Part 3 (1/2)
The auction moved on, more items coming and going as she waited for the kitten trinket box to make an appearance. Then finally, there it was. She sat up straighter in her chair, her attention riveted.
”Next we have item number one hundred and eight, Meissen, hand-painted porcelain box with cats,” the auctioneer said in his clear voice. ”The bidding will open at twenty pounds. Who will give me twenty? Twenty? Anyone twenty?”
No one spoke, Thalia among them, since she knew better than to take the auctioneer's opening bait.
”Five pounds, then, for this exceptional Meissen box with its sweet pair of moggies? Do I have five pounds?” the auctioneer said, quartering the bid.
A man in the second row raised the numbered card with his bidder number.
”And I have five, thank you, fine sir. Who will give me five and a half? Five and a half . . . Do I have five and a half?”
A man on the opposite side raised his hand.
And on it went at a frenzied pace. Still, Thalia held back, pulse hurrying beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she waited for the right moment to jump in.
”I have ten . . . and a ten . . . and ten-”
Thalia lifted her card. ”Fifteen,” she said in a carrying voice.
The auctioneer smiled. ”Fifteen! Excellent, madam. Fifteen it is. Do we have fifteen and a half? Fifteen and a half . . .”
She held her breath, leaning forward onto the edge of her seat as she waited to see if the leap in price would be enough to scare off the other bidders. She hoped so, since she'd planned on bidding no more than twenty and would feel quite pleased if she could come away with it for less.
Two of the bidders had dropped out already. The last-another woman-sat with a frustrated expression, her round florid face turning even ruddier, red eyebrows scrunched together like a pair of badly knotted ribbons. She hesitated, clearly warring with herself over the price.
”Fifteen going once, going twice-”
”Sixteen.”
The voice that rang out was new and distinctly male. To her shock, Thalia realized the man's ident.i.ty without even having to look. And yet she couldn't stop herself from turning her head.
Lord Leopold looked straight at her.
”Sixteen from the gentleman in the back,” the auctioneer cried. ”Ladies, do we have seventeen?”
The redhead with the bad eyebrows frowned so hard it was a wonder her face didn't crack; then she shook her head.
She was out.
It was up to Thalia. She hesitated only a fraction of a second, then raised her bidder's number. ”Seventeen.”
”Eighteen,” Lord Leopold said.
Thalia's jaw tightened. What was he doing bidding on her kitten trinket box? What possible use could he have for such a thing? Then it occurred to her. Was this his revenge for the other night? For her refusal of his overtures and the champagne she'd tossed in his face?
So much for wanting to start over.
”Nineteen,” she said, the word hard and precise.
He barely waited for the auctioneer to confirm her bid before he spoke. ”Twenty-five.”
A little ripple of reaction went through the crowd, all eyes affixed to her and Lord Leopold.
Silently, she cursed.
Twenty-five? More than she wanted to pay. More than she could afford, if truth be known, since twenty pounds had been her top bid from the start. Yet it galled her, the idea of giving in to him, of letting him take something that belonged to her by rights and that had been stolen from her once already.
”Twenty-five going once, going twice-”
Was she really going to let him have her box?
”Thirty,” she said, throwing aside the last of her common sense.
Renewed murmurs echoed. Then all was silent as everyone settled down, waiting for the next bid. Even the auctioneer paused for an extra moment before diving back into the action.
”Do we have more than thirty, my lord?” Christie's man asked. ”Thirty-one? Will you go to thirty-one?”
And Lord Leopold's eyes met Thalia's once more, his own fierce and enigmatic as if the two of them were engaged in a battle that went far beyond the present moment.
She s.h.i.+vered, reading the barely concealed desire in his eyes. He wanted her; of that she had no doubt. And she sensed that he always got what he wanted, whether it be a porcelain trinket box or a woman who had taken his fancy.
”Fifty,” he said in a deep, smooth voice.
Her shoulders sank.
It was over. She couldn't possibly pay more than that and he knew it. Fifty pounds was more than her cook's yearly salary, more than the cost of the coal she used to heat the house and the kitchen from autumn to spring, more than her allotment for food and sundries combined.
”Fifty once, fifty twice . . .” The gavel came down. ”Sold.”
She looked down at her hands, clenched tight in her lap. Fury and disappointment warred within her, knowing her father's lost gift was lost yet again.
And all because of Lord Leopold Byron.
She didn't know yet what game he thought he was playing, but he was in for a sad awakening and his own rude disappointment. She knew all about being a man's p.a.w.n and it was something she'd sworn never to be again.
Rising to her feet, she signaled to her maid. It was time to leave.
She didn't look at him, careful to keep her gaze directed straight ahead as she walked out of the salesroom, head held high.
To her relief, he didn't follow. But she knew her reprieve was only temporary. It was simply a matter of waiting for his next volley in this battle of wills they had begun.
Chapter 3.
”Would you look at that?” Lord Lawrence Byron said two afternoons later.
He and Leo were finis.h.i.+ng a late nuncheon in the study. Lawrence was ensconced in his favorite armchair near a sunlit window, Leo seated at a nearby table.