The bidding started, low as yet, mere foolishness. Suddenly the girl straightened her spine and raised her chin as if defying the bidders to think the less of her.
Bryght cursed under his breath.
It had to be that damn brother.
“Bryght,” said Andover, “it’s your play.”
Bryght tossed his cards on the table. “Your pardon for a moment.”
Prestonly looked up with a leer. “I thought you had no interest in these auctions, my lord.”
“That has just changed.”
Damn it to Hades but that tunic she was wearing scarce reached her knees! At least it wasn’t transparent, but without stays, hoops, or petticoats her form was clear to all.
Bryght couldn’t help noticing how tiny she was—fine-boned, lightly fleshed with scarcely more hip and breast on her than a boy. He’d never been attracted to that type of woman before and wasn’t sure of his feelings now except that he could not stand idly by while Portia St. Claire was auctioned off for the amusement of this crowd.
He was good at calculating options and odds, and realized almost instantly that he had few. He could not buy Portia and pretend to deflower her, because such events took place in Mirabelle’s Rotunda, which had twenty peepholes in the walls for voyeurs. Since Mirabelle sold each place for twenty guineas, she’d fight to the death to preserve that tradition.
He could not snatch Portia away. Even if he paid Mirabelle the money, it could cause a riot. More importantly, it would focus attention on the affair. London would be abuzz with it, and some people were bound to remember the attentions he had paid to a petite woman in the park, a petite woman with a gamester brother.
They might as well post notices all over Town.
Simply to go through with it would cause no comment at all. He didn’t know, however, if he were capable of raping Portia—or any woman—even to save her from a worse fate.
He looked again at the gold and white figure standing stiffly in the bright light, chin raised. Was it only his imagination that she was trembling?
She had reason to tremble if she but knew it. Most of the bidders were merely after amusement, but one was Lord Speenholt, who was riddled with the pox and seeking the mythical virgin cure. Another was Gerard D’Ebercall whose tastes ran to the vicious.
He didn’t know whom he wanted to murder most—Oliver Upcott or his doting half-sister. Cuthbertson was doomed.
The bidding had crept up to two hundred by the time he saw a way. He turned to Prestonly. “You cast doubts upon my ability to handle nervous virgins, sir. Care to back it with money?”
The man twitched at his tone. “Money, my lord? What do you mean?”
Bryght leant forward on the table. “I’m going to buy that chit, and have her begging for it without even taking her clothes off. If I succeed, you are going to pay me twice what I bid.”
The man’s eyes flickered nervously, and he swallowed. “I didn’t mean to call into doubt….” He smiled weakly. “By all means, my lord. Let us have the little wager.”
Bryght straightened, ignoring Andover’s raised brows. “Excellent.” He turned toward the dais. “Three hundred.”
Mirabelle’s eyes flicked to his in surprise, for he had never shown interest in such affairs before. But she said, “At last, someone who knows value when he sees it. Three it is. Who will say three-twenty?”
Bryght saw Portia’s eyes swivel toward his voice. Standing in the midst of bright candles, she wouldn’t be able to see much of the room, and the voices would be disembodied. Had she recognized his? If so, what was she thinking?
Would she know there was no way out of this short of setting the house on fire?
He even considered it, but the chances of getting out alive were small. At this moment Portia might think death in the flames preferable to her fate, but common sense would return in time.
Even with the mask on he could see that she was tracking the betting with apprehensive, jerky movements. He desperately wanted to comfort her.
The bidding had stalled at three hundred and fifty in Speenholt’s favor and Bryght would soon have to make his definitive bid. To spite Prestonly, he would have liked to drive the bidding sky-high, but that would create just the kind of notice he was trying to avoid.
He thought it was over, but then a stir at the back of the room announced new arrivals.
“You are late, gentlemen.” Mirabelle raised a hand to pause the bidding. “But come and inspect this delicious charmer. Perhaps you would care to purchase the right to her education.”
“I don’t think so.”
