The Bride Sale Read Free Page B

rest of ’ee can outbid His Lordship, eh?” the auctioneer said. After only the briefest of pauses, he continued. “The lady be sold, then, to Lord Harkness fer the gen’rous sum o’ one hun’red pounds.”
    Sold .
    A renewed and heart-pounding panic engulfed her. She had been sold. Sold.
    The word reverberated in her head, louder than the crash of ten thousand metal drums, overpowering everything that had gone before. Sold .
    It was impossible. This was the nineteenth century, for God’s sake. Such things simply did not happen in these modern times, in this modern, enlightened Britain. Did they?
    And yet she had just been sold. Like a horse at Tattersall’s. Like a bonnet in a milliner’s window or a sweetmeat from a confectioner. Like a slave.
    Verity heard Gilbert’s sigh of relief behind her. She had been sold and her husband was relieved. Was it because he was rid of her at last? Because he could now turn her over to a nobleman instead of the local blacksmith? Because he would receive one hundred pounds for her rather than a mere twenty?
    It did not matter. Nothing about Gilbert mattered anymore.
    Verity concentrated on the dark stranger now advancing through the crowd. The hat shadowed his face, so she was unable to get a good look at him. But something in the way he moved was arresting—an almost threatening kind of animal grace, an imperious arrogance. The unnerving silence of the crowd gave way to hushed whisperings as he walked toward the plinth. Those he passed watched him with eyes wide and mouths agape, stepping back as though afraid to get too close. Neighbor nudged neighbor and whispered in each other’s ears. Children clung to their parents. Some pointed and giggled nervously.
    The man ignored their reactions and strode ahead with a haughty arrogance that implied they had every right to be afraid.
    Verity watched his maddeningly slow approach and every muscle in her already tense body tightened until she began to quiver like a bow string. She made a tiny, instinctive movement toward Gilbert—but her husband was no longer available to her. He never had been, really. Whatever tenuous ties boundthem had been loosened the moment he put the halter around her neck, then severed completely with the single word “sold.”
    Verity clenched her hands tighter, locked her elbows and knees in an attempt to control her body. But the tighter she held herself, the more she trembled. She could not stop shaking.
    The man continued his slow progress through the square. She overheard several muffled exclamations of “Lord Heartless!” But surely the auctioneer had called him Harkness. It was only her own anxiety that twisted the name into something more sinister.
    But, dear Lord, how the people seemed to fear him. Who was he? And was she truly to be turned over to him like some prime bit of horseflesh, to this strange man who seemed to strike terror in the hearts of those who knew him?
    Sold.
    She could not stop the trembling. It overtook her completely: down into her belly until she felt queasy, and up into her throat so that she could not seem to swallow. She tried to stop it, to hold herself still, but it only seemed to get worse. Every muscle was held so taut she began to feel the sticky dampness of perspiration from the effort. Her petticoat clung to her legs and a trickle of moisture inched down the back of her neck. The wind against her damp skin chilled her. And still she trembled. Her whole body shook uncontrollably. She could not seem to stop it.
    She must get hold of herself. She must not show her fear to this man, for perhaps he was one of those men who thrived on it. With slow, jerky movements, she reached up and grabbed the edges of her cloakand pulled it close about her, twisting her hands into the fabric to disguise their shaking.
    When he reached the plinth, Verity saw the man’s face clearly for the first time. It was harsh and angular and