The Widow's Auction

Isobel Lamberton, Lady
Kingsley, could hardly believe her ears. The longer she listened to Justin Antony, the Marquess of Warbrooke, the more horrified she became. This was his “brilliant” new plan for the Lamberton Boys' School? This. . . this outrageous proposal?

Lord Warbrooke had taken leave of his senses. Yet the other members at the school's governing-board meeting seemed oblivious to his sudden bout of insanity. They drank in every word dropping from his handsome mouth. They approved of every slashing gesture of his broad, masculine hand, every compelling look from those magnetic eyes.

While all she could see were the tenpenny nails he drove into the coffin of her own plans for the school. She'd intended to present those plans today, until Lord Warbrooke had beaten her to it with his ghastly suggestion.

“What an inspired idea,” one board member proclaimed, thumping the top of the meeting room's ancient table, a castoff from some lord's manor. “It'll be good for the lads and teach them responsibility.”

“It'll make money for the school as well,” added Mr. Dawson, Lamberton's headmaster. No surprise that
he
liked it. He thought that Lord Warbrooke not only walked on water, but ran on it as well.

The other five men on the board chimed in their admiration, each one more effusive than the last. Even the only other woman on the board–Mrs. Chambers–turned traitor to express her approval. Phoebe Chambers had shown great caring two years ago when Isobel had lost her husband. Since then, the older widow had come to be Isobel's closest friend. So if the staunchly supportive Phoebe agreed with his lordship, then Isobel would never convince the rest of them how wrongheaded this idea was. Not even Lord Bradford's apparent reluctance to voice an opinion helped, since everyone knew how much he resented Lord Warbrooke.

Which meant she was essentially alone in her outrage. And she dared not even explain why.

Suddenly everyone fell silent, and all eyes turned to her. “Lady Kingsley?” Lord Warbrooke asked in that husky voice that always scrambled her thoughts. “What do you think?”

She took a breath, gathering her energy to don the “fine lady” role she'd perfected through the years, the role she didn't truly deserve. The only role that they would accept or understand. Especially Lord Warbrooke.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that the idea of establishing a factory on the school grounds is appalling.” Yes, that sounded firm enough. She went on in a haughtier tone, “It's unwise and unfeasible and certainly immoral.”

Though the others cringed at her blatant disapproval, the man she most needed to intimidate merely cocked an eyebrow. “I don't see why. Boys of that age require activity. It's the lack of it that sends them looking for trouble.”

Legend had it that the Antony family was descended from the Romans who'd ruled Britain long before William the Conqueror had swept in from Normandy. If she'd been skeptical of that legend before, she wasn't now–his lordship's Roman blood fairly screamed its presence this morning. Despite his immaculate cravat and well-tailored morning coat, Lord Warbrooke had the look of a victor about him–jet hair swept back from sharp, intent features. . . broad shoulders fixed for battle. . . unearthly blue eyes glittering a warning that he wouldn't be gainsaid.

Well, he wasn't the only one. “Our boys don't go looking for trouble, I assure you. They participate in sports or engage in further study to improve their minds. That's quite enough activity for any young man.”

He looked skeptical. “Is it? As I came in, I saw several idle souls watching the clock in the library. A boy of fifteen can endure only so much study, Lady Kingsley. Nor can he play sports all day long. No, young men need additional sources of intellectual stimulation and challenge.”

“His lordship has a good point,” Mr. Dawson said gingerly. When she glared at the headmaster, he shrugged and dropped his gaze. “A good point, that's all I'm saying.”

When she returned her attention to Lord Warbrooke, his unfazed expression sparked a panic in her chest. He knew he'd win this time–she could see it in his eyes. “My husband didn't intend this school to be a vehicle for moneygrubbing,” she said. “Furthermore–”

“Furthermore, your husband is dead.” Lord Warbrooke's bald statement rent the stale air.

At her shocked gasp, the other members shifted and squirmed awkwardly in their seats.

But Lord Warbrooke went on remorselessly. “Lord Kingsley gave precious little direction on how to handle the fortune he bequeathed to all his charities. You may be his widow, but he chose us–all of us–to decide such matters. So despite whatever edicts you hand down from Olympus, I intend to have my say in the running of this school.”

“You aren't prime minister yet, Lord Warbrooke,” she snapped. But some said he would be if he continued to attract political support as fast as a sweating stallion attracted flies. He regularly dined with prominent Whigs like current prime minister Lord Grenville and Foreign Secretary Charles Fox.

And this was the man she thought to thwart? Whose blue blood enabled him to command respect? Who would surely banish her from this board if he ever learned the truth about her own lineage?

God help her. “Henry did choose all of us to govern,” she went on, “but he made
me
director of the board. And I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

There came that conqueror's smile of his–satin over steel. “Oh, we're all quite aware of your seriousness, Lady Kingsley. You remind us of it often enough.”

Because you give me no choice
, she wanted to protest.
How else am I to convince you that women can be serious about more things than gowns and jewelry? Especially when you're so blasted sure of yourself and arrogant and. . . 

Male. So very, very male. And so unlike Henry.

Not that her husband hadn't been masculine. But Henry believed in gentle persuasion. He never raised his voice, never questioned her judgment or disagreed with her. Quite unlike the relentless Lord Warbrooke.

“This isn't the sort of factory you think,” he persisted. “I'm speaking of a facility that would allow the boys to experiment with different skills and positions of authority. They would manage it themselves as much as possible.”

“It's a progressive idea,” Mr. Dawson ventured. “You must admit–”

“Progressive?” she cried. “To take them from their studies for the dubious opportunity of doing precisely what they'd do outside the institution–work from dusk until dawn so their betters can profit from their hard labor?”

“I agree with her ladyship,” Lord Bradford interjected. “Don't like all this talk of going into trade, old fellow. Supporting a charity is all well and good, but dabbling in factories and such. . . Seems a nasty business to me.”

When Lord Warbrooke's lips twitched and his eyes danced, she sighed. Yes, Lord Bradford was an insufferable snob, but his father leased the land to Lamberton School. So Bradford's opinion counted for something, no matter how muddleheaded his reasons.

“Lord Bradford has a point, but I don't see it as going into trade a'tall,” Mr. Dawson chimed in. “Since the purpose of this institution is to educate–”

“Yes, exactly–to educate, not exploit!” She seized the opportunity to show them a better possibility. “That's why I think we should establish four or five educational endowments for the boys so they can attend Oxford or Cambridge. We could even give competitions with the endowments as prizes. That would provide the boys with something to work toward.”

“If you could fund four or five endowments, Lady Kingsley,” Lord Warbrooke bit out, “We wouldn't be having this discussion.”

Oh, why must the clever devil always be so blasted logical?

He went on without a care for her agitation. “At least my proposal is self-supporting. The income from the factory would fund it, while teaching them–”

“That they're only good as workhorses for their betters,” she finished, feeling her control of the board slipping away from her despite all her protests. “Is that really what we want to teach them?”

“You'd prefer to prepare them as scholars? When you know very well most of them want only a way to care for themselves and their families?”

Despair clutched at her heart. He would never understand. How could he? “You don't know what they want. You come here only for these meetings. I'm the one Mr. Dawson turns to whenever decisions must be made. I'm the one who speaks regularly with the boys.”

“She does have a point–” Mr. Dawson began.

“Yes, we all have a point, don't we?” Lord Warbrooke snapped at Dawson. His mouth tightened into a grim line. “In any case, it's absurd to debate the matter without knowing the details. Have you brought along a written proposal for
your
idea, Lady Kingsley?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” She held up the stack of proposals that had taken Henry's man of affairs a day to copy out, then set them on the table.

“Good. So have I.” He set his own thick pile of papers next to hers. “Why don't we all take some time to examine them both, and then vote on the best proposal at our meeting on Tuesday, four days from now?”

The other members of the board readily agreed. They sorted out the copies among them, and then she adjourned the meeting. One by one the board members left the room until only Isobel, Phoebe, and Lord Warbrooke remained.

He rose and turned for the door, then paused to glance back at her. “Lady Kingsley, when you read this, do attempt to keep an open mind.”

“I will if you will,” she retorted hotly.

To her surprise, he chuckled. “I daresay neither of us will. It's a pity, too, because if we could ever see our way clear to agreeing on a matter, we might accomplish a great deal of good in this world.”

It infuriated her that he could pretend to care even one whit for these boys. “Now you've confused me. I'd assumed that your reason for serving on so many charitable boards was to further your political aims. Yet all the time you were merely hoping to accomplish some ‘good in this world.' How very astonishing.”

Just that quickly, his amusement vanished. “While I don't pretend to be as morally superior as you and your late husband, my intentions are good, no matter what you make of them. It may shock you to learn that those of us with character flaws sometimes do as much good as those of you without.”

She had no answer for that. If he knew how fragile was her appearance of superiority and how many were her character flaws, he'd never say such a thing. But he didn't know, and she could only pray he never found out.

When she merely sat there mute, he added, “Good day, Lady Kingsley. I do hope you sleep well tonight on your pedestal.” Then without waiting for her response, he left.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she shot to her feet. “My pedestal! Ohhh, how I wish I could wipe that knowing smile from his face! And he calls
me
superior! He's the one who's so smug and sure of himself!”

“And handsome as the very devil,” Phoebe put in.

“That's exactly what he is–a devil! Him and his ideas for a factory. . . why, he might as well take those poor boys and put them to work in coal mines!”

“You're looking at his proposal all wrong, you know. You're not considering the possibilities.”

“For what? Exploiting children? Those poor boys–”

“Those poor boys run our good Mr. Dawson ragged. Except for the few who thrive on their studies, most are restless and, as his lordship says, need stimulation.”

“Hard labor? Is that what you call ‘stimulation'?”

“It's better than the alternative. Would you prefer that they act like the boys at Harrow and Eton? Become a plague on every maid around? Or worse?”

A sudden helplessness overtook Isobel. “Oh, Phoebe, what am I to do? The very thought of establishing a factory on the grounds makes my blood curdle.”

Phoebe reached over to pat her hand. “I know, Bella, I know. You're just too gentle a soul to consider it.”

That wasn't it at all, but she could hardly explain. Even Phoebe didn't know the truth about her. That she was a fraud. That she might be called a lady, but only because of her husband's ineffable kindness and careful grooming of her.

She curled her fingers into fists. “Lord Warbrooke can say what he wishes, but I know Henry would never have approved of his measures.”

“Or of the way his lordship looks at you either,” Phoebe commented dryly.

Isobel glanced up, startled. “What do you mean?” She'd thought nobody else noticed. She'd thought she imagined those alarmingly heated looks Lord Warbrooke sometimes flashed her way.

Phoebe chuckled. “That man wants you badly. The two of you spark off of each other like flint and steel.”

“We do not!” What an awful idea! Truly dreadful! She and Lord Warbrooke together? The very idea was absurd, impossible. . . 

Entrancing.

No, she mustn't even think it. She mustn't dwell on how the rough timbre of Lord Warbrooke's voice occasionally spiked her pulse up a notch. Or how the accidental brush of his hand against hers sometimes–only sometimes, mind you–made her body quiver in odd places. He would never accept her as she was, nor give her his approval.

Not that she wanted him to. No, indeed. She didn't care what that. . . that arrogant lord thought of her.

“I certainly wouldn't protest if his lordship eyed
me
like that,” Phoebe said. “Can you imagine how he'd be in bed? All lean muscle and stormy passion and–”

“Phoebe!” she protested weakly, the images far too vivid. A pox on her friend for evoking them. Isobel had learned long ago that such odd yearnings and desires came to nothing but disappointment. They could certainly never be satisfied by a man with aims and opinions so decidedly opposed to her own.