Page 6 of Scoundrel for Sale
He’d managed to strike a deal with the creditors. If Gabe could come up with five hundred pounds as a show of good faith, they would delay the seizure of the estate’s effects for one month. Great-aunt Matilda could keep her wedding ring, and Gabe would have just enough breathing room to locate and marry a suitable heiress.
All he had to do, he mused, gazing out over the crowd of women in the theater below, was convince someone in this room that a night in his bed was worth five hundred pounds.
Madame Heron continued her speech. “Now, I’m sure that most of us are aware that the new Lord Fairbourne here is on the hunt for a wealthy bride.” She paused, a gleam in her eye. “But I know something that I believe will come as a shock. This very evening, Lord Fairbourne told me that once he marries, he intends to be faithful to his wife!”
Wails of protest filled the gallery below. Madame Heron held her hands up for silence. “That’s right, the person with the highest bid tonight might very well be the last lover Lord Fairbourne ever takes. The last woman, save for his new bride, to ever experience the exquisite pleasure that only he can give.”
Gabe affected a sheepish smile and an apologetic shrug. But this had been an easy decision. The world thought he was a complete and total scoundrel.
Hell, he thought, recalling Hart lying in that field, warning Gabe off his sister. Even his best friend thought he was irredeemable.
But that wasn’t how Gabe saw himself, nor was it who he wanted to be. All of his past antics had taken place before he turned twenty-three. They were youthful follies, nothing more. He’d hardly been in the country for the last nine years, for Christ’s sake, and opportunities to have a torrid affair had been thin on the ground during his dusty deployments. But his reputation as this legendary rakehell somehow refused to die.
He knew he needed to choose a rich bride, but Gabe also hoped he might find someone he could… not love. There was only one woman he thought he could truly love, and in a cruel twist of fate, she happened to be the one woman he could never have. But he wanted to give his marriage a chance, and that meant he wasn’t going to be hopping in and out of every bed in Mayfair.
Madame Heron continued, “So keep that in mind as you’re considering how much you want to bid.” She turned to Gabe. “Lord Fairbourne, if you would be so kind as to show these esteemed ladies what they’re bidding on?”
Gabe grinned, trying to look as if he was enjoying himself, and peeled his shirt up over his head. As one, the crowd of women made an appreciative ooh.
Gabe might not be the heavyweight champion of England, but the nine years he’d spent in the army had been good for something. He was six foot two with broad shoulders and strong arms from countless hours spent fencing, shooting, hauling water, and building a camp then tearing it down three days later. His hips were slim from endless days spent riding and marching, and his body was toned and well-muscled, with nary an ounce of fat on it. His torso was a golden tan just a shade lighter than his blond hair from all those afternoons they’d spent sea-bathing on Malta.
He wasn’t about to strike a prizefighter’s pose the way Tom Talbot had done; there were some acts a man simply could not follow. But he gave his best rakish grin and made eye contact with as many of the assembled ladies as he could, even running a hand slowly through his hair.
Madame Heron clapped her hands. “May I have an opening bid of fifty pounds?”
Half of those present raised their hands, which was a good sign. But not enough to allow Gabe to relax. He needed the bidding to get up over five hundred pounds if he was going to delay his creditors. And considering that only one other man had broken the hundred-pound mark, that was a hell of a tall order.
From the gallery, Veronique gave him a nod. She knew his situation and was the one who had suggested the auction in the first place. She’d also called in a favor with Madame Heron, and unlike the other bachelors, who had to pay a cut of their sales price to the house, Gabe would be keeping his full proceeds.
He knew he could count on Veronique to run the bidding up a bit, and she entered the fray with a bid of seventy-five pounds. At that point, a dozen women were bidding for a night of Gabe’s company.
When the bidding reached one hundred and fifty pounds, it was down to four.
When it crossed the two-hundred-pound mark, there were only two: Veronique and Lady Liddell.
Gabe knew he had to maintain his devil-may-care front, but he shot Veronique a speaking look, silently begging her to stay in there. More important than age or attractiveness, he wanted to be purchased by someone who was unencumbered. Sleeping with Lady Liddell, whose husband would be heartbroken by the betrayal, was the opposite of who he was trying to be.
Veronique kept bidding, but as Gabe’s price rose, her face became increasingly drawn. Finally, when the bidding passed three hundred fifty pounds, she shot Gabe an apologetic look and shook her head.
Shit. Not only was he going to have to sleep with Lady Liddell, he’d fallen a hundred and fifty pounds shy of the sum he needed to delay his creditors. He was going to have to betray his values, and it wouldn’t even save Great-aunt Matilda’s wedding ring.
Gabe forced a smile to his lips and turned to face Lady Liddell.
That was when he saw her.
She’d been lingering in the shadows at the back of the room. Unlike most of the ladies, who had dressed for a masquerade, her black silk gown looked like it had been designed for mourning, especially as she had paired it with a black lace veil that completely obscured her face.
For some reason, as this mystery woman began making her way down the theater’s aisle, Gabe felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and stand on end.
He didn’t know who she was, but he felt a sudden, overwhelming certainty that she was someone.
The crowd fell silent as she walked to the front of the room. Gabe could see nothing of her face behind that veil, but he could tell she was looking him straight in the eye.
Once she had reached the front of the gallery, she stopped, then said in a voice that was both certain and tremulous, “One thousand pounds.”
The room exploded with excitement. Lady Liddell’s face looked as dark as the Thames at midnight. Veronique’s relief was almost palpable.
Madame Heron nodded regally. “One thousand pounds. Everyone, a round of applause for our winner!”
