What Not to Bare: A Loveswept Historical Romance (27 page)

“Would you like some lemonade?”

No, I’d rather that you kissed me
. “Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.”

Violet watched him stride off in pursuit of her beverage, and she heaved a sigh she hoped wouldn’t shake the chandeliers hanging overhead. She and Christian had been betrothed for a month now, and besides ensuring he danced with her at least twice when they were at the same social events, nothing was different than before he’d proposed.

Even at the moment he’d proposed, he’d had a distant look in his eye. A distant look that in any other man would have meant he was thinking about someone else, but Violet knew he wasn’t. Unless the someone else was some dead philosopher, and she hardly thought Christian would rather marry, much less kiss, one of them.

She’d have thought they would at least have kissed on the occasion of their betrothal. But despite standing at what she presumed was in the correct attitude, all he’d done was mutter, “Well, that’s settled, then,” and strode off to somewhere. Somewhere she—not to mention her lips—was not.

Did he just not want to kiss anyone? No, since his sister—her best friend—had shared some of Christian’s exploits with the female gender over the years, she knew he had an interest in women. He just seemed not to have realized yet that
she
was a woman.

Despite having proposed.

Why did she have to fall in love with someone so clueless? Someone who didn’t realize that when one asked a female to marry him, that implied some sort of … activity on one’s part?

Clueless Christian.

That had to be it. Their families had known each other for so long, and Christian wasn’t used to seeing Violet as anything more than the girl who was always with his sister. Whom he took for granted as much as he did his sister. That Violet had developed an abiding passion for Christian at the age of ten was something she had been determined just to live with. Until he asked her to marry him.

And all of her hopes had been realized. All of her hopes, that is, except that he would kiss her. Which was when she figured out almost nothing had changed between them after all, despite his having asked her to spend the rest of her life with him. Other than that, nothing.

His family had prodded him into it. Probably by promising they would leave him alone once his marital future was settled.

She could almost hear the conversation: his father pronouncing at the breakfast table, “Son, you have to be married sometime, and it might as well be someone you know. Lady Violet is an excellent choice.”

To which Christian probably mumbled through his toast, “Fine, excellent. Can you pass me that notebook? I think I’ve discovered a shortcut for Pythagoras’s
tetractys
. Oh, and I’ll take care of that other thing next week.” That “other thing” being asking Violet to marry him.

She was going to have to do
something
about the situation. She just had no clue what that something was; she did know, however, that she would not marry Christian, no matter how much she loved him, if she hadn’t at least been assured he knew who she was, and how her relative femininity would work with his masculinity.

“Here you are,” Christian said, handing her a glass of lemonade. Already he was squinting off into the distance, as though calculating the circumference of the room, the number of people, and how many more could reasonably fit, allowing for trays of lobster patties.

As always, her breath caught when she looked at him. He was tall, remarkably tall, so tall that when they did kiss, they would probably have to be lying down—a thought that made Violet’s heart flutter—with thick brown hair she longed to run her fingers through. His body was lean, and though he’d gone through a gawky period as he was growing into his limbs, he now possessed an unconscious feline grace. He was an excellent dancer, which was surprising given how little he’d cared to practice when he was learning. Violet knew that firsthand, since she was often at the Jepstows’ house when he’d had his lessons, and she’d been called upon to be his partner.

He’d spent more time explaining Plato’s theory of forms than he had on the steps.

His intelligence was just one of the reasons she loved him—she never had to worry that they would run out of things to talk about—but it was also proving to be an impediment to the whole romantic aspect of marriage that she longed for.

If only there was some way to show him just who she was.

Dear ladies, please know that your columnist has your best interests at heart. It is with great discretion, therefore, that we discuss the sensitive topic of undergarments. Some ladies, it seems, do not pay as strict attention to what to wear under their gowns as they do to their gowns themselves.

A crucial error, my ladies.

A lady’s gown dictates what should be worn underneath, and will look to best advantage when bolstered with the proper wear. Choose what looks best, even if it can’t be seen. If you are unsure, ask a trusted advisor—a sister, a mother, perhaps even a husband—for their opinion.

If it is the latter, however, be aware that perhaps you will not end up going out for the evening after all, but staying in.

“She’s a virgin, gentlemen. And she’ll be sold to the highest bidder.”

Alasdair raised his head from the worn wooden table, struggling to open his eyelids. He lifted his hand from where it had been dangling by his side and pried his left lid open, propping his head up on his right hand. The words had registered only vaguely, but they were enough to pull him from his miasma.

The man who’d spoken was standing on the largest of the tables in the pub, his loud, checked waistcoat and overoiled hair proclaiming his gentlemanly aspirations. The man bowed, spreading his hands wide and smiling.

“Allow me to introduce myself; my name, fine sirs, is William Mackenzie, and I am in the fortuitous position of offering something very rare, very special to you this evening.” His overdone accent almost disguised his Scottish burr. “If you’ve got the blunt,” Mackenzie added, clearing his throat. The clamor in the pub did not abate. “Gentlemen! If I may have your attention,” the man repeated in an even louder voice.

Alasdair wished he’d just shut up. It wouldn’t be possible to slide back into oblivion, not while the loudmouth was yelping. At least the rest of the customers had quieted, waiting to hear what it was the Scot was selling.

Alasdair watched as Mackenzie leaned down and pulled on something—an arm? While he pulled, another man—a younger one, his face contorted in a sneer—shoved a woman onto the table where Mackenzie held her, tightly, around the waist. She didn’t struggle, just gazed at the assembled crowd with a blank expression on her face. Too blank.

Alasdair sat up. His head throbbed from the effort.

“What’ll you bid?” Twenty or thirty men were watching—no,
inspecting
—the woman on the table. Alasdair wiped a hand over his face, clearing his bleary eyes.

She was medium height, with dark, curly brown hair. Her gown was modestly cut, but tight, as if it had belonged to someone else, and her breasts strained at the fabric. Her figure looked lush and inviting, the kind of figure men slavered after.

The kind of figure that would make every man in the room want her.

“Untouched.” Mackenzie winked, a grotesque leer, and then bent down and
inched her skirt up slowly until her entire ankle and part of her shin was showing. She wasn’t wearing shoes or stockings, and the pale, white flesh of her leg gleamed in the candlelight.

Alasdair stared, transfixed by the lovely curve of her calf, the delicate bones of her ankle. His eyes traveled up, taking in the much-washed fabric of her gown, her luscious breasts, the graceful column of her neck.

He noticed a dark area on her shin. A trick of the light? A birthmark marring that otherwise perfect skin?

He glanced at her face, dreading what he would see there, but knowing he had to look anyway.

As he’d expected, no emotion registered there. Her eyes were dull, her pupils huge and dark.

It was worse than if she’d been frightened or trembling—she was so distant from what was happening, he doubted she even comprehended it. And that blankness, that empty gaze, cut through to the heart he’d thought was blackened forever.

Damn it. He was going to have to do something.

“How do we knows she’s a virgin?” a voice asked. “Who’s to say she ain’t just pulled a fast one on you?”

Mackenzie let go of the woman, who wobbled unsteadily as her skirt tumbled down. The Scot rolled his head back and laughed, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers. He bobbed forward and eyed the crowd. “ ’Cause she’s a vicar’s daughter, my lords. And she comes straight from church, pure as an angel. God’s honest truth,” he finished, chuckling at his own wit.

There was a moment of silence—Reverence? Appreciation?—and then the bidding started.

“Two pounds!” a gruff voice shouted from behind Alasdair.

“She’s worth more’n that,” the younger man said from behind Mackenzie, his voice tinged with desperation. Mackenzie turned around to shush the man, and then faced the crowd again with that patently false smile plastered on his face. He clasped the woman to his side.

Not that she was struggling. Alasdair doubted she even could.

“Two pounds three shillings!” A large man to Alasdair’s right flung his hand in the air, then swept off his hat and bowed toward the table. “Although the lady might want to consider paying me after I’m done with her,” he added. The men in the room laughed. A few derisive comments followed.

The woman didn’t react at all.

Anger roiled in his gut, anger at the crowd, the greasy Scot who had her on the table, the man standing behind her, even anger at her for allowing herself to be put in this position.

She needed rescuing. And he was the furthest thing from a knight in shining armor anyone could possibly imagine.

“Three pounds, gentleman, for the pleasure of taking this dell’s virtue. For the pleasure,” Mackenzie said, running his hand from her waist up her side, “of owning her.” He slid his hand forward and placed it on her breast, squeezing it, stroking it, his eyes closed in exaggerated ecstasy, his other hand reaching toward his crotch.

She remained still. Not looking in any particular direction, just—placid. Calm. As though she weren’t being eyed by a group of lusty farmers while being fondled by a crass, pretentious Scot with suspect fashion choices.

Alasdair jumped up before he could stop himself. “Five pounds!” he barked, thumping on the table with his closed fist. The men in the room glanced around in surprise, obviously wondering where the real gentleman had come from.

Alasdair hadn’t spoken more than a few mumbled words since arriving at the pub—he hadn’t wanted to be noticed. But now every man in the place was gawking at him, his accent giving him away as Quality.

There was a low murmur as hands were shoved back into pockets and the men began to shuffle from side to side. Alasdair had won the bidding, as much with his accent as with his money.

The auctioneer’s eyes opened and his hand dropped back to the woman’s waist. “Well, then, my lord,” he said, “she’s all yers. Provided, of course, you’ve got the ready?”

Alasdair didn’t bother replying to Mackenzie’s implied insult. He shoved his fingers in his pockets for his money as he stepped forward. He’d planned exactly how much to spend tonight—enough to get deliciously deadened, but not enough to actually kill him. And then, because old habits die hard, he’d stuck some more bank notes in his pocket in case of emergency.

This, he reasoned, was an emergency.

He strode up to the table, unsteady on his feet at first. The room was silent, so quiet the rustle of the money in his hand echoed like a hammer in Alasdair’s brain.

The man waited for Alasdair to place the note on the table, then removed his hand from the woman’s waist, pushing her forward until she teetered on the edge of the table. She stepped forward so that one foot dangled off the table, then Mackenzie gave her a push, and—

She fell into Alasdair’s arms.

It was not an elegant rescue, the kind where the noble prince gathers the humble milkmaid gently in his arms and consecrates the moment with a kiss. Her elbow landed smartly on his head, his arm muscles stretched and protested under her weight, and for a moment he was convinced they were both going to end up in a heap on the sawdust-strewn wood floor.

He staggered, sliding her down his body until her feet touched the floor and she was able to stand on her own. He reached up to rub the sore spot on his head, and then clasped her by the arm to keep her from falling over. “Are you all right?”

She shook his hand off and nodded, but he wasn’t sure she had really heard the question. He needed to get her out of here before she emerged from her stupor.

Before she realized what had happened to her.

And then what the hell was he going to do?

“Come along,” he said. He could hear his own rough tone, the voice he’d used with green recruits. He was lucky he was staying in the inn upstairs—she had clearly been drugged, and was unsteady on her feet.

They mounted the small wooden staircase in silence, Alasdair holding her upright as she shuffled along. He dug into his pocket for the room key, and then held her close to his body as he opened the door.

He held the door open for her, then slammed it behind them and gestured toward the narrow bed. “Sit down there.”

The covers were in disarray from where he’d thrashed about in the throes of one of his nightmares, but of course she didn’t notice. She sat where he’d indicated, her hands folded demurely in her lap, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Some of his men had worn that same look in battle. He sat down beside her, unutterably weary. So much for his glorious plans of oblivion.

He could tell when she began to emerge from whatever it was that had possessed her—her eyes, the stormy dark blue of an angry sea, began to focus. Her pupils narrowed. Her entire body began to tremble.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She was shaking so hard it jarred him, and he put his other arm across her chest to gather him to her. Then he began to lie down, still holding her, wrapped up in his body.

“Shh,” he said, wishing that she had someone else to take care of her. The bed was narrow, barely big enough for his large frame, much less another person. He tried to make himself as small as possible—not easy, considering his size—while also trying to keep himself as distant from her as he could.

He had no idea how to calm her. He could hear her teeth chattering, even though her body was warm next to his. He tried not to think about how warm she was, in fact, nor how soft her skin was, nor how her bottom was tucked into his groin.

He was not doing a very good job of not thinking, he knew. But at least he wasn’t
acting
on his thoughts.

He could do nothing but lie there next to her, holding her as she began to thrash in earnest. He instinctively flung his leg over hers, holding her down, and clasped her even tighter in his arms.

She felt so good there. So right. Though he knew it was wrong to imagine it, he thought of her turning to him, offering him her mouth, allowing him to caress her breasts, her stomach, allowing him to pleasure her.

And he would find solace in burying himself inside her, her warm sheath offering a welcome respite from his pain.

He slid his hand down her arm—so soft, her skin. Her hair tickled his nose. It was redolent of some sort of floral, but of course he didn’t know what.

And her body lay against his, the warmth and softness and utter femininity of her causing his senses to whirl.

And still he did nothing but murmur and try to soothe her.

Eventually, the shaking eased, and she lay still in his arms.

“Did I do … was there …?” She spoke in a quiet voice.

“No,” he said. “Nothing happened.” He took his leg off hers, and she turned her head, regarding him with a steady, serious gaze. Not timid, then, despite what she was going through. Frightened, of course, he could see that in her eyes, but not terrified or weak. He could bet she hadn’t gotten herself into this situation—it had been forced on her. He felt a grudging sense of admiration for her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Mary.” Her voice was already stronger.

“Well, Mary, welcome to hell.”

***

Try as she might, Mary couldn’t convince herself he had a kind face.

She lay on the bed as he paced, no doubt wondering just what he was going to do with her now that he’d bought her.

Bought
her.

She couldn’t think about that too much or she’d start to scream. And that would be no help at all in her current situation. Better to assess her reality: him.

She peered up from under her lashes. He was tall, taller even than Tall Tom who helped her father with odd jobs around the vicarage.

Welcome to hell
. His voice was sharp and rough, but she could tell he’d intended to be gentle. She wondered if he’d ever been gentle in his entire life—oh, yes.

He had; when he’d held her, when he’d murmured those soft, soothing noises in that sinful-as-chocolate voice. That was gentleness. And a welcome respite from her own hell. She didn’t remember much of the evening, just her half brother dragging her to this awful place and forcing something down her throat.

People staring at her. Him taking her up a flight of stairs, lying next to her on this bed. Had they really shared such an intimate space?

The warmth his body left behind on the bed was proof, even if she didn’t have her hammering heart to offer testimony as well.

What was he doing here? In this place? Buying women?

She sat up, suddenly too aware of her surroundings. Him.

It was hard to imagine he’d need to buy anything, much less female companionship.

His eyes were green, as light and clear and pure as a stained-glass window on a sunny day. His eyebrows slashed across atop his eyes, two black, uncompromising lines. The bones in his face were sharp, too, the angles and planes making him more than just plainly handsome.

Because he was. Handsome, that is. One of the most gloriously handsome men Mary had ever seen. Just looking at him made her catch her breath. His lips, his beautiful, luscious lips, were full and sensual, in marked contrast to the stark depths of his face. His black hair was long and tousled with a slight wave. It brushed the top of his collar. A collar that to Mary’s knowledgeable eyes was in need of a good cleaning.

Mary’s eyes swept down the rest of him. He was broad shouldered and clearly athletic, his long, well-muscled legs standing in arrogant command.

“If you’re done eying me like a cut of meat, Mary, perhaps you could tell me more about why we have found each other together this evening?” His tone was acerbic. Far from the man who’d held her. Who’d calmed her.

She responded before thinking, in the frosty tone that used to make the schoolgirls she taught quake in their pinafores. “It is not necessary, sir. If you are done with me, done with this”—she rose and gestured around the spare, squalid room—“I can be on my way. There is no need—”

He jerked his arm out and pulled her to him, raking his eyes up and down her body. “And where will you go? You are hardly in a position to say if there is a need or not. Don’t forget, I paid five pounds for you.”