Harring comes off stage and approaches Cécile sporting a cocky smile. “Lady Loxley, you got yourself a bargain.”
“You owe me four hundred and ninety-nine pounds,” she growls.
“Lady Loxley! This is for charity,” Harring replies.
“I’m not sure you noticed that I saved you from being humiliated out there. No one else bid.”
“I’ve already shagged them all, anyway.” He turns towards Sir Philip’s daughter, who’s sitting in the front row, and winks at her.
“You’re repulsive,” Cécile says.
“And I’m all yours, for tonight. Who knows, maybe I can make you change your mind about that American nerd that is your boyfriend.”
“I’m already regretting it,” sighs my friend.
“See? I told you so. Besides, Americans have small willies!”
“I was referring to you, idiot! I already regret buying you at the auction.”
Lady Venetia’s voice distracts me from their little quarrel. “And now, the last lot, which I’m sure will enliven the hall. Courtesy of Lady Jemma, here is Lord Ashford Parker, Duke of Burlingham.”
Ashford goes pale beside me. “Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s for charity,” I reply angelically.
He pushes his chair back with thinly disguised anger, then he bends over and puts his face a breath away from mine. “You and I will sort this out later.”
Harring agreed to take part in the auction only if I included Ashford. The idea of embarrassing him was so exciting that I didn’t even have to think twice.
Lady Venetia looks overjoyed when he gets on stage. “The twelfth Duke of Burlingham, captain of the West London polo team, collector of vintage cars, two degrees, speaks six languages. Place your bids!”
A multitude of paddles rise.
“A thousand pounds.”
“One thousand, five hundred.”
“Two thousand.”
“Four thousand.”
The female voices overlap and, when I look on stage, I notice Ashford’s chuffed expression. If good taste didn’t prevent him from doing it, I’m sure he would show me his middle finger. I stretch my neck to identify the owners of the paddles. There are Lady Valéry and Lady Audrey. Even Lord Cedric’s wife. And all the unmarried ladies. The Triple Six squabble with each other by adding zeros. They want him as if he were made of chocolate.
There’s also a woman standing by the door. She has got impeccably styled black wavy hair and assured, piercing eyes that are trained on Ashford. I’ve never seen her before, but a glance is enough for me to know who it is: Portia. And she’s raising her paddle very high in the air.
Without thinking, I raise mine too. “Eight thousand pounds.”
Lady Valéry chuckles. “Lady Jemma, there’s no need to raise bids.”
“Twelve,” Portia firmly offers.
“Fifteen,” is my counter bid.
Is it my imagination, or is Ashford holding back a smile? Maybe he hopes that Portia wins the auction. Of course, he’d love to humiliate me like that in public, but he has no idea who he’s dealing with.
Portia raises her paddle again with a nonchalant gesture “Eighteen.”
“Twenty thousand,” I growl.
