Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

name, mademoiselle?

Mary, rang inside her ears.

“No,” Victoria affirmed, “I am not.”

“The street price for a woman’s virginity is five pounds.”

She clung to her pride. It was a far more comfortable emotion than fear. “I am fully aware of what a

woman’s virginity is worth.”

Her reputation. Her position.

Her life ...

“Then why did you ask for one hundred and five pounds?”

Because she had not expected to receive it.

“You do not think that a woman’s virginity is worth that sum, sir?” she challenged.

“I believe that women—and men—are worth far more than one hundred and five pounds,” he replied

enigmatically.

It was not the answer Victoria had expected.

“Because you enjoy deflowering women,” she said scornfully.

“No, mademoiselle, because I was sold for one hundred and five pounds. But you already knew that,

didn’t you?”

Words echoed inside her ears.

You auctioned off your body, mademoiselle. I assure you, that mak es you a whore.

And you purchased my body, sir. What does that mak e you?

A whore. ..

Victoria suddenly realized where she had seen his eyes: she had seen them while scouring the streets of

London in search of respectable work. Homeless people possessed that same flat gaze. Men, women and

children whose daily fare was hunger, cold and hopelessness.

Men, women and children who routinely whored, stole and killed that they might live while others died

around them.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“I told you who I am: I am Gabriel.”

Proprietor.

Whore.

But not of his choosing.

None of it his choosing.

Poverty deprived men—as well as women—of choice.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said. And instantly knew that it was the wrong thing to say.

This man who had survived impossible odds would not welcome pity.

He did not.

Silently he blocked her exit, black silk trousers brushing the pale blue leather arm of the Queen Anne

chair.

“Why are you sorry, mademoiselle?” he asked so softly she had to strain to hear him.

Victoria refused to back away, either metaphorically or literally. “I am sorry that you were sold against

your will.”

“But it was not against my will, mademoiselle,” he countered silkily. “Or did the man forget to tell you

that?”

“We do what we must to survive.” Victoria ignored his reference to “the man.” “It is not a matter of

will.”

His nostrils faintly flared. “And did you do what you must do this night?”

Victoria firmed her lips. “Yes, I did what I must tonight.”

“You agreed to come to my house and auction off your virginity.”

Anger flashed through her; she tamped it down. “I did not agree, but yes, I came to your house tonight

for that purpose.”

“So you are an unwilling accomplice,” he goaded.

“I am not an accomplice.”

“But you are here because of a man.”

Yes.

Victoria stiffened her spine, wool abrading her still-swollen nipples. “I told you, I do not know this man to

whom you are referring.”

“Then who did refer you to my house, mademoiselle?”

“A prosti”—no, Victoria would not call the woman who had befriended her a prostitute; women—and

men—did what they must to survive—”a friend advised me that your clientele would be more ... generous

than a man on the street.”

“And this friend”—he purposely imitated her hesitation—”is it a man or a woman?”

Victoria wanted to protest that it was none of his business: reason warned her not to.

The thin wire running up between her shoulders tightened.

She did not like being manipulated.

“A woman,” Victoria said curtly.

“Did this woman tell you that you should open the bidding at one hundred and five pounds?”

Victoria refused to glance away from the heart-stopping intensity inside his gaze.

“I am sorry you feel that I mocked you by offering ... by starting the bidding with one hundred and five

pounds.” Victoria forced the apology out of her throat. “I assure you, neither my friend nor I knew about

your circumstances; indeed, I did not know that you existed prior to this night.”

The silver-haired, silver-eyed man was not impressed with either her apology or her ignorance.

“Answer my question, mademoiselle.”

“Yes,” Victoria snapped, “it was my friend who suggested that I start with that sum.”

His gaze narrowed. “How tall is your friend?”

“Shorter than I.” Victoria drew herself up to her full height of five feet eight inches. “If you will excuse

me, sir, I will take my leave.”

He did not step out of her way. “You cannot leave, mademoiselle.”

Victoria’s heart skipped a beat. “I beg your pardon?”

The polite phrase was a discordant ring. Three times now she had begged his pardon.

“You are well-spoken,” he sidetracked, hand reaching, finger unerringly finding a wrinkle in the pale

leather arm pad.

The wrinkle had a small island in it.

It dawned on Victoria that it resembled a woman’s vulva, lips gaping, vagina a darker depression ...

She jerked her head up.

“Proper speech is required in a governess,” Victoria said stiffly. And realized she had unwittingly

confided her former occupation.

She bit her bottom lip.

The silver glint inside his eyes acknowledged her lapse.

“How long have you been a governess?” he asked easily.

Victoria was not fooled by his sudden easy manner.

The man who called himself Gabriel was like a cat. A large, beautiful, deadly cat who played with its

prey one second and ripped its throat out the next.

Victoria defiantly tilted her chin. “I hardly think that is any concern of yours, sir.”

“But it is, mademoiselle.” His voice was a silky purr. “You sold yourself to me for two thousand pounds.

”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I sold my virginity to you,” Victoria protested sharply. “I did not sell myself.”

And he did not want her virginity. Let alone the woman who possessed it.

Dark lashes shielded his eyes. Victoria instinctively followed