Page 7 of No One's Bride
Ailsa stood, keen to leave the oppressive den and gather her wits. But then Mr Murden called her name, and the room descended into silence once again.
“We will deliver More’sUtopiato your father’s address in Pall Mall, Miss MacTavish. Expect delivery later today.”
Deliver the book to her father’s address?
“I beg yer pardon, sir, but ye’ve made a mistake.” Was the man so addled he couldn’t recall who’d bid? “The anonymous buyer won the auction.”
Lord Denton clenched his fists at his sides. “Isn’t it obvious? Your father is the anonymous bidder.”
Mr Murden cleared his throat. “That I cannot say. Whoever placed the written bid added a stipulation and wished to gift the book to you, Miss MacTavish. Consequently, you own the rare copy ofUtopia,madam.”
ChapterTwo
“Congratulations, Miss MacTavish.” While a gentleman might silently seethe, Sebastian let his anger show. “I’m not sure whether to commend you on your devious tactics or berate you for cheating.”
Being so sure he would win, he’d had a plaque made in his brother’s memory. A shiny tribute to celebrate a life that had ended abruptly. Something so opposed to the cold, empty crypt.
“My lord, I assure ye, this is as much a surprise to me.” Miss MacTavish met his gaze, her jade-green eyes softening in a bid to disarm him. “My father made nae mention of bidding on the auction. On my oath, he keeps his purse strings fastened tighter than yer clenched fists.”
“Who else would spend a ludicrous sum to ensure you won the book?” He had marked her as intelligent, even interesting in an annoying sort of way, a bluestocking, but never naive.
She frowned and shrugged and gave a convincing performance as someone completely clueless. “Certainly nae my friends. They advised I spend nae more than a few hundred pounds on the tome.”
Perhaps they had all whipped together.
Four ladies who wished to test his resolve—including his own damn sister.
Sebastian tried to rein in his temper. Seeing the grimoire had raised a flurry of old doubts and fears, a plague of unwanted memories.
He had sat in the auction room, staring at the wooden casket as the assistant removed the sinister red book, recalling the day he received Michael’s belongings fromThe Perseus. Amongst the grooming implements, snuffboxes and mountain of books, he found a small grimoire containing a list of spells and herbal remedies, the pages foxed and well-thumbed.
Had Michael died from a tropical fever?
Or was he consumed by a strange wickedness?
Was he considered a bad omen amongst a superstitious crew?
“Forgive me, my lord.” Murden’s croaky voice dragged Sebastian from his morbid musings. “I have three more lots to get through today, and beg you to continue this conversation outside.”
“Oh, I’m leaving. Even if you produced a copy of Shakespeare’sFirst Folio, I would not frequent this house again.” This was the third time he had failed his brother. And by God, it would be the last.
Resentment firming every muscle, he stormed past a dumbstruck Miss MacTavish. Instinct said she was not party to the deception. Why would a woman who spoke with such candour deliberately mislead him?
All eyes were upon them.
No doubt the story would appear in tomorrow’sScandal Sheet. The writer would ridicule the woman, draw her as a grotesque caricature, a creature from myth. Anything to show her behaviour was not what society expected of a lady.
Sebastian’s conscience pricked him, forcing him to pause and face her. “Allow me to escort you to your chaperones, Miss MacTavish. There’ll be documents you need to sign.”
He expected her to curse him to Hades. The lady’s tongue was as sharp as her intellect, but her mouth curled into a weak smile, and she merely nodded.
He didn’t offer his arm.
Theirs was an odd friendship.
They sniped at each other, sparred and crossed swords. They tested each other’s logic and wit, but they never touched.
Never.
