Amanda Scott (9 page)

“She exaggerates,” Seacourt said smoothly. “She dislikes having her will crossed, but you will find her obedient enough when she does not enjoy such a large audience. Perhaps if we were to retire to a more private—”

“You chose the stage,” Yarborne reminded him. “I would have the matter plainly. Just how old is this great-aunt of hers?”

“She is eighty-six, for God’s sake! She can’t last much longer.”

“She is in excellent health,” Miss Seacourt said, “and even if she should die, my mother inherits before I do. You would have to await her death as well.”

“Is that true?” Yarborne demanded.

Seacourt shrugged, but Nick thought he looked nervous. “A portion of the estate does go to Melissa’s mother, but a good portion goes to Melissa, as well. I would not cheat you, Yarborne. The woman is decrepit. She is presently in London, no doubt seeing her doctor. You can see her for yourself whenever you choose.”

Nick saw Miss Seacourt bite her lip, but she was not defeated yet, for without a glance at Seacourt, she said, “I have not seen Great-Aunt Ophelia in some years, my lord, but I receive a letter from her once a month. She is not decrepit. Indeed, she is as mentally acute as she has ever been, and if she is in London, it is because she accompanies my cousin, who is there for the Season. Moreover, my great-aunt is still quite capable of writing both my mother and myself out of her will, if only to spite my father. She does not like him, and has already taken steps to see that he can never touch her money, by setting up trusts for us through the Chancery Court.”

A shift in the tone of the murmuring told Nick that many men in the audience had finally deduced Miss Seacourt’s identity. He heard Tommy mutter but paid him no heed, having ears now only for what was said by the principal players.

“Is that true about Chancery, Seacourt?” Yarborne’s expression hardened.

Seacourt spread his hands and exclaimed, “Good God, Yarborne, what if it is? All the more reason the old lady won’t do anything to alter the matter. Think of all the fuss and bother she’d have to endure! And if you are thinking—”

“What I’m thinking is that you tried to cheat me, sir. If her fortune is tied up by the Chancery Court, what chance have I ever to control a penny of it?”

“A man controls his wife, Yarborne. What more can you want? Believe me, though she has clearly forgotten her early lessons in obedience, I would point out to you that she has been living in Scotland these past nine years. You will be able to remind her very quickly of who is master, I assure you.” The look he gave his daughter boded no good for her future.

Nick noted that she was careful not to look at Seacourt again, almost as if she feared to lose what little resolve she had mustered if she did. She looked at Yarborne instead, her silence like a challenge to him.

Gazing back steadily, Yarborne’s expression became calculating.

At last she said with forced calm, “My great-aunt assured me, sir, that I will have control of my fortune no matter whom I choose to marry. Though you are doubtless right to say I will be forced to accept an offer of marriage, unless you are prepared to employ drastic measures, I will not relinquish that control to you or to anyone else.”

“I see,” Yarborne said. His hard gaze shifted back to Sea-court. “We seem to have reached an impasse, sir. Your offer of payment is insufficient.”

“But you agreed! Good Lord, Yarborne, do you imagine you cannot prevail against a mere female?”

“What I believe, sir, is that until her great-aunt dies, I shall not even know whether she inherits. Even if she does, I’ll have no control over her money unless I’m willing to beat her into submission. That is not my nature, I’m afraid.” He paused, looking at Miss Seacourt, his gaze sweeping over her in the manner of a man assessing a prize mare. He said, “She is certainly lovely. I’ll readily admit that I’m drawn to accept her. I have agreed to do so, in fact, and thus am I bound to. Nonetheless, I daresay everyone here will agree that your debt to me is by no means repaid in full.”

Without realizing that he meant to speak, Nick said impulsively, “I’ll buy her from you, Yarborne, for one-half the sum of the gentleman’s losses.”

He heard Tommy’s shocked protest, and saw the audience turn as one to stare at him. Wondering what had possessed him, he nonetheless looked right at Yarborne.

Yarborne bowed slightly and said, “I must decline your offer, Vexford. I think I’d do better to keep the girl and await full payment from the debtor.”

Some wag in the audience cried, “Auction her off, Yarborne! That’ll get you your money. By God, if it won’t. Here, I’ll bid ten pounds!”

Someone else shouted, “He don’t want the money. He wants that tender little pigeon caged for use in his own bed, but I’ll raise your bid, by God. Fifteen!”

Yarborne hesitated, looking around the room, his expression calculating again. “I’ll admit,” he added, slowly smiling, “you gentlemen do suggest a better and far more entertaining remedy. The woman is mine now, as everyone must agree, so what say you all if, in the excellent tradition of Newmarket, I do offer her as a filly at auction? After all, fine horses are auctioned here by Tattersall’s every day.”

Tommy cried, “You’re daft, Yarborne! What a thing to suggest when one can see at a glance that she’s gently bred!”

A few others echoed his distaste, one going so far as to shout, “Outrageous!”

Seacourt laughed and said, “Many of the fillies at Tart’s are gently bred, too, so why the devil shouldn’t he auction her if he likes? She’s his fair and square, and if the bidding goes well, he’ll recover my debt and make a profit, as well. And whoever gets the girl will get his money back when she inherits her fortune.”

More protests were heard, but since the general reaction to auctioning Miss Seacourt was amused tolerance underscored by unholy glee, no time was lost. Seacourt picked her up bodily and stood her on the hazard table, snatching off her cloak to reveal her slender body clad in a thin, pale pink muslin gown. The life had gone out of her eyes. She stood erect and stiff, staring straight ahead, as if she no longer dared look at any of the men.

Yarborne said abruptly, “Make your assessments quickly, gentlemen. What am I bid on this pretty pink filly?”

“Fifty guineas,” one man shouted with a laugh.

“A fair beginning,” Yarborne said, “but I warn you, I won’t be much interested until the amount begins to approach the ten thousand Seacourt owes me.”

Nick saw Seacourt flush with embarrassment but thought it served the man right to hear his debt shouted to the whole company. Settling back, watching, but determined to have nothing more to do with such an outrage, he reached for his brandy. At that moment, the blankness went out of Miss Seacourt’s eyes and her demeanor changed. She was looking straight at him.

Pausing with the glass at his lips, Nick saw her expression warm and her body somehow soften. She looked unbelievably yielding. Instantly, he recalled the supple curves of her waist and imagined the yielding plumpness of her breasts. He could feel her in his arms again. Forcing his gaze upward, past those soft breasts, past the delicate creamy bare skin above the lacy white edge of her bodice, past her slender throat and softly rounded chin to her lips, he felt his breath catch when she licked them. His gaze rested, waiting for her to press her lips together again. Instead, her small pink tongue darted out again, just touching the lower one. He could see her small, even, white upper teeth, could almost smell again the freshness of her gentle breath.

Inhaling deeply, he realized the auction was heating up. The price had soared, and men were shouting bids with the same fervor one saw when Tart’s auctioned off a prizewinner. The room had come alive with a seething, ardent vengeance, but Miss Seacourt appeared completely unaware of the lust-filled arousal she had ignited.

She looked only at him. Her lips curved in a gentle, flirtatious smile. Her eyes glinted with intent. Her hands rose slowly to touch each other at her waist—whether consciously or unconsciously, he could not tell—one stroking the other gently, caressingly, before they parted, poised and cupped as if to move upward again.

Nick’s body stirred in urgent response, making him devoutly glad that no one else was watching him. All belief in her innocence vanished. No innocent child could excite him this way.

“What a wench,” someone exclaimed, and the tension in the voice informed Nick that he was not the only man physically aroused by Miss Seacourt’s behavior. Even Yarborne looked hungry for her now. What on earth did she think she was doing? Was it possible that Seacourt had driven her over the edge into madness? What else could account for a girl of obviously gentle breeding behaving so seductively at a time when she ought to have been screaming with fear and revulsion?

“Eight hundred pounds!” Tommy shouted hoarsely.

“You haven’t got eight hundred pounds,” Nick snapped.

“Borrow it from you,” his friend declared, not taking his eyes from Miss Seacourt. “God, what a wench! Must have her.”

“You won’t get the money from me.”

But Tommy’s bid had already been doubled and redoubled, and within minutes, Seacourt’s debt was paid and Yarborne was on his way to a profit.

Nick saw that Miss Seacourt had not shifted her gaze from him. Her expression warmed noticeably when she caught his eye again. She smiled.

Instantly there was another surge in the bidding, and the sum soon reached fifteen thousand. When someone stepped in front of Nick, cutting off his view of Miss Seacourt, he stood, caught her eye again, and said in a clear, carrying voice, “Twenty thousand guineas.”

Startled silence greeted his bid, and the blank look returned to Miss Seacourt’s eyes. Once again, Nick thought she looked like a frightened child. Gathering his wits, his gaze sweeping the room, he saw that most of the men looked more confused than annoyed by the sum he named. They were shaking their heads, as if to clear them.

Yarborne’s voice snapped the spell of silence. “Does anyone else care to bid?”

No one did.

“Very well, Vexford, the girl is yours. I’ll accept a draft on your bank.”

Dumbfounded but determined not to reveal his consternation to the others, Nick nodded and said, “You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

“I’m at the White Hart. Come collect your winnings, lad.”

Nick looked around at the others again, sternly. “Though I’m sure it is not necessary,” he said, “I’ll remind all of you to take care what you say about this incident outside these four walls. Miss Seacourt now enjoys my protection.”

For a moment, in the brief, breathless hush that followed his warning, Nick wished he had stuck by his earlier resolve not to enter any more of the gaming that night. He had been right to believe his luck was out of vein.

Watching Lord Vexford approach, seeing him clearly for what seemed like the first time, Melissa felt disoriented, as if she had been somewhere else and suddenly found herself in the midst of a gaming hell. She remembered why she was there, but she seemed to have lost her train of thought in the past moments. She wondered why Vexford moved so purposefully toward her.

Somehow she was standing above them all, but even as she began to wonder how she came to be there, she remembered defying Sir Geoffrey. The words she had spoken came back to her then, and with a shudder, she wondered where she had found the strength to utter them. Clearly, nine years spent in the safety of Scotland, away from his brutal temper, had stiffened her backbone. Still it had been foolhardy. Despite that bravado, she knew she would never be able to stand up to a domineering man who demanded control of her money.

It was all very well for Great-Aunt Ophelia and Charley to assure her that she would retain that control. They were stronger than she was, and had never been in the power of a ruthless man. She remembered how easily her father had controlled her when she was young, and she did not believe for a moment that she would find the strength to hold out against any man willing to beat her into submission.

When she saw Vexford still walking toward her, she trembled. Others were watching him, too, but her father stood with Yarborne. Vaguely she could remember that men had been shouting—creating a veritable din—but the room was quiet now. Yarborne took a step toward Vexford, then stepped back again. Others turned back to the tables. As Vexford reached up, lifted her carefully down from the table, and put her cloak around her shoulders again, someone nearby rattled a dice box and said, “My cast, I believe. The stake is set. I call a main of five.”

Standing on the floor beside the tall, broad-shouldered Vexford, Melissa felt as if she stood beside a solid wall, sheltered and safe from the storm around her. When he put a hand on her shoulder and urged her toward the doorway through which Seacourt had dragged her a short time before, she obeyed at once and without question. By the time they reached the door, the noise of the gaming room had returned to normal levels.

When they emerged from the courtyard passageway into the High Street, as fog-ridden air swirled damply around them, she said, “Thank you, sir, for rescuing me.”

“I didn’t rescue you,” he said bluntly. “I bought you at a damned long price, so don’t chatter at me. I loathe chattering females.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where do you think? To the Rutland Arms.”

Panic-stricken, she exclaimed, “You can’t mean to give me back to Papa!”

“Don’t be daft. I’ve just paid twenty thousand guineas for you. I’m certainly not giving you back. I’m staying at the inn, too, if you’ll recall.”

But she had stopped listening. “Twenty thousand guineas! For me? That must be nonsense. No one can purchase another person.”

“I just did, and you know it. I’ll admit you had me fooled. I’ll admit, too, that if I hadn’t overindulged in the brandy, I’d never have bid so high. But, having teased me to it, madam, I expect you to make good on the enticing promises you made back there.”

“Promises? I don’t know what on earth—”

“I told you not to chatter,” he snapped, and for the second time that night, she found herself being dragged willy-nilly along Newmarket High Street.