Page 2 of No One's Bride
The Daventrys slipped out of the room, leaving Ailsa alone in the viper pit. With tentative steps, she approached the aisle separating the rows of crowded benches. The men spread out, making it clear there wasn’t a spare seat in the house.
She spotted Viscount Denton sitting at the end of a row. The handsome lord met her gaze, tutted and raised his blue eyes heavenward. She would rather sit on the dusty parquet floor than beg for his assistance.
Tension cut through the air.
Tears threatened to fall, but she would not give these mean men the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Ailsa raised her chin. “I shall stand, Mr Murden. I need only raise my hand to bid, and the auction should be over quickly.”
Lord Denton muttered what sounded like an expletive and stood abruptly, straightening to a height of over six feet. “There’s room for you here, Miss MacTavish.” He must have sensed her resistance. One should not mistake his golden locks for a halo. “As you say, I doubt we’ll be here long.”
Since winning the Tudor lady’s diary, since stealing it from under her nose, Ailsa had spent sleepless nights cursing him to the devil. The man had no interest in a woman’s social plight from a bygone era and had bought the book out of spite.
Still, they were friends of a sort, and her knees would likely buckle once the bidding started. It would only antagonise him more if she refused, and this was hardly the place for a verbal spar.
“I thank ye for the kind gesture, my lord.”
“Unlike some men, I’ve not forgotten my manners,” he said, glaring at the fools seated behind him. He stepped into the aisle and motioned to the sturdy oak bench.
Ailsa leaned closer and whispered, “I would prefer to sit at the end of the row, my lord.” She would not sit beside the gruff fellow who looked ready to bind her hands and prevent her from bidding.
Lord Denton bent his head, the smell of sandalwood cologne encompassing her. “Being so tall, I need to stretch my legs, madam.” He lowered his voice and fixed her with a stony expression. “You’re my main competitor. Be grateful I’ve not tossed you over my shoulder and deposited you in the broom cupboard.”
She eyed him narrowly. “I’ll warn ye to keep yer hands off my person, else I might stab ye with a hat pin.”
“Do you want to sit down or not?” he said bluntly. “Perhaps you should leave. I’m confident you’ve had a wasted journey. Nothing will prevent me from winning that book today.”
Oh, the man was beyond obstinate.
“Never underestimate a Scot.” Ailsa possessed her father’s stubbornness and was by no means afraid of this man. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than wiping that smirk off yer face.”
Aware they were the object of everyone’s attention, Lord Denton conceded. “In a bid to ease your impending disappointment, Miss MacTavish, I shall let you take my seat.”
Her heart leapt at the minor victory.
Until she sat down and realised the lord had no option but to sit at an odd angle. His knee touched hers, the sudden contact sending a jolt of awareness from her neck to her navel.
Lord Denton hissed a breath, his annoyance evident.
Eager to avoid further delays, Mr Murden demanded silence while he called the first lot. “Here we have an early eighteenth-century copy of Alexander Niccholes’ self-help manualThe Discourse of Marriage and Wiving.Who will start the bidding at fifty pounds?”
A man in the front row raised a wooden paddle.
Another hand shot up.
Lord Denton remained rigid in his seat.
“Are ye nae interested in seeking help to find a wife, my lord?” she mocked. The mere mention of wives and marriage usually brought the lord out in hives.
“I made a blood oath not to marry until I’m fifty,” he uttered.
“One ye made with Mr St Clair, yet he married yer sister months ago.” After secretly loving Helen for years, it came as no surprise when Nicholas St Clair broke his oath. “I’m told ladies are scrambling to be the diamond that makes ye break yer vow.”
The man was an insufferable grouch, but even Ailsa could see he oozed an inherent masculinity that drew women in droves.
The lord tutted. “Then they’ll have a twenty-year wait. And I came here to purchase a book, not discuss my personal affairs.”
“Ye came to bid on a book,” she corrected. She would sell her soul to the devil to prevent him from beating her again. “There’s nae guarantee ye’ll win.”
