Just Wicked Enough Read Free

the silence resumed and stretched, Michael considered facing them, daring them not to hold their purse strings quite so tightly, but in the end he stayed as he was, fearing they would see in his eyes the desperation that had brought him to this moment of auctioning off the only thing of value that remained to him. If they knew the truth, he’d lose his advantage.
    “A hundred thousand,” a voice finally uttered.
    “Two hundred—”
    “Five—”
    “Damnation,” a voice he recognized as belonging to James Rose growled, for the first time since the bidding began. “We could be here all day at this rate. One million.”
    Michael felt as though he’d taken a blow to the chest. Good God. He’d hoped for half that.
    “Two million,” someone else ground out.
    Michael’s knees actually weakened.
    “Three—”
    “One million,” Rose stated emphatically.
    “I’m afraid, Mr. Rose, we’ve surpassed that amount,” Farnsworth said, and Michael could hear the almost giddiness in his solicitor’s voice since they had agreed five percent of the final accepted amount would find its way into his pockets.
    “One million,” Rose repeated, “per annum as long as my daughter remains his wife, and as she has only just reached her twentieth year, I believe the marquess is looking at a rather substantial amount in the long-term.”
    Into the silence following that generous and unprecedented offer, Farnsworth finally spoke after clearing his throat twice, although his voice still warbled with excitement. “One million per annum is the current bid. Does anyone wish to better it?”
    “And if she dies in six months, one million is all he gets, while I’m willing to pay three million, up front, now.”
    “Dammit, Jeffers,” Rose began.
    “He does have a valid point,” Farnsworth interrupted. “A bird in hand and all that.”
    “All right, then. Five million up front with one million per annum to begin in five years.”
    It was all Michael could do to remain standing.
    Farnsworth cleared his throat. “Do I hear a better offer?”
    Michael heard quiet murmuring, an oath, a groan, and finally silence.
    “Very good,” Farnsworth said. “Mr. Rose, you have purchased your daughter a very nicely titled English lord.”
    And with that, Farnsworth pounded the gavel one last time, and to Michael it rang like a death knell.
    “Congratulations, sir,” Farnsworth boomed. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure to conduct business with you. I shall escort the rest of you out of the library as I’m certain Mr. Rose would like a few moments alone with the marquess.”
    Listening as the small gathering took their leave, Farnsworth at the helm, Michael stayed as he was, schooling his features not to reveal any of the emotions he was presently experiencing—relief, loss, mortification that his desperation had led him to this resolution. He waited until he heard the door click shut before finally turning around.
    Rose had moved from the chair to the edge of the desk, sitting on its corner, his eagle-eyed glare focused on Michael. His graying hair, which perfectly matched his mustache, was swept back from his forehead, and Michael doubted that it would dare become unruly and fall forward. It was strange to find himself facing a man who actually had the misfortune of appearing kind—but it was well known he had the ruthlessness of a lion.
    “Quite clever on your part to give the fathers of several heiresses the opportunity to bring a swift end to the husband hunting their daughters are doing this Season,” Rose said.
    “I merely faced reality, Mr. Rose. We can dress the whole affair up with fancy balls and dinners, but we, gentlemen, all understand we are engaged in a business venture. I merely recognized what is being sold and was quite confident exceptional fathers were wise enough to acknowledge the truth of what they were buying. You Americans are purchasing titles. We Brits are selling them.”
    “Money means nothing to me,