The Widow's Auction (7 page)

With a patience that she knew required great effort, he showed her how to caress him. It excited her to see him so rapt, to watch him throw his head back and utter heartfelt groans of pleasure. She'd never guessed it would be so wonderful to prompt this reaction in a man.

But she'd scarcely adapted to the new, delightful experience when he brushed her hand away, whispering, “I need to be inside you, Bella, I can't wait any longer.” Pushing her down onto the bed, he knelt between her knees. “We have all night for playing, but for now, let me inside you. . . ”

Her answer was to widen her legs and lift her hands to draw him down on top of her. Still, she couldn't prevent the trembling in her limbs or the subtle fear that made her fingers tighten on his shoulders. This was it. And what if she truly were flawed? What if this proved to be only more disappointment?

“Don't worry,” he said, gentling her with one hand stroking up her thigh. “I'll make it good, I swear. Relax, just relax.”

Surprisingly, she did. And even more so when his finger delved inside her as before. She knew this, knew what it felt like. So she hardly flinched when he replaced the finger with something larger. She even shifted to give him greater access when he began easing up inside her.

But it was nothing like having Henry force himself there. She didn't feel violated or hurt or embarrassed. She felt. . . filled. Yes, that was it, filled to the brim with Justin, surrounded by his scent, engulfed in his strength.

So
this
was why they called it “joining.” No other word could adequately describe this intimacy, this intensity.

“Ohhh,” she said, as any lingering anxiety drained from her. “I
like
this.”

He choked out a laugh. “Good.”

“Do. . . do you like it, too?”

“Can't you tell? Oh. . . darling. . . you feel wonderful. So tight. . . so warm. I wish I could stay like this forever.”

“Why can't you?” she teased.

That Roman blood of his shone in every devouring glance he settled over her lips and breasts and belly. “Because it's even better when I do this.”

That's when he moved. He drew himself out, then thrust so deeply into her that she gasped. Again and again, he drove into her, his blue gaze piercing her, his mouth whispering how he loved being with her, what he wanted to do to her, how often he wanted to do it.

Like a thread caught on a spindle, she felt as if he wound her tighter and tighter around him, joining them so they could never break apart, twisting their destinies together irrevocably.

Oh, dear heaven, what a feeling! The same glittering excitement that she'd felt earlier built again, only this time it was different because it seemed to come from him, too, to seize them both together until they were straining against each other, pressing together, fighting to be as much a part of each other as possible.

This time when the explosion came, like a white-hot searing of her soul, her cry of release mingled with his hoarser one. And joy rained down from the heavens all over her.

“Bella, Bella. . . my sweet Bella,” he chanted as he spilled himself inside her.

His possessive tone gave her pause. Because this was a man she could easily lose herself to.

As he collapsed atop her, she clutched him close, her heart constricting in her chest. Oh, Lord, she'd fallen in love with him. With Warbrooke, who would never marry her. Lady Kingsley might fit some of his needs for a wife, but the orphan millworker Isobel would never do. He was headed for prime minister, for heaven's sake, the sort of man who required a matchless wife. Not one with her low past.

Yet perhaps she could be content with an illicit liaison. Plenty of widows engaged in them. If they were discreet. . . 

No, she couldn't. He'd marry some politically appropriate wife one day, and it would destroy her.

With a growl of contentment, he rolled off her, then dragged her into the lee of his large body. Hooking one arm under her head to cradle it, he draped the other across her waist. “Well, Bella, what do you think–are you flawed or no?”

A sudden shyness seized her. “What do
you
think?”

He tipped her chin up until she was gazing into his face. “I think Bradford was a fool to stop at a mere thousand pounds.”

Every uncertainty she'd ever had about her feminine qualities evaporated. She laughed, her heart flipping over in her chest. “You really are a dear, do you know that?” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “That's for bidding so much for me.” She kissed his other cheek. “That's for saving me from Bradford.” Then she planted a hot kiss firmly on his mouth. “And that's for showing me how wonderful lovemaking can be.”

His eyes darkened. “I have a better way you can show your thanks.”

Her belly tightened in anticipation. . . until he lifted his hand to the ties at the back of her mask.

“Do we really need this anymore?” he murmured. “Let me see your face.”

“No!” She gripped his wrist to prevent his tugging the ties loose. “No. . . I-I can't.”

Rebellion showed in the clenching of his Roman jaw, and for a moment she feared he'd unmask her anyway.

Then he sighed and dropped his hand from the back of her head. “As you wish.”

Relief made her weak. And grateful. “Thank you.” She pressed a kiss to his neck, then another, lingering to taste the salty skin with the tip of her tongue.

He shuddered, his skin drawing taut under her kisses. “Bella, if you keep that up, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

“Good.” She lifted her head to grin at him. “I'd say we've a great deal of wine left to drink, and I'm still thirsty.”

He froze, his eyes a stark, brilliant blue. Then with a growl, he caught her mouth in a blatantly plundering kiss.

Her heart filled as she gave herself up to him. She might have to swear off this particular bottle of wine in the morning, but for tonight she intended to drink her fill.

The prim and
proper Lady Kingsley was going to kill him.

In the wee hours of the morning, Justin fell back against the pillows after their last lovemaking session, so completely drained that he couldn't even move to drag the cover up over their naked bodies.

It had been a long, tempestuous night. They'd made love on the table where he'd licked wine off her luscious little belly. They'd made love on the floor before the fireplace, writhing on the fur rug like cats in heat.

And just now they'd made love in the bath they'd called for shortly after midnight. What a tricky business that had been. But he must have managed it well, since “Bella” had climaxed three times.

He turned over to tease her about her insatiable “peasant blood,” only to find that she'd finally reached her limit. She lay on her side asleep, her mask slightly askew, her hands folded like an innocent's under her cheek.

Even though they both desperately needed the rest, he felt a twinge of regret. Their private night was over. There would be other nights, but never another like this.

In the morning, everything would change. He'd been willing to humor her about this mask nonsense for a while, because he hadn't wanted to ruin her enjoyment. But tomorrow was another matter entirely. They'd have to make plans and discuss marriage.

Because he knew beyond any doubt that he wanted no other woman in his bed and his life. No other woman could make him happy. And now that he'd learned he wouldn't be competing with Lamberton in the bedchamber, he felt certain he could beat out Lamberton for possession of her heart.

Which he fully intended to do. Somewhere between yesterday and the wee hours of today, he'd discovered that he very much wanted the clever, exasperating, and thoroughly bewitching Lady Kingsley to belong to him, and him alone. He didn't intend to share her with anyone, even her late husband.

In the morning, he would demand that she remove that bloody mask. If she didn't, he'd snatch it off her. But either way, they would be married as soon as he could obtain a special license.

Not that he expected her to refuse to marry him. No matter what she said about not having the sensibilities of a “real” lady, she would never have made love to him so eagerly without caring for him. Once he removed her mask, she'd have no choice but to admit it. Then marriage would be the next logical step.

Dragging her into the curve of his arms, he kissed the mask that had grown bedraggled in the course of their nighttime revels.

“Good-bye, Bella,” he whispered. “And hello, Lady Warbrooke.”

He was still holding her when he drifted off to sleep.

Just after dawn, he awoke to find his arms empty. He shot up out of the bed, realizing in an instant that something was wrong. The table was precisely as they'd left it–with plates heaped up to one side to make room for the second time they'd made love. The tub still sat in a puddle, and the empty wine bottle listed to one side atop a pile of the towels they'd dampened trying to clean up their bath-water.

But she was gone. Panic seizing him, he leapt from the bed and dragged on his drawers, then searched the room. Her costume had disappeared, along with her pelisse and her shoes. He did find assorted other pieces of clothing–a garter, both stockings, and one of her gloves–but that only showed she'd left in a hurry and probably dressed by firelight. She'd certainly fled, however, as evidenced by the absence of that bloody huge reticule she'd carried. With the sponges in it that they'd forgotten to use.

Thoughts of those sponges roused his temper. She'd left him, damn it! And after letting him make love to her four times without a thought for the consequences! The woman needed a keeper, that was for certain.

Striding to the door, he bellowed for a servant. One appeared in minutes.

“What time did the lady leave?” he demanded as he gathered up his stockings and breeches.

“Over an hour ago, my lord,” the servant stammered. “She said to give you this.” The young man held out a folded sheet of foolscap.

Justin paused in pulling on his breeches to take it. When he opened it to find the page covered with writing, he nodded toward the door. “Thank you, that will be all for now.”

As soon as the servant fled, he scanned the missive.

Feeling as if he'd been struck by a sledgehammer, he stared down at the words in disbelief. What “offer to be my protector” was she blathering about? He hadn't offered that. He hadn't had the chance to offer her anything! She hadn't stayed around long enough to let him!

Yes, he'd teased her early on about becoming his mistress, but that had been only to provoke her, to force her into telling him who she was, damn it.

His blood suddenly ran cold. How could she have known he was only provoking her? He'd never bothered to set her straight. He'd been so sure of himself, so sure of
her
, that he hadn't explained himself.

Then he would bloody well do it now, damn it. Tucking the letter under his arm, he buttoned up his breeches and went looking for his shirt. Enough of this nonsense. He'd head straight to the Kingsley town house and tell her everything, then demand that she marry him.

That's what he should have done last night. He should have ignored all her nonsense about holding on to that mask. A woman like her was meant to be married. Wasn't that why she'd participated in this auction in the first place?

He strained to remember what she'd said about it, then groaned as it came back to him:
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.

A sick despair settled in his gut, making him halt where he was. For the first time it occurred to him that she might not
want
to marry him. Or even to marry at all. What if she'd insisted on the mask for that reason alone? It didn't bode well for her feelings that she'd steadfastly refused to remove her mask even after they'd made love. What if she truly had wanted only an evening of pleasure, to “test the waters”?

Worse yet, what if she'd tested the waters and discovered she couldn't bear to be with another man after all? Then her fleeing would make perfect sense.

He sank onto the bed, feeling as if his heart were shredding apart inside his chest. After they'd made love, he'd simply assumed she would fall in with his plans like a good little girl, like the same starry-eyed young woman who'd married Henry Lamberton out of gratitude for the man's generosity.

But she wasn't that same young woman. Galatea had become flesh and blood, with a mind of her own. He'd been too full of himself to see it. He'd been so intent on playing his little games with her that he hadn't even considered what she might want. She was right–he was indeed overbearing and pompous.

Jerking out the letter again, he reread it, trying to decipher what she might have meant, but its brevity hampered him. All she said was that she “must respectfully decline” his offer. Which he hadn't actually made.

That meant she might also “respectfully decline” his offer of marriage.

With an oath, he crumpled the note in his hand. Going to her house and unmasking her wasn't an option. Much as he'd like to storm in and order her to marry him, he doubted such a method would impress Lady Kingsley. What if he confronted her only to discover that she had no interest in marrying him? Or that she was willing to marry him out of gratitude for what he'd taught her in bed? He didn't want her like that, to be sure.

A sudden chilling thought hit him. What if she agreed to marry him because she feared what he'd do with the knowledge he'd gained about her past last night? If he trapped her, she might very well respond that way.

He groaned. Damn, but he'd made a mess of things. He hadn't even considered that aspect until just now. She'd chosen not to take her mask off for a reason. Until he knew what it was, he couldn't act without forcing her into a corner.

So he must find a way to let her know how he felt about her without making her feel obligated to him. If he wanted to win her, he'd have to set it up so that she felt entirely free to choose. Or to keep her anonymity if she so wished.

He glanced down to see her glove still peeping from under the bed where they'd apparently kicked it last night. Picking it up, he mused over it a moment. An idea began to take shape in his mind. . . 

 

Isobel hurried up
the steps to the main building of the Lamberton School, fretting over the skirts that hampered her from moving faster. Oh, Lord, she was late. And for this meeting, of all meetings! Devil take her maid for not waking her.

Though she couldn't really blame the maid too much. Isobel hadn't slept well in three days–not since her night with Justin.

No, she must stop thinking of him like that. He was Lord Warbrooke. She'd best remember it, before she blundered in front of everyone.

That was the least of her worries, however. Far more important was how she would survive an entire meeting of the governing board without wanting to touch him or smile at him or say something flirtatious.

Which would not do at all. Despite having left a number of personal items at the Clarendon, she'd miraculously escaped detection. She'd be a fool to blunder now.

Never mind that she spent her nights reliving every sweet word and caress and taste they'd shared. That she spent her days trying to wear herself out for those awful, endless nights. She'd made her decision. Perhaps she'd been a bit hasty by not waiting around to see what he'd say, but she couldn't have borne it if he'd asked her to be his mistress again. If he'd cheapened what she felt for him.

In any case, she would make up for it today. After what he'd said during their night together, she had read his proposal for the boys' school very carefully. And when she'd examined it through eyes unclouded by suspicion of his motives, she'd discovered it had far more merit than she'd given him credit for. The least she could do was support it now, though she'd have to present her change of heart in a way that wouldn't rouse his suspicions.

When she reached the top of the stairs, Phoebe was waiting for her. “What is going on?” her friend demanded. “I've been trying to see you for three days. I can't believe you weren't at home to
me
.”

“I-I was busy, that's all.”

A knowing look spread over Phoebe's face. “Aha! But busy with
whom
? That's the question.”

“Lower your voice, for pity's sake,” Isobel hissed as she veered around her friend and headed purposefully down the hall. “Do you want to ruin me?”

“I saw Lord Warbrooke win you at the Widows' Auction,” Phoebe said as she hurried after her. “I only want to know if it was everything you expected. And what did he think when he found out it was you?”

Isobel halted in her tracks. “I didn't tell him. Do you think I'm insane?”

“That bad, was it?”

“No!” At Phoebe's raised eyebrow, she colored. “No, it was as wonderful as you said it would be. But it could never work between me and Just–. . . Lord Warbrooke. He's not interested in marriage, and I'm not interested in anything else.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes. Well, sort of.” She continued down the hall.

“Ah, but he didn't know who you are. That might make a difference.”

“It wouldn't,” she said feebly.

“So you've become a Gypsy fortune-teller, have you? Bella, if you don't tell a man that you want him, how is he supposed to know? Especially when you take away his chance to decide by keeping your identity secret.”

Isobel paused outside the closed door to the meeting room. “You don't understand–”

“Oh, but I do. You're a coward, Isobel Lamberton. You've finally found a man who suits you, but you're afraid to risk your heart. It's easier to go on with your plodding, lonely life than to take a chance on happiness. Well, you're a fool if you choose being safe over being loved.”

Then with a sniff, Phoebe opened the door to the meeting room and marched in to take her place at the table.

Isobel stood in the doorway, Phoebe's words resonating in her brain. Phoebe was right. She
was
a coward. But she couldn't help it. She loved him so much she was afraid to be anything else. It would shatter her to have him admit he wanted only some sordid connection with her.

Mustering her strength for the long meeting ahead, she donned her old regal faÇade and walked into the room. “Good day, gentlemen. I'm sorry for being late, but I had some pressing matters to attend to.”

As she skirted the table, she could feel Justin's eyes following her to her seat. Though that was nothing unusual, today it was different, at least for her. Because for the first time she wanted to meet his gaze boldly, to tell him who she was and how she felt.

But she couldn't take that chance.

She reached her usual chair and pulled it out, then froze. Directly in the center was a glove.
Her
glove, the one she'd lost. And attached to it was a note that read only, “Is this yours, Lady Kingsley?” It was signed, “Lord Warbrooke.” Just that, and no other explanation.

Her pulse beat madly as she stood there, unable to do anything but gape at it. God help her, he knew who she was! Did he mean to unmask her right now before the entire board? To reveal her immorality and ruin her? Would he do that?