Page 67 of The Wrong Duke

Amelia kept her sister close as they walked, holding her hand tight, wanting nothing more than to tell her that everything would be all right but also not wanting to lie to her. Everything wasn’t going to be all right. She knew that now. At most, she might hope to fetch a high enough price and save her sister, but she knew her father better than to wish for such things. His greed knew no bounds, and if she was bought for an absurd amount, that would likely only encourage him to auction off Bridget and leave tonight with a small fortune.

How long she walked the floor? She had no idea. Her conscience was a million miles away, to better times, ones she knew she wouldn’t see ever again. But before long, her father was ushering her and Bridget toward a stage set in the middle of the room — two feet high, another five wide, to stand on, it would put them above the rest so that all eyes might focus on the two ladies, missing nothing, seeing everything,

She held her sister’s hand as tight as she could. She wanted to pull her away, cover her somehow, to show the other men that she was not for sale. But her father made sure to have them standing side by side as he set them on the middle of the stage for the room to see.

The raucous laughter in the room began to die slowly as the men about realized what was happening. A few conversations lingered, a couple of them were told to be quiet, and through the smoke, Amelia could see just about every single pair of eyes on her and her sister. The heat from the room made her sweat. The smoke had her coughing.

“We all know why we’re here!” her father began loudly, forcing the few who weren’t paying attention to quieten down. “But I want to begin by thanking you all for coming! And for recognizing the honor that sits before each of you. The chance you have to not only secure a marriage to a true lady of England, the daughter of a viscount but also to secure your name beside that of my own. The Lindstone lineage is a long and proud one, and soon, my good friends, two of you will be as good as brothers to me and mine!” The men cheered and cried out and clapped their approval.

Amelia forced herself to withdraw. She didn’t want to hear it. What her father was saying. How triumphant he appeared — how sanctimonious, as if he was doing these men some great favor. She stared at her feet, forcing her mind from the room, away from here, picturing the Duke and his smile, his lips, their feel on him. They were back in that bedroom, he was wrapped around her, his big arms warm and protective and right. He would never let her go, holding her forever, keeping her safe because he loved her.

Somehow, Amelia even managed to smile.

“Five thousand pounds!” Amelia vaguely heard someone shout.

“Six thousand!” another cried.

“Six thousand, five hundred!” a third hollered excitedly.

“We can do better than that!” her father demanded gaily. He stepped behind Amelia and pushed her forward. “Look closely, gentlemen! A truer beauty you will not see!”

“Eight thousand pounds!”

Her father took Amelia by the hand and forced her to twirl; he gripped her waist roughly and spun her while she continued to stare at her feet. “Childbearing hips, too, mind you! She was built to start a family.”

“Ten thousand pounds!” one of the men shouted from the front.

“That’s more like it! Can I hear twelve?”

“Fifteen!” one man demanded. “To close the bidding.”

Amelia dared a glance, finding him immediately in the crowd. He wore a red cape, a white mask, and had a stomach on him that stretched the width of three men. Even beneath the mask, she could see the blotchy red skin, the multiple chins, and the yellow teeth as he smiled his pending victory.

“Sixteen!” A second man declared. Amelia’s head snapped around to find him, landing on what looked to be a taller man in a black cloak, matched to his black mask, with broader shoulders and a firm chin beneath the mask. His hair was dark and his smile was... well, it wasn’t as bad as the other.

“Seventeen!” the one in the red cloak shouted angrily.

“Eighteen,” the man dressed in the dark cloak countered immediately.

“Twenty!” The fat one in the red cloak pushed the men around him to the side as he stormed toward the stage. “Twenty thousand pounds, Lord Lindstone. And I expect —”

“Fifty thousand pounds!” the man in the black cloak shouted, staying right where he was, arms folded, smirking to himself because the number he had just called was as outrageous as it was shocking.

And indeed, the room gasped as one. And her father giggled to himself, unable to hide his excitement. “Did I hear fifty?”

“Fifty to close the bidding,” the man in the black cloak repeated; his voice was deep and commanding, like a storm raging over a placid lake, demanding its attention.

“Outrageous!” the one in the red cloak cried and spun back to confront the other. “No one would pay as much — he’s trying to hustle you!”

“I assure you that I am not.” The man in the black cloak spoke calmly and coolly. Again, he stayed put toward the back of the room, not bothering to raise his voice because he had the room’s complete attention. “Again, fifty thousand pounds, Lord Lindstone. Do you accept?”

“Yes!” her father shouted without pause, his eyes were wide and hungry, and Amelia had never seen him look so excited. “That’s fifty-thousand with tax of course – but we can discuss the finer points later on.” He stepped in to Amelia and pushed her forward. “Congratulations, ah... I’m sorry. I don’t believe I recognize you.”

“I can’t imagine you would.”

“Can we have a name?”

“I’ll do you one better.” The man in the black cloak took a few short steps forward. Those standing about parted ways, creating a small circle about him as if scared to get too close. Whoever he was, he knew how to be dramatic as he paused for a moment, casting his gaze about, making sure all eyes were on his person.

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