her belly, down. . . down. . . 

To where his hand was sliding under her chemise. A thrill of awareness shot through her. He was going to touch her down
there
, in her secret place. She held her breath, half-afraid, half-eager. But when his finger burrowed through her tangled curls to stroke the flesh already aching for a caress, she thought she'd jump out of her skin.

The sensations were so intense that she dug her fingers into his shoulders. His mouth grew fierce and devouring on her breast, and his finger. . . oh, dear heaven, his finger! It was
inside
her, for pity's sake, delving inside her with a deft stroke that made her gasp. He delved again, more deeply, and she squirmed. It felt so good. Strange, but good.

Soon he had two fingers inside her and was using his thumb to fondle a sensitive spot that sent her right out of her mind. Ohhh, the things he was doing with those devilish fingers! A tension built between her legs, a tension that he fed with every stroke and caress.

She'd never imagined such a thing! It was better than kissing, better by far. . . better than anything. . . so very exciting. . . Oh, Lord, now the tension grew almost unbearable, making her strain against him to get more, feel more of those magical fingers.

Until suddenly the tension peaked, sending her soaring into a realm of pleasure she'd never, ever known.

A cry erupted from her mouth. . . his name, over and over. That seemed to encourage him further. He went on fondling her until she peaked again more fiercely, her hands tearing at his shirt, her throat hoarse from her cries.

Only when her knees buckled did he stop, drawing his hands from beneath her chemise to steady her. His mouth left her breast, and his eyes shone with need as he gazed up at her. She reveled in it. Who would have ever guessed that Lord Warbrooke was capable of such intensity? Or that he could show a woman such pleasures?

She cupped his face, fumbling for words to express how wonderful it had been and how eagerly she anticipated the rest, but he jerked away from her touch.

Her heart caught in her throat as he rose slowly to his feet. To her shock, he pulled the chemise back up to cover her breasts. Reaching for the ties, he began to fasten them again, and she caught his hand. “Stop that! What are you doing?”

He stepped back from her, his breath coming in unsteady gasps. “You've had your taste. That ought to be enough.”

“But. . . but we're not finished!” She knew enough about lovemaking to know
that
, for pity's sake.

His eyes glittered in the stark hunger of his face. “Yes, we are. That's as much as you're getting from me tonight, Bella.”

She blinked. It took a few seconds for his words to register, but when they did, her heart dropped into her stomach.

How could he make her want him, then turn around and refuse her so cruelly? She'd begun to believe he wasn't the man she'd thought, that he wasn't at all the calculating creature eager for power that she'd assumed.

But perhaps she'd been wrong to trust all his kind words and sweet attentions.

“Why?” she whispered. An awful possibility suddenly occurred to her. “Is it because I did something wrong? I failed to excite you?”

“God preserve me from stupid women!” He threaded his fingers through his hair in clear frustration. “I can hardly stay on my feet for the weight of my arousal, and you can ask such a bloody foolish thing?”

Her gaze shot to his trousers, which did seem to be rather. . . filled out. “Then why not satisfy your urges? And mine?”

Hot, wanton need flared in his face. “Good God, woman, don't you understand? Any satisfaction of your ‘urges,' any pleasure you might feel if we make love, won't last beyond tonight. Not for a woman like you.”

A chill went through her. A woman like her? Could he have guessed that she was Lady Kingsley? Could all of this be just his way of tormenting her?

No, how could that be? Surely if he'd guessed, he would have said something by now. Lord Warbrooke would never have kept silent on such a subject. And the way he'd kissed her and caressed her. . . well, she couldn't imagine Lord Warbrooke taking such liberties with a woman he'd always seemed to dislike.

Still, to be safe. . . “What kind of woman do you think I am? What could you possibly know about me, aside from the fact that I'm a masked widow who participated in a scandalous auction?”

He averted his gaze from her. “I don't have to know–I can easily guess it. You're a lady of breeding. It's in your speech, your bearing, your superior attitude.” Striding over to a tray of brandy and glasses, he poured himself a generous portion. “I'll wager you spent your childhood at a country estate under your father's tender protection, then went straight to London for your coming out, where you met your ‘amiable' man who never lifted a hand to you a day in his life.”

He gulped down some brandy, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And after the man you loved died and left you alone, you couldn't bear the emptiness of your life without him, so you got some maggoty idea in your head about this bloody auction.”

He whirled on her, eyes flashing. “But you aren't the kind to dally with men for sport. You're the kind to feel shame after it's done, to torture yourself for giving in to your ‘wicked' impulses. And frankly, I don't want to be the one you hate for encouraging them.” Knocking back another swig of brandy, he shifted his gaze to the fireplace. “I don't want to be the man to defile the memory of the husband you seem to have worshiped.”

She wanted to laugh. Him and his noble impulses–he was worse than Henry. In fact, she began to think he might even be a better man than Henry, in more ways than one. But that made her yearn all the more to share his bed.

“Oh, Justin, your protectiveness is very sweet, but entirely unnecessary. Yes, I did worship my husband. Shall I tell you why?”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “I'd rather you didn't.”

“Too bad. I think you should hear. Especially when you persist in these strange notions about me.”

She took a steadying breath. She'd never told a soul in good society these things, and it wasn't easy to relate them now. Especially to
him
. If not for the safety of her disguise, she could never say it. “I worshiped my late husband because I was grateful for what he'd done for me. You see, he's the one who saved me from a life of drudgery in a cotton mill.”

His gaze swung back to her, confused, incredulous. “What?”

“This ladylike faÇade you see before you is precisely that. A faÇade.” Bitterness crept into her voice. . . and regret that she could never be a real lady, no matter how much she tried. She would always be an impostor. “This image was built through years of education and countless lessons in etiquette and deportment. It took tutors and dance instructors and–”

“I don't believe you.”

She let herself fall into an accent long in disuse, a manner of speaking as foreign to her now as her “proper lady” role sometimes felt. “Well, sir, it ain't my problem if you believe it or no.”

Jerking off her gloves, she approached him and thrust her hands up to his face. “See the scars? They ain't from workin' needlepoint. Them scars come from startin' work in the mill at the wee age o'six. After twelve 'ours of work, a child starts to nod off an' can't keep up with the machines. So 'er 'ands catch the rough end an' take a slice 'ere an' there. I know a girl wot lost 'er thumb. An' there was a boy–”

“Enough,” he whispered. Catching her hands in his, he fingered her scars. Revulsion mingled with pity in his face.

She could hardly bear to see it. It was difficult enough exposing her true nature to him, but to have him pity her for it. . . 

Tugging her hands free, she turned her back to him and reverted to her usual manner of speaking. “Not quite the childhood at a country estate under a father's tender protection that you envisioned, is it?”

A ragged oath erupted from him. “But how–”

“I was an orphan. And not the secret child of noble parents that you see in children's tales either, in case that's what you're thinking. Just a plain, ordinary orphan who lived with a poor aunt. I worked at the cotton mill in Lancashire until I was twelve.”

Though these were painful secrets, she felt an odd relief in being able to tell someone–
anyone
–who she really was. After all, she'd hidden it for so very long. Apparently anonymity did have its uses, one of which was allowing her to unburden herself without fear of the consequences.

She went on more easily. “That was the year a reformer came unannounced to inspect the mill.” She smiled, remembering that day. “He caught the overlooker dunking a child's head in the cistern to wake her up. He acted on impulse: he punched the overlooker out and then bought the mill. And the first thing he did was ban children under the age of fourteen from working there.”

Lost in the bittersweet memories, she balled her gloves up in her hands. “But by then my aunt had died, and I had nowhere to go. I'd been taking care of myself in her cottage, but without the work at the mill. . . ”

She shrugged. “I threw myself on his tender mercies. I asked to be a servant in his house, a kitchen maid, anything.” A lump filled her throat. “I still don't know what he saw in me, but he took pity on me and brought me back to his estate. He had me educated as a gentlewoman. He told me if I worked hard to improve myself, I could have a shop or even be a governess. I think it pleased him to watch my progress.”

“You lived alone with him?” he asked in an uneasy voice.

“It's not how it sounds. His second wife had only recently died, but his sister lived with him. It was all very proper, believe me.”

A long, awkward silence filled the room. He was the one who broke it. “So how did you come to marry him?”

“As I grew older, I began helping him with his work. I suppose we sort of. . . fell into marriage. I don't think he would have bothered to marry again at all except that he hadn't yet fathered an heir. He was a man of property, a gentleman, and he needed a son. And it occurred to him. . . ” She trailed off, loath to reveal these intimate secrets about Henry.

“
What
occurred to him, Bella?”

It wasn't as if Justin would know whom she spoke of, was it? Justin had barely known Henry, and few people talked of Henry's previous wives. “Well, his first two wives had been the refined sort. He always said the aristocracy was overbred, and that it was killing them. He thought perhaps an infusion of the stronger blood of peasant stock, as he put it, might help him produce a son.”

“And you didn't mind providing him with the ‘peasant stock'?” he choked out.

“How could I? He'd done so much for me–the least I could do was marry him and try to give him an heir.” Her gaze dropped to the gloves she kept twisting in her hands. “But I failed in that respect. Doesn't say much for the power of my stronger blood, does it?”

“You can't blame yourself for that.” The thrum of his low voice washed over her like a caress. “These things happen. It might have been his fault, after all. Either way, no one is truly to blame except God, and He isn't apologizing. So I don't see why you should.”

She faced him with a wan smile. “An interesting point and one I'd never considered.”

He didn't smile at her echo of his earlier statement. Indeed, the look on his face was so full of sympathy and concern that it brought tears to her eyes. How had she ever thought this man incapable of true feeling?

Ruthlessly she blinked her tears back, grateful for the mask that helped to hide them. “In any case, I'm not the well-bred lady you thought I was. That's all I was trying to illustrate. So your balking at making love to me is entirely unnecessary, you see.”

“Oh, no, you're wrong,” he said fiercely. “If anything, your tale has made it even more necessary. I'm sorry, Bella, but I won't make love to you. Not now, not ever.”