Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride. Louise Allen
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defiant terror.
He clenched his hands into fists at his side in an effort to control himself. He could not shoulder his way through this mob and demand her release—they would knock him unconscious and sell her anyway. Laurel. For days he had been trying to ignore the attraction that he had felt for her, the suspicion that she felt the same tug in the blood as they had searched together for clues to the fate of the young women he had travelled to Suffolk to seek. I would have come back for you, he told her silently now. Too late for that now. Too late to worry about how she had got here, one of London’s most notorious brothels.
She’s seen me. He saw the recognition strike her and the revulsion that followed it. No! You can’t believe that I’d… But she did. Laurel thought he was 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.
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