The Widow's Auction by Sabrina Jeffries Page B

to meet his gaze. Around him, the others were chattering about this and that, oblivious to the drama playing itself out right there before them. But he sat quietly, patiently, his expression showing nothing. No cruelty, no hint of revenge.
    But nothing else either. As if he waited for her to do or say something before he acted.
    She glanced down again as something dawned on her. A glove was such an impersonal item. If he’d wanted to shame her, he could have brought something more damning, like the garter or stockings she’d left behind. But he hadn’t.
    So what did it mean? What did he expect her to do?
    Then it hit her. He was offering her a choice–acknowledge the glove as hers and in so doing acknowledge their connection. . . or deny that it was hers and end their connection forever.
    Oh, Lord, what a choice. If she took the glove, she’d be trusting him not to use it against her. And what if her trust were misplaced? What if their wonderful night had merely been leading up to this–to Lord Warbrooke’s final public triumph over her?
    No, she couldn’t believe that. Not without believing that every word he’d spoken was a lie, every caress was feigned. . . every dark, hungry look had been only the basest form of lust. And she simply couldn’t.
    But what if she accepted, and he offered her only a place in his bed and not in his heart? Could she endure that?
    She sighed. Whether she could or no, she owed it to him to tell him that to his face. Continuing as a coward was not fair to him.
    Even if he was making it easy for her to refuse him. All she need do was tell him that the glove wasn’t hers and hand it back. She sensed that he’d accept such a gesture as her desire to keep her identity secret, not only from the rest of them but from him as well.
    He probably wouldn’t challenge it. But she’d lose him.
    If she’d ever had him at all.
    She swallowed. Her other choice was to acknowledge their connection by accepting the glove. No one else would know what it meant. But he would. And after that, everything would change between them, regardless of what his intentions were. Did she dare to risk that?
    â€œLady Kingsley, are you all right?” Mr. Dawson queried.
    That jolted her back to her surroundings. “I-I’m fine. I was merely remembering something I left behind.”
    She glanced to Justin, stunned to see him look suddenly vulnerable, even afraid. He didn’t want her to deny him. And God help her, but she didn’t want to deny him either, no matter what pain it might mean for her in the future.
    She didn’t want to be a coward anymore.
    Taking a deep, steadying breath as she held his gaze, she bent and picked up the glove, then slid it into her apron pocket.
    Relief flared in Justin’s face, relief and something else. Could it possibly be love?
    Hope sprouted within her as she sat down and wielded her gavel a bit unsteadily. “I call this meeting to order,” she began. “At our last meeting–”
    â€œBefore we go on, Lady Kingsley,” Justin broke in. “I’d like to make a suggestion.”
    â€œYes?” she whispered, her heart in her throat.
    â€œI’ve taken some time to read your proposal, and I find it a very worthy project. So I’d like to withdraw my own proposal and move that we adopt yours instead. I have some funds at present that I could funnel into your endowments, and I’m sure if others contributed–”
    â€œI have a better idea, Lord Warbrooke,” she interrupted as hope took even firmer root in her heart. “What if we do both? I, too, spent some hours examining your suggestions, and I think we should embark on your factory idea at once.”
    A murmur of surprise ran round the table, and even Justin looked stunned.
    She went on hastily. “But your proposal and mine aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. I happen to have come