Chapter 2

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.

Sebastian knew this argument had been going on for several months. Lord Richard, their younger brother, would have found a way to dissipate the heated discussion, but Sebastian had no capacity for it. He had his own conflict to resolve back in London.

Being an only child and the heir to his father’s title, he was bound by obligation.

His mother had summoned him to London, even though the whole ton had left the capital for autumn and winter. The reason for his summons made his stomach churn and his entire being fill with dread.

Marriage.

Both brothers were now clenching their fists, eyes locked.

“Wife sale is an old English tradition,” said Sebastian in a pathetic attempt to quell the glaring duel. “Why don’t we go and see it?”

“Quite,” said Grandhampton, taking a deep breath, “a barbaric notion.”

Preston raised both eyebrows. “How is it different from what our kind does? The price is a gentleman’s name and wealth. The highest bidder wins.”

This was why Sebastian had been best friends with Preston since Oxford. He liked Preston’s direct manner, and they were both grumps who had no patience for cheerful chatter and preferred to engage in debauchery with more sophisticated ladies than most young men.

“Like you, my poor old friend,” said Preston, looking at Sebastian. “You won Lady Isabella Greene, didn’t you?”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His waistcoat and tailcoat were suddenly too tight around his chest, and it was hard to breathe in the beautiful, sunlit English day.

“That is what my mother wants, yes,” Sebastian said.

“Do not sound as if you’re going to your own execution,” said Grandhampton. “Isn’t Lady Isabella quite pleasant?”

Lady Isabella, with her soft, delicate face, bright blue eyes, and blond, shiny curls, was a perfect English lady. The daughter of the Earl of Whitemouth, with whom Sebastian’s deceased father had had an understanding. There was a dowry attached to her, a large estate in the north of England. The only thing his father had ever wanted was to increase his estate.

But that was all it was between the two families. An understanding. Papa had died two years ago, and now the impatient Earl of Whitemouth insisted it was time to make his daughter a duchess.

“She’s just not for me.”

His gaze wandered, noticing people turning their heads towards the market square and making their way to the center of it.

The booths closest to Sebastian, previously surrounded by people, now stood empty.

“Ten pence!” came a loud cry from the center of the square.

“Just say you won’t marry Lady Isabella,” said Preston.

“Wife sale!” came the voice from behind the booths. “Come one, come all, bids are still accepted!”

“It doesn’t solve it,” said Sebastian. “Mama will never stop arranging marriages for me. She will keep drilling and drilling until I give in. And in the meanwhile, I’m expected to attend balls and bow and talk politely and dance quadrilles, but God forbid with one lady twice, and tolerate the matchmaking mamas who are eager to present their eligible daughters to me. This will not end until I have a wife.”

Preston and Grandhampton looked at him with empathy. Such an important decision as the choice of a bride was taken out of his control so completely. He was a gentleman, and if he agreed to marry Isabella, he’d never go back on his word, even though she was completely wrong for him.

“Two and twenty pence!” came a cry from behind the booth.

He needed a distraction. And the pitiful glances from the two men didn’t help.

“I’d like to see a wife sale,” he said. “How about it?”

“Come on, brother,” said Preston to Grandhampton. “Perhaps you’ll find a wife to your satisfaction and forget Miss Beckett.”

Grandhampton’s square jaw tightened. He gave a short nod, his mouth straightening in displeasure. “Only if you stop talking about her.”

The three of them left their cups on the small round table and walked towards the center of the market square, turning the corner of the next booth.

Sebastian was getting curious now. People were agitated, laughing, yelling. He could hear insults thrown at the wife in question.

“For those breasts, five and twenty pence!”

Having passed the booth, Sebastian could now see the crowd gathered around a cart in the middle of the square. On top of the cart stood a farmer and his wife. The closer he came, the better he saw that the farmer was as agitated as the crowd around him, his wide eyes quickly darting between the bidders, pointing at whoever offered the bid and repeating it. He had a manic grin on his face.

When Sebastian and his two friends stopped about ten feet away, he could see the woman. She stood next to her husband, a noose around her neck, hands clutched together on top of her poorly fitting, homespun dress, which was clearly sewn for a shorter woman. Her ankles were exposed, and the bust was too tight over her generous bosom.

And her face…proud and calm, as though she didn’t think anything of it. Her soft, pink lips were slightly curled in the hint of a smile, but there was no trace of humor in her big green eyes. She looked as pale as a cloud.

He liked her. He’d seen pretty women in his life—he’d bedded quite a few of them. Most London noble ladies, and even the expensive whores he’d visited in Elysium and other gentlemen’s clubs, were gentle and exquisite and feminine, charming and excellent socialites. She was pretty, too. Striking, actually, if he disregarded the dirty clothes of an unidentifiable color. With her big, innocent eyes, and her lips, full and sensual, and yet stubbornly and unyieldingly shut.

Sebastian stepped forward, unable to look away from her. Why would her husband sell her at an auction?

Grandhampton addressed a woman watching the sale. “Excuse me, how do these wife sales work exactly?”

The woman curtsied. “Begging your pardon, my lord. The man will sell his wife to the highest bidder. But she must say yes, or the sale will not continue.”

“What about the rope?” asked Sebastian.

The woman looked over the three of them, wide-eyed. Clearly, they did not belong among the crowd of farmers, blacksmiths, manual laborers, merchants, millers, and animal herders. “The rope is just something folk does,” she said. “She’s his property. Like that goat over there.”

Sebastian nodded and thanked the woman, looking at the wife being sold with more attention. Who would she go to? Would she agree? And if not, what would happen to her?

“Three farthings and three shillings!” came another loud offer. “For the pair of those tits!”

Sebastian frowned. He didn’t like anyone talking about her like that.

“You’re better off going to the Golden Sheep! The whores there won’t wrinkle their noses like she does!”

“Ah, who cares, she’ll just be an expensive whore. Pay once and keep fucking her over and over!”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes on the farmer. Someone had just insulted his wife. As a husband, he should defend her honor. Any moment now. Why was Sebastian’s blood boiling with anger and his fists clenching when that woman had nothing to do with him? Her husband only threw a crooked smile at her and looked around the crowd.

“Three shillings and three farthings!” the farmer announced loudly. “Anyone else? Who wants to buy this fine woman?”

“Perhaps if you turn her and show us her arse!” boomed another voice, and the crowd erupted in laughter.

The woman’s face grew as red as a beetroot. But her husband chuckled, satisfied and victorious.

That was it. Sebastian pushed through the crowd, shouldering the bystanders.

“Seb!” Preston called after him. “Where are you going?”

Sebastian ignored his best friend and kept going. When he stood in front of the cart, he saw how pretty the wife actually was, with her high cheekbones and dimples at the sides of her mouth. The sight of her big eyes glistening with unshed tears had his chest contracting with pity for her. No woman deserved this, farmer or not.

He turned around and raised both arms. “Silence!” he roared, and the crowd shut up.

Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him, with frowns, curiosity, confusion. He was clearly a lord. What did he want involving himself with the farmer’s wife?

Indeed. What the devil had come over him? He wasn’t typically one calling for attention. He avoided company unless it was the Seatons, whores, or sometimes Mama when she didn’t pester him.

And yet, the attention of all these people was on him. He looked over his shoulder at the woman, and his eyes locked with hers, wide and glistening. Something pinched at his heart.

He turned to the crowd. “There is no need to insult the woman. She did nothing to deserve any of your foul comments.”

“Why, Lord, do you want to buy her, then?” asked someone with a chuckle.

He opened his mouth to say no, of course he didn’t.

But the words simply would not come out.

What if he could buy her? The idea sent lightness through his entire body. If he returned to London with her and told Mama and everyone in the ton that they were already married, he wouldn’t have to marry Isabella.

He’d have control over his life. He’d have the final say over what he could do.

Not his mother. Not the Earl and Countess of Whitemouth, and not the swarms marriage-mart mamas swarming over him like wasps.

This woman was a farmer. She didn’t know the ton. She wouldn’t bother him. He’d come to an easy agreement with her. She’d enjoy being a duchess—the security, the money, the clothes. She wouldn’t need to work another day in her life.

This would be a scandal, no doubt. But she wouldn’t care about the opinion of a bunch of London snobs. She’d be living in Mayfair. She’d have a cook, a butler, footmen, and a lady’s maid. She’d have gowns made by the best modiste in town.

And he couldn’t care less what London thought. Actually, he’d enjoy rubbing it in their faces. A duke married a farmer’s wife, rejecting all the eligible noble ladies. His muscles quivered with a hot elation. He felt awake, light, and young.

Was this what freedom felt like?

He’d be able to keep living his life the way he wanted. No one would bother him about marriage anymore.

“Yes!” he called out loudly, and a surprised mutter went through the crowd. “I do want to buy her.”

He turned to the farmer, whose amused smile was completely washed from his face. In fact, he stared at Sebastian with concern.

“Fifteen hundred pounds,” Sebastian said to him, and a loud gasp went through the market square.

The farmer blinked, no doubt in shock. Sebastian’s bid equaled the average yearly income of a landed gentleman.

Someone clasped Sebastian’s shoulder. “What the devil are you doing?” Preston growled into his ear. “You cannot make a jest out of this.”

“I am quite serious,” said Sebastian.

Lightness swirled in his stomach, making him feel weightless. The woman breathed hard. The mask of a stoic beauty fell off, and she looked both surprised and hopeful.

The farmer didn’t reply for a while, then he turned to her. “For that amount of money, I don’t care if you get sold to the devil himself. I say yes!”

Sebastian nodded. Now the woman still needed to agree.

He stared at her. The whole square did. It was so quiet, he could hear his own pulse drumming in his ears. A chicken squawked and a sheep bleated.

The woman’s green eyes never left his. He felt like he was made of wax and the sun shone straight at him, heating him from inside, making his muscles melt and droop.

He found himself wishing she said yes. He liked the idea of taking her by the hand, leading her to his carriage, and shoving her into his mama’s face.

Moments ticked by, and she didn’t move. It seemed she didn’t even breathe.

She’d say no. Of course she’d say no. She wouldn’t leave with a stranger who bought her.

Would she?

A year must have passed before she finally opened her mouth.

In her sweet, melodic voice, she said a single word: “Yes.”

And how three letters would make something burst with an odd sort of joy in his body, he didn’t know.