The Duke Buys a Bride Page 2

  She scanned the faces they passed on the way to the center of the square, searching for Yardley. She didn’t spot him. No sight of his straw-colored hair anywhere. He hadn’t changed much over the years. Same hair. Same soft, boyish features. Even the same fondness for lollies. He always had one in his mouth.

  It was some comfort to know that time hadn’t changed much about him. Yardley, her dearest childhood friend, who had promised to return and marry her . . . was the same lad.

  She reminded herself that he would already be in the square. Naturally he would be waiting close to the dais. His stomach was probably filled with the same amount of butterflies that churned through hers.

  As they worked their way through the square, she felt the weight of countless stares on her. She met many of those stares head-on. Familiar and strangers alike. Fixing a smile on her face, she lifted her chin. There was no shame in this day’s deed. She’d been forced into this situation by circumstance and she was seeing her way out of it.

  She recognized the Widow McPherson standing amid her friends. The pack of them watched avidly as Alyse and Mr. Beard neared the dais.

  It was no secret. The villagers knew about this day’s business and they were here for the show. Eager as pigs at the trough. Especially Mrs. McPherson. Ever since her husband passed away, she had made her interest in Mr. Beard clear, dropping off pies and glaring at Alyse wherever she happened to be standing. Feeding the chickens in the yard. Pinning laundry up to dry. Mrs. McPherson’s eyes unerringly landed on Alyse and conveyed her dislike clearly.

  Alyse craned her neck, skimming the familiar faces of her neighbors all positioned close to the dais for the best vantage, searching for a glimpse of Yardley. Still no sight of him and her churning stomach took a dive. Where was he?

  They waited at one side of the dais as Hines closed out the sale of the mare.

  While the owner and the buyer moved forward to sign the bill of sale, Hines spotted them and descended the dais. “Ah! Mr. Beard! You’ve arrived just in time. I was starting to wonder if you’d changed your mind.”

  At this, Mr. Beard slid a glance to where the Widow McPherson stood. Clearly not. The woman stared back, unblinking, and yet communication passed between them as audible as words.

  Mr. Beard had no choice. If he wanted a life with the widow, it had to be done this day. There was no going back. Nor did Alyse want to. She’d slept her last night in that gable room. With an increasing sense of panic, Alyse scanned for Yardley’s familiar flaxen-haired head, searching for him.

  If he was here, why wasn’t he making himself visible? He had to know she would be uneasy until she saw him.

  “Mr. Beard.” She leaned close to whisper. “I don’t see Yardley.”

  Mr. Beard frowned and glanced around the crowd, his heavily lined face presenting more lines than usual.

  “Yardley McRoy?” Hines inquired, overhearing her.

  “Aye.” Beard nodded, scratching his gray hair.

  “Oh, I saw ’im ride out of town early this morn before the crowds arrived.” That said, the auctioneer turned away to address the seller and buyer of the mare. As though he had delivered news of no import. As though her entire world had not been shaken and stripped to its core bits.

  Her stomach bottomed out, dropping to the soles of her feet. Yardley rode out of town?

  That made no sense. She shook her head.

  “What did ye say?” Mr. Beard reached for Hines’s sleeve, tugging his attention back to them.

  Hines glanced at them. “Aye, on the south road. Riding hard. Like the devil was after ’im. I had tae get clear tae the side of the lane.”

  Her face flushed hot then cold as the implication of those words sank deeply.

  South. Toward London.

  Without her.

  He was supposed to take her with him. He had promised they would begin a life together there. They would both find employment and she would see something of the world other than this tiny corner of it. Her life would truly, finally, begin.

  He had agreed.

  But he had left.

  The truth of that descended like an awful poison, spreading its venom through her blood. He’d abandoned her. Left her to be auctioned off, sold to any man struck by the whim to buy her.

  Panic swelled inside her. She fought back the tide, taking a deep breath and commanding herself to stay calm. Naturally, this changed everything, but she needn’t panic.

  She turned to Mr. Beard, seizing his arm. “Mr. Beard. We cannot continue—”

  “Alyse.” His hand covered hers. His expression was pained. She waited, staring at this man who had been her father’s friend. Her husband in name only.

  He’d taken her in after her father died, married her so that she might have a roof over her head. In exchange, she had looked after his children. Kept his house. Cooked his meals. Did his laundry. It had been a tolerable arrangement. Fair. A solution to both their problems at the time. Not meant to last forever.

  She had clung to that knowledge amid the drudgery and loneliness. There would be an end. It wasn’t forever.

  They’d always understood that the union was temporary. That the day would come when they mutually agreed to end their marriage. The only requisites established were that his children be old enough to fend for themselves and that she find someone else to marry. Someone like Yardley.

  A divorce was out of the question. As was an annulment. They did not have the means to achieve such a thing. People from Collie-Ben did not divorce or get annulments. The only way to end a marriage was through death . . . or like this.

  Someone would have to buy her from Mr. Beard.

  Mr. Beard stared down at her, resolve bright in his rheumy gaze.

  The tide of panic swelled over her again. That someone was supposed to be Yardley.

  “He’s not here,” she said. “We can’t go through with it today.”

  She couldn’t be sold to some stranger. Her fate could not be tossed to the winds like that. He could not expect it of her. It went against their agreement.

  Mr. Beard glanced over his shoulder to where Mrs. McPherson watched them with narrowed eyes.

  He looked back to Alyse and gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry Yardley isn’t ’ere, but I cannot wait, Alyse.”

  She shook her head. “No, please. You promised my father—”

  “I promised yer father I’d give ye a roof over yer head,” he said gruffly, nodding as though convinced he had done that. “I promised tae feed and clothe and shelter ye. I did that fer seven years.”

  She leaned in closely, her voice an anxious rush. She had to make him see reason before it was too late and she was marched up that dais. “So now you will sell me to a stranger? Do you think that is in keeping with the spirit of your deathbed promise to my father?”

  Hines’s voice boomed between them. “Come. It’s time.” His heavy gait thudded down the remaining steps toward where they stood. Clearly, he was prepared to escort her.

  She stared at her husband, beseeching, hope burning in her heart. She had served his family well for seven years. Certainly he would not betray her in this way.

  Beard looked from Hines to where the widow waited.

  Mrs. McPherson must have sensed something was afoot. She left her friends and moved closer, her giant bosom cutting through the crowd like the prow of a ship. Her sharp gaze flitted between them. She crossed her arms over her massive chest and lifted both her eyebrows in a gesture that could only be termed threatening.

  Sighing, Beard faced her again. “I’m sorry, Alyse. I’m no’ a young man anymore. I dinnae have time tae waste. Yer young yet. Ye have yer entire life ahead of ye.”

  She stared at him in stark wonder and released a shaky breath. A life he was about to sell at auction to some person. Some man.

  An entire life bound to a stranger.

  Bound to a man in this crowd who could use and abuse her any way he wished.

  Was he mad? Did he not see how he could be sen
tencing her to a life of misery?

  She shook her head slowly side to side. No. This was not what she had waited so patiently for all these years. She had not endured for this. The thought—the word—slipped past. “No.”

  But no one heard her. Her voice was a croak lost amid the loud crowd clamoring for the next item to be auctioned—her.

  Hines reached her, his thick girth brushing against her side. “Let us tarry no more. Word of the wife sale traveled far and this crowd is most anxious to proceed.”

  Indeed. The custom was not commonplace. Even in rural parts of the country like this, wife auctions were few. The crowd was hungry for the spectacle. She was the fatted goose and they were famished.

  Resignation stole over her as she looked out at the horde.

  She hadn’t shed a tear when her father died. She’d cried enough before that day, during the months he had been ill. She had loved him more than anyone in her life and nothing had been as terrible as losing him.

  Not even this.

  She flinched as the rough hemp rope dropped over her head and settled about her throat. That was custom, too. Binding the wife. As though she were nothing more than a field animal. As though she might run.

  She released a choked little laugh. She had nowhere to go. Yardley wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming. She needed to let that dream go and focus on the reality of now. She had to keep a cool head and brace herself for whatever was to come. She lifted her chin and reached down deep, grasping for her composure.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad.

  Clearly she couldn’t go on living as a nonwife to Mr. Beard. Today would put an end to their union. There was that. That mattered.

  The temporary degradation of this auction would be over soon.

  And then you will be the wife of someone else.

  She fought back a shudder. That terrifying thought threatened to swallow her. You’ll manage. You always do. You’ll find a way. Make a plan. Escape if necessary.

  She was sensible. No sense panicking until she knew what she was up against.

  As this internal dialogue played out in her head, Hines yanked on the rope, propelling her to move. The frayed hemp bit into her skin. She caught herself, one of her hands flying out and landing on a rough wooden step, breaking her fall.

  Mr. Beard reached for her, his hand circling her elbow to lift her up. She pulled her arm clear of him, shooting him a hot glare. “Don’t.”

  She would not give him that satisfaction. He did not get to walk away from this day thinking he had helped her in any way. Not after seven years. Not after promising.

  “Come,” Hines snapped, looking back down at her as though she were a troublesome child who couldn’t keep up.

  She regained her feet. Standing on the bottom step, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She’d walk. No one would drag her.

  With a satisfied nod, he turned, still gripping the end of the rope. He took the rest of the steps leading up to the platform. The rope tightened around her throat, the length of it stretching taut between them like a long thread of doom.

  The hemp tugged around her throat, the rope chafing her tender skin. She ascended the steps and followed Mr. Hines to the center of the platform. The market square looked bigger from up here. People were everywhere. Faces all staring at her with avid eyes. There were more people than she had ever seen in one place before.

  She swallowed against the giant lump in her throat and told herself to be strong. Don’t let them see how very scared you are.

  Even if she was.

  She’d survive this as she had everything else in her life. She’d make it through this day.

  Chapter 3

  The hungry wolf spies the dove . . .

  Fate was conspiring to keep him in this cesspit of a town.

  Marcus guided his mount through the village lane, weaving between carriages, darting children and carts of steaming meat pies, blood-dark kippers and shanks of roasted pork.

  He was forced to stop several times. His gelding, Bucephalus, tossed his head in annoyance at the crowd, clearly hating being fenced in and wanting his lead. Marcus could appreciate the feeling. That’s why he was on this journey, why he’d departed London. He’d felt fenced in. Choked. Surrounded by people he could not seem to like anymore—himself included.

  He patted Bucephalus’s neck. “Easy, boy. We’ll be free of here soon. I know. I can’t wait either.”

  Straightening, he tugged at the collar of his cloak, grimacing at his own odor. He wondered how far it was to the next village. He was in dire need of a bath, and tonight, he vowed, he would be sleeping in a bed. Preferably a luxurious down-filled mattress with crisp sheets.

  Suddenly the traffic in the road thickened and he was forced to stop. He stood in his stirrups and craned his neck, attempting to see what was transpiring ahead to impede his progress.

  He could see nothing beyond a throng of bodies, all turned in one direction, their backs to him as they pushed forward in an attempt to gain better view of something happening ahead.

  Sighing, he glanced back behind him, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to turn back around and find another way out of town.

  A heavyset woman with a face that reminded him of the bulldog his headmaster used to walk around the grounds charged ahead with no mind to anyone in her path—including him and Bucephalus.

  She landed a hand on the rump of his horse as she passed.

  He called down to her. “What is all the fuss?”

  She paused and lifted her jowly face up to him. She motioned ahead, her cheek jowls swinging. “Don’t ye ken? There’s an auction in the square.”

  Almost in response to her words, the crowd rumbled and shouts carried forth from the public square.

  “It’s startin’!” She forgot all about him and pushed her notable girth amid bodies, determined to clear a path for herself.

  An auction warranted all this frenzy?

  He sent another glance behind him. It wouldn’t be easy venturing back that route. He’d be going against the flow of people. Best continue on his path moving forward and make his way around the periphery of the square.

  He nudged his mount ahead, curious at what could have incited such excitement in these villagers. Perhaps they were auctioning off a two-headed goat. He snorted at the thought as he nudged inside the entrance to the square.

  He pulled up to a stop. People bumped into each other, but were indifferent to the contact, their gazes fixed on the livestock pens ahead.

  He followed their gazes, looking to see what these rustics found so diverting.

  At the far end of the square, at the forefront of the pens, a dais was erected. His attention fell on the single individual standing on that platform.

  It was a female. A rope encircled her neck, the end held in the grip of a man who cried out to audience.

  “. . . still in ’er prime. The lass will make a fine bedmate on these cold nights and in the winters tae come!”

  He went still, watching.

  Even Bucephalus stopped his restless pawing at the ground as though understanding something remarkable was transpiring.

  It was unthinkable. Shock rippled through him. They were selling her.

  Selling a woman. A human.

  The auctioneer continued, “Now I ’ave ’er ’usband’s word that she is as pure as the day she came tae ’im. The lass is untouched an’ waiting fer a good man tae break ’er in. Now who will it be? Do I ’ear a bid?”

  The audience tittered. Necks stretched, heads craning to see if anyone would answer the call to action.

  One man broke the crowd’s reticence and shouted, “Wot wrong wit’ ’er?”

  The auctioneer ignored the gibe and continued with his pitch. “A chaste bride, unplowed and ready fer planting if any one of ye fine men is willing tae pay the sum.”

  A cry went up. “Four pounds!”

  The auctioneer groaned and slapped a hand in the air in rejection of that offer. “Four pound
s be an offense fer so fine a maid! We ’ave a virgin ’ere primed and ready . . . trained in the ’ousekeeping arts! Do I ’ear eight? Eight pounds!”

  Marcus could never claim to be an exceedingly principled man. His life had hardly been virtuous. He wasn’t easily offended, but disgust churned through him as he watched the sordid scene unfold.

  These salt of the earth villagers seemed conveniently void of scruples. This—the same village that had seen fit to cast him into the gaol for whatever infraction—had no qualms in selling a woman like she was some bit of horseflesh. Such was the hypocrisy of man. Marcus knew something of that. His own father had presented one face, but lived quite another way. Quite another dishonorable way.

  As though to hammer home the depravity of the scene, someone called out, “Show us ’er titties! We gotta right tae see wot being offered.”

  The auctioneer scowled and pointed a damning finger in the direction of the voice. “Mind yer tongue, Liner! This be a proper business. One more foul word from ye and I’ll ’ave ye locked up, ye ken?”

  The threat must have done its task. There wasn’t another word from Liner.

  The auctioneer continued to extoll her virtues, remarking on her youth and cooking skills. “The lass is fit and can labor along any man in the fields! She might be young, but ’ave no fear she be missish ’bout getting ’er ’ands dirty.” He grabbed one of her hands and held it up as though the crowd could see. “These little ’ands bear the calluses of ’er labors.”

  Marcus studied the female. She stood with her hand gripped in the auctioneer’s grasp. There was no ducked head or lowered eyes. She stared out at the crowd. Eyes scanning. Searching. For what? Help? An escape? It seemed too late for that.

  How was it possible for a man to sell his wife? It was slavery, pure and simple. And how could these villagers support such a thing? He felt as though he had entered another realm where all manner of bizarre things existed. For all he knew, elves might prance past him.

  “Can we bid on ’er, Pa?” a boy nearby begged, tugging on his father’s coat.