Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
like all the others who pressed up to the stage, the sharp smell of their sweat and arousal rising like a miasma.
He shook his head against the instinctive hurt. What she thought did not matter, not now. She could not know he was following up one last clue to Celina Shelley’s whereabouts: a street urchin who thought he remembered her, thought he recognised the carriage she had got into.
What mattered now was freeing Laurel. His immediate thought was to start an incident, create chaos, get her out. He glanced around, assessing the odds, and recognised they were too high, and the risk to Laurel if he failed too great. He would have to do this by stealth. In an inner waistcoat pocket was the two hundred pounds he travelled with to be sure of every contingency. Except this was a situation beyond his wildest dreams or nightmares. It would have to be enough.
A man stepped onto the stage and the crowd gradually fell silent, their eyes shifting between the white-clad sacrifice and the auctioneer. ‘My lords, gentlemen, tonight the Temple of Venus offers you this vestal of innocence, this modest maiden of refinement. You know our reputation of old—no counterfeit here, only guaranteed, untouched quality.
‘Now, who will start me at fifty guineas?’
Patrick did not look at Laurel as the bidding ran on, but he could feel her eyes on him. The bids went high, then higher. He did not raise his hand, not wanting to fuel the contest. Gradually men dropped out until only two were left.
‘Two hundred!’
‘Two hundred and ten.’ One of the two made a gesture of defeat, the other, a thin, saturnine man, looked rueful at the price he had just offered.
‘Two hundred and ten and this gold ring.’ Patrick tugged at his signet and held it up.
There was silence. ‘Sir?’ The auctioneer looked at the thin man. He hesitated then he shook his head abruptly and turned away.
Patrick shouldered his way to the front and handed over the money and his great-grandfather’s ring. He had a sudden memory of Joshua Jago’s portrait, hanging in the hall at home. An old rogue, his father had said once. But a man of honour for all that.
For a lady’s honour, Joshua, he thought, seeing the heirloom disappear into the man’s pocket.
‘What are we waiting for?’ he demanded, turning towards the stage. It sickened him to see Laurel hanging there, slumped between the pillars. That faint was no ruse—stress had finally overcome her stubborn will. How the hell did she get here? The anger he had been controlling so savagely began to roil in his veins.
‘Impatient, aren’t we, sir?’ the auctioneer said, straightening up. ‘Can’t say I blame you, ripe little pippin that one. Wouldn’t mind a bite myself.’
One more word and I’ll kill you, Patrick thought, closing his eyes against the red haze that shimmered in front of his vision. He was no saint, and no celibate, and he enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh as much as any man. But the thought of the selfish desires that terrorised and used women sickened him. A man who did not care about pleasuring the woman he was with was no man, in his opinion.
Two of the brothel’s bullies moved toward Laurel and Patrick vaulted up onto the stage and caught her in his arms as they freed her wrists. She was cold and naked under the thin shift but his warmth seemed to revive her and she stirred. ‘You’re all right,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve got you.’ He had never touched her before and the feel of her now was like flame, burning through the fear for her, the urgent need to get them out of here.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and his heart contracted as it had on that last day in Martinsdene whenever he had looked at her. He was used to taking his pleasures with women of equal experience, and his profession brought him into contact with many ladies of sophisticated tastes and a willingness to share them with a passing adventurer. Neglected wives, spirited widows—but not country innocents. He understood the flare of attraction no better now, and yet… I’ve got you, you’re mine.
‘You,’ she said in tones of revulsion. ‘How could you?’
Patrick bent his head. ‘Shh, Laurel. I’m going to get you out of here,’ he whispered. ‘Pretend to be afraid until we reach the bedchamber, they will watch us.’
He felt her go rigid in his grip, but she murmured, ‘Yes.’ Her eyes held nothing but bitter mistrust, but he could not reassure her here.
He carried her upstairs amidst catcalls and cheers, blocking the sound from his brain, focused only on getting out of this with Laurel unharmed. The door was opened with some ceremony and then they were alone.
Chapter Two
Patrick set her on her feet and stood back, his eyes dark. He raked one hand through his hair and she saw, as though all her senses were magnified, that it shook, just a little. Lust. He had brought the smell of smoke and drink and musky arousal into the room with him and her empty stomach revolted. A man, a beast, just like the rest of them.
Laurel swallowed hard on the nausea and snapped, ‘You bastard. How could you? I trusted you, I liked you.’ I wanted you. It hurt too much: all she had was her anger to sustain her. ‘And all the time you are the kind of man who does this.’
‘Rescues you?’ he demanded, the colour coming back to his face.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ She found a fringed shawl thrown over the end of the bed and dragged it around her shoulders to protect against the shivering, against his eyes on her near-nudity. ‘You had no idea I had come to London, let alone that I had been taken by these…animals. Don’t try and make me believe you are a knight errant. What a little innocent I must be—it never occurred to me that you were the kind of man who would come to these places, let alone want to buy a virgin.’
He made a move as though to reach for her and Laurel jerked back. ‘What are you doing in London?’ Patrick demanded. He dropped his hand, moved back, his mouth grim. He had not defended himself—but how could he?
‘You told me that you had been sent to Martinsdene by Mrs Halgate—Meg Shelley—to find her sisters.’
‘I know that, damn it. We spent three days in that rural backwater talking to all the villagers you thought might know something.’ It had been a waste of time, no one knew anything—unless they were too scared of the Reverend Shelley to speak.
‘And I told you I had lost my position as a companion because Lady Palgrave died and her sons gave me notice,’ she persisted. ‘I didn’t tell you that I had nowhere to go now, no position to take up—and then I thought if I went down to Falmouth Meg could help me find respectable employment—just as she has as Lord Brandon’s housekeeper.’
‘She’s more than that, if I’m any judge,’ Patrick said with a crack of humourless laughter. ‘How could you be so bloody stupid as to end up here? Have you no sense?’ Why was he so angry with her, the hypocritical rake? He stalked over to the bed and dragged back the covers. ‘Get in—you are shaking like a leaf.’
‘Get in?’ She swung round the bedpost away from him, clutching it to stop herself falling as her legs threatened to give way. The shawl slid from her shoulders. ‘You libertine! I’d rather get into bed with a pig. I got here the same way as any innocent country girl does, I’m sure. I had to change stagecoaches to pick up the one to Plymouth and when I did I was gulled and then I was overpowered. I’ve never been in a city before. I had no idea places like this existed—not ones where they would capture and rape women. You make it sound as though it was all my fault. If it wasn’t for men like you—’
Patrick moved toward her, purpose in every stride. ‘Get away from me!’ she panted. ‘Never mind how I got here—what are you doing here? I thought you a gentleman.’ She caught herself on a bitter laugh as she heard her own words. ‘Oh, silly me—they are all gentlemen out there, aren’t they? I thought you were my friend, that we shared something…’
‘You really believe I came here to buy and despoil a virgin? I don’t need