Free The Widow's Auction by Sabrina Jeffries

you loved died and left you alone, you couldn’t bear the emptiness of your life without him, so you got some maggoty idea in your head about this bloody auction.”
    He whirled on her, eyes flashing. “But you aren’t the kind to dally with men for sport. You’re the kind to feel shame after it’s done, to torture yourself for giving in to your ‘wicked’ impulses. And frankly, I don’t want to be the one you hate for encouraging them.” Knocking back another swig of brandy, he shifted his gaze to the fireplace. “I don’t want to be the man to defile the memory of the husband you seem to have worshiped.”
    She wanted to laugh. Him and his noble impulses–he was worse than Henry. In fact, she began to think he might even be a better man than Henry, in more ways than one. But that made her yearn all the more to share his bed.
    â€œOh, Justin, your protectiveness is very sweet, but entirely unnecessary. Yes, I did worship my husband. Shall I tell you why?”
    A muscle tightened in his jaw. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
    â€œToo bad. I think you should hear. Especially when you persist in these strange notions about me.”
    She took a steadying breath. She’d never told a soul in good society these things, and it wasn’t easy to relate them now. Especially to him . If not for the safety of her disguise, she could never say it. “I worshiped my late husband because I was grateful for what he’d done for me. You see, he’s the one who saved me from a life of drudgery in a cotton mill.”
    His gaze swung back to her, confused, incredulous. “What?”
    â€œThis ladylike faÇade you see before you is precisely that. A faÇade.” Bitterness crept into her voice. . . and regret that she could never be a real lady, no matter how much she tried. She would always be an impostor. “This image was built through years of education and countless lessons in etiquette and deportment. It took tutors and dance instructors and–”
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    She let herself fall into an accent long in disuse, a manner of speaking as foreign to her now as her “proper lady” role sometimes felt. “Well, sir, it ain’t my problem if you believe it or no.”
    Jerking off her gloves, she approached him and thrust her hands up to his face. “See the scars? They ain’t from workin’ needlepoint. Them scars come from startin’ work in the mill at the wee age o’six. After twelve ’ours of work, a child starts to nod off an’ can’t keep up with the machines. So ’er ’ands catch the rough end an’ take a slice ’ere an’ there. I know a girl wot lost ’er thumb. An’ there was a boy–”
    â€œEnough,” he whispered. Catching her hands in his, he fingered her scars. Revulsion mingled with pity in his face.
    She could hardly bear to see it. It was difficult enough exposing her true nature to him, but to have him pity her for it. . . 
    Tugging her hands free, she turned her back to him and reverted to her usual manner of speaking. “Not quite the childhood at a country estate under a father’s tender protection that you envisioned, is it?”
    A ragged oath erupted from him. “But how–”
    â€œI was an orphan. And not the secret child of noble parents that you see in children’s tales either, in case that’s what you’re thinking. Just a plain, ordinary orphan who lived with a poor aunt. I worked at the cotton mill in Lancashire until I was twelve.”
    Though these were painful secrets, she felt an odd relief in being able to tell someone– anyone –who she really was. After all, she’d hidden it for so very long. Apparently anonymity did have its uses, one of which was allowing her to unburden herself without fear of the consequences.
    She went on more