The Virgin's Auction by Amelia Hart Read Free Book Online Page B

met in the street. His black hair was fashionably tousled, a style that suited the broad, clean lines of his face. His eyebrows were two dark slashes under a wide forehead. His jaw line was firm and strong. What colour his eyes were, she could not tell at that distance. She only knew they were dark, and seemed somehow both cool and hot as they looked right into her.
    “So, gentleman,” roared the bartender, breaking into her trance. “Who will be taking this flower home with them? Who will enjoy a night of passion with this pure, delicate lady? Who will show her what a real man can do?”
    Again there were eager shouts.
    “Tell me what I’m bid. A hundred pounds is a cheap price for such a marvel. Who’ll give me one hundred?” She was horrified, forgetting the nature of an auction and thinking for a dreadful moment that this might be the price for her virtue, thrown away without winning their escape.
    “One hundred!” came a call from several throats.
    “Gentlemen, too close,” cried out the bartender. “We’ll go to two hundred. Who’ll see me?”
    The calls came for two hundred, then three, then four. Reason returned to her as the total jumped upwards. Now – perhaps always – it was a sum too rich for most of the room, who cheered for the spectacle of it. Higher climbed the figure. Five hundred. Now six. Seven. There were three men still in, all from the group of nobles. They grinned at her drunkenly, staring at her cleavage more than her face. Their companions egged them on, yelling for more.
    Eight hundred pounds. Eight hundred and twenty. Thirty. Eight hundred fifty. Nine hundred. So close. The moment was upon her.
    Down to two men. One wore a virulent mustard frockcoat trimmed with puce, the fashion of his youth. The other was in a much quieter coat of navy blue, with a dandyishly high shirt collar skimming his pocked cheeks.
    Melissa’s gaze leapt desperately from one to the other. Which would it be? Both of them were at least half-soused. Their clothes were stained by the night’s revelry. Neither was young. The man in the mustard coat was plump and jowled.
    Then Melissa looked at the man in black. He was still watching her with those dark eyes and a slight frown. Unlike the other men in the room, she could read no lust in his face. His head was up, jaw clenched, mouth tight.
    In her heart was a hopeless plea. Take me away from this . To him, to God, to whichever force might listen in this room here tonight. Her body was perfectly motionless, rigid with a tension that felt like it might break her in two. She felt she was choking.
    The man in black took a single quick step towards her. She heard the bartender as he began to wind down, the pauses between his calls finding only the murmurs of the crowd, quietened too by the suspense of the moment. The call was nine hundred and fifty pounds. It was the mustard-coated man’s turn to bid, but he was silent.
    Melissa stared fixedly at the figure in the navy coat. He was grinning in triumph, crooked yellowing teeth bared.
    Nine hundred and fifty pounds, thought Melissa. Pray God it is enough. She closed her eyes, despairing.
    “So, gents. Is this the man for our tender little virgin? Is this the man as will take her away for a night of hot pleasuring?” All was still, as if like her the whole world held its breath, other than the relentlessly cheerful tavern keeper. “No more bids I hear? That’s a yes then is it? Then she’s s-”
    “Twelve hund red pounds.” The voice was calm; deep, and clear as a bell.
    Melissa’s eyes flew open. Who had it been? Who had made that bid?
    The bartender was pointing at the black-coated man in triumph.
    “You, sir,” he pronounced happily, “Are a real man. Now has I further word from the floor?” He inclined his head towards the previous high bidder. He was met with a scowl and the shake of a head. That man would bid no more.
    “Then that’s done it,” the bartender continued. “Twelve hundred pounds. A