Page 3
She held the gaze of his pallid, rodent-like eyes. She saw it then. The bluff. The fear behind his triumph and contempt. He’d never really sell her. He was a baronet, not a peer, but his title was hereditary. He needed her, a properly raised gentleman’s daughter, to give him an heir.
His threat was empty. He simply wanted to teach her a lesson. It was quite an effective method, she thought, as her stomach sank with worry. “Very well, Sir Jasper. Sell me to a blacksmith, then.”
Sir Jasper nodded, and then everything was a blur. The woman, who introduced herself as Harriet, led Emma and Sir Jasper to the house.
“Would you like something clean, my lady?” Harriet asked, eyeing her sideways.
“No,” Sir Jasper answered for her. “I want her to smell as foul as you do.”
Emma changed inside the house, the underdress and the dress and apron feeling dusty and hard against her skin, the smell of pig’s manure clinging to her so that she struggled to inhale fully. For a complete disguise, Sir Jasper donned Freddie the farmer’s clothes.
Standing in front of Freddie’s horse and cart, which Sir Jasper had rented so that they might arrive to Clovham like a real farmer and his wife, he put a rope around Emma’s neck.
“Tradition,” he said, tying the noose. “A wife must be led for sale like cattle. Serves you right.”
Her chemise itched. It was too short for her height, and her bare ankles were exposed. The rope scratched her neck, a suffocating reminder of her husband’s ownership over her.
The evil triumph on his face made bile rise in her stomach. “This will show you what an excellent husband I have been. Try the life of a real swineherd’s wife, Lady Bardsley.”
Looking satisfied at her humiliation, Sir Jasper told her to hop onto the cart, then sat on the driver’s seat and drove her to Clovham. When he stopped near the market square, he jumped off the cart and came to fetch her. As he helped her to descend, a look of excitement was added to his triumphant expression.
He pulled her after him by the rope. “Sir Jasper, would you finally stop?” she asked.
Without replying, he tugged harder, and she practically fell forward.
They walked among a few booths with bundles of herbs, jars of honey, jams, and jellies, as well as candles, cakes of soap, and beeswax. Other merchants placed crates with carrots, parsnips, potatoes, cabbages, fish, fresh game, and meat right on the dirt-packed ground of the marketplace. There were also cows and sheep and donkeys for sale. The market was by surrounded by neat stone cottages with white-paned windows where various shops tempted townsfolk and those who had come from nearby farms and villages; ribbons, hats, and gloves could be seen through the glass, as well as fabrics, porcelain cups and plates, and other goods.
The square was loud with merchants calling, people negotiating, laughing, chatting. Sheep bleated, cows mooed, donkeys brayed. It smelled like manure, herbs and vegetables, and fish. As Emma walked, her stomach squeezed as curious glances landed on her. Some people stepped aside as she passed by, their faces wincing in disgust. No wonder. She stank.
An empty cart stood in the middle of the square, and Sir Jasper climbed onto it and pulled Emma up behind him. They stood taller than everyone else, for the whole market to see.
Sir Jasper turned to her and said, “Say you will take me back to your bed, and all this will be over.”
She straightened her back. She refused to be coerced into sexual relations with anyone, even her husband.
When she said nothing, he filled his lungs with air and yelled, “Wife sale! Wife sale! Bidding starts at one penny. For the cost of a pint of milk you can have her!”
Embarrassment heated her cheeks as dozens of pairs of male eyes landed on her. And then it turned to cold horror when a crowd of butchers, farmers, herdsmen, fishermen, and laborers gathered around the cart, interested and agitated.
And the bids began.
2
“Wife sale! Wife sale!”
Sebastian Rockliffe, Duke of Loxchester, sipped cordial from a cup as he stood next to the tavern where he and his company, two Seaton brothers, had stopped for lunch and refreshments on their way to London. He looked around the busy market square, but couldn’t see the strange auction that appeared to be underway.
His best friend, Lord Preston Seaton, cocked a single dark eyebrow, craning his neck to see past the booth selling wax candles.
“Spencer, any interest?” he asked his older brother, the Duke of Grandhampton, a glimmer of humor in his black eyes.
The duke glared at Preston. Both brothers were tall, dark-haired, and olive-skinned after their deceased mother, who was a Spanish heiress with blood ties to the Spanish royal family. Grandhampton, who enjoyed regular boxing, was bigger and bulkier than Preston, who preferred fencing.
“I haven’t yet fallen so low as to needing to buy a wife, have I?” Grandhampton said, folding his massive arms across his chest. “Besides, I already have someone in mind, and you know it.”
Preston’s humor disappeared and his smoothly shaven jaw worked. “I am aware of your interest in Miss Beckett. That is exactly why I asked. At least a farmer’s wife wouldn’t be a fortune hunter.”
“Miss Beckett is not a fortune hunter,” said Grandhampton through gritted teeth.
