Through the clamor of chatter, grunts and groans sounded from the pleasure alcoves, which were off to either side of the room. Silk hangings covered what took place behind, but did not stifle the sound. Not all the lords were interested in publicly displaying their libidinous acts.

She could hear the laughter of her sisters as they flirted with the lords.

She looked down on the melee of debauchery around her.

Even after all these years, she still had the urge to cover her body from the men’s carnal perusal. Her hair only covered her backside. Her ankles and wrists were adorned with thick gold bracelets to complement her golden skin tone. Her hands were henna-covered in the ancient designs Laila painted on her every few months. Black kohl lined her eyes to lend them a mysterious seductive quality. Her high cheekbones, eyes, and forehead were the only parts of her face exposed. The veil covered the tip of her nose to her chin as part of her ethereal disguise.

At least there was no touching while she stood up here. A small relief, but a relief nonetheless. She needed no reminders of her days in the slave market—the days before Amir had rescued her and given her son a second chance at life.

There looked to be some thirty men here tonight.

Lord Somerset, a widowed earl in his late forties, leaned forward on the divan with Laila behind him. His face was flushed, his paunch revealing a taste for things other than women. Laila’s hands were busy massaging his fat shoulders, but he was looking at the auction block with a keen eye. He was quick about rutting, then falling into slumber.

She didn’t want to amuse him again, he was worse than a sweating, grunting pig above her.

Amir spoke with the Russian in regalia next to him. Amir had his newest acquisition sitting in front of him between his opened knees with her legs tucked under her on a jaguar-skin rug. Amir’s hands never ceased caressing his Italian beauty’s breasts, bared to all.

Jinan remembered when she had been in that position—so long ago. She missed pleasing only one man, only having to warm one man’s bed. She sighed and looked away since she couldn’t catch his eye.

Sana leaned in closer to her, seeing where Jinan’s gaze focused. “The man he talks to came in with Chekhov. I think he’s negotiated to purchase Aysun for the next two moons.”

Jinan twisted the gold filigree around her wrists, making the bracelets jingle together.

The harem girls were not oblivious to the dealings of the men around them. Amir spoke freely with them, so they understood how profits were made, for the money was to everyone’s benefit. Some men preferred to settle their fees in advance.

A gentleman she didn’t know walked around her pedestal and Sana, looking back and forth between them with equal fervor in his dark irises. She hated to look into the eyes of her bidders—too much of their intentions could be read there. But it was better to know their intent than to remain naïve.

This one wore a cruel expression, his face set in what looked like a permanent grimace, eyes troubled. She could see the promise of harsh enslavement with a leaning toward dark sexual acts in that gaze—something she was known to accommodate, because she felt nothing for these men, no matter how they treated her. He’d bid, too. She shivered in revulsion.

She preferred the most common expression worn by the lords—carnal hunger—such as the way Villieux eyed all his mistresses. Such as the way her old Russian lover, Chekhov, devoured her with his gaze. His finger ran along the floor of the podium, carefully abiding by the house rule of no touching those who were being auctioned. It was a paid privilege to touch those who stood where she stood now. She gave him a doe-eyed innocent look.

“You are interested this evening?”

“Yes,” Chekhov said in thickly accented Persian, the common language in the harem. “But I’ve no time to play, my beauty. I’ve brought a friend to find company. I head out when the evening concludes.”

“Next time, then.”

“Yes.” He turned toward Sana. “And do you go to auction? Or will you be the house plaything tonight?”

“No auction for me. Do you wish my company?” Sana wrapped her finger through the button on Chekhov’s vest, leaning forward so her breasts grazed his raised arm.

He grasped her by the buttocks and pulled her into his groin. “Let’s find a pleasure alcove, my dark beauty.”

Jinan gave a snort. Chekhov’s type was the most harmless here. The women might not live in fear for their lives day to day, but this wasn’t an existence Jinan would wish on anyone.

She exhaled noisily, pushing out her veil with the puff. She tried to ignore the swarm of eager men at her feet.

The man who’d been talking with Asbury earlier walked toward her. He looked familiar from this distance, his blond hair a bit too long to be fashionable. Not that she knew what fashionable was anymore locked inside the palace walls.

Her breath hitched in surprise, and she froze, her fingers clenching the bracelet she’d been twisting. Her heart gave a great leap in her chest. She narrowed her gaze, bringing him into focus. It couldn’t be him,  could it?

Oh, it was definitely him.

A man she’d never expected to see again. A man from her youth. A man, really, from another life altogether. Her breath caught, and all she thought—all she hoped—was that he did not recognize her. She mentally chastised the absurdity of her thoughts. Why should he recognize her? They had spent only a few weeks in each other’s company.

Their laughter and budding love all those years ago under a darkened sky were too distant to hold on to. Besides, what kind of man proposed to a woman he professed to have feelings for, only to leave the next day? She doubted he would remember her. Especially in a place like this.

Without the cover of clothes, her dark skin tone labeled her anything but English.

Her areolas were painted a medium brown, her skin a deep bronze aided by the sun in the gardens. She’d taken her mother’s Spanish coloring, and right now, more than ever, she was thankful for the exotic look that had always made her unfashionable in English drawing rooms. With her altered accent and natural Persian tongue, he would never place her as English.

The Marquess of Rothburn stared thoughtfully up at her. He didn’t study her nude body or stare at her breasts with their hennaed areolas and her painted naked mound as others had. He stared directly into her eyes. Those brandy-colored depths assessed her as his dark blond brows drew together in deliberation.

Lord Rothburn had aged well; he must be thirty, now. His shoulders were wider and sturdier than she remembered, his waist trim, legs firm beneath tight trousers. After her perusal, something she rarely indulged in, she raised her eyes and stared back.

His lips thinned slightly. Did he try to place her as he studied her?

Cocking her hip to the side, she curved her palm around it to draw his eye. His gaze dropped and she breathed a sigh of relief when he turned and walked away, leaning against one of the pillars at the edge of the room. This time she could see him at a distance.

Jinan couldn’t look at any of the other prospective buyers after seeing him.  Lord Rothburn wasn’t the first man she’d recognized over the years, but he was the first man she’d fawned over—dare she say felt the first tingling of love?—as a young girl. What a foolish girl she’d been, to think he’d follow through on his offer of marriage. Yet to see him now .

It was humiliating to stand before him as if she were some sacrificial lamb.

She was being silly, of course. He would never recognize her, let alone remember her. She caught Villieux’s eye and held it in silent plea. She prayed he won her favors tonight. If Rothburn did . it didn’t bear thinking.

Harry Chisholm finally came into the room, the click of his shoes echoing. He tapped his little stick to the marble dais to call attention to the auction.

“The auction commences now. Gentlemen”—he pointed toward her—“some of you are familiar with the exotic and most luscious Jinan. You’ll find this Turkish princess most compliant for anything you wish to play. She’s trained in the darker games of submission should you so fancy. Bidding to start at a thousand pounds.”

That amount was low, but it would buy any one of these men a week of her undivided attention. The price would climb, of course. It was always interesting to see how much profit she’d bring in for Amir. A profit that would help pay for her son’s education. Amir had promised that her son would live outside the harem with enough riches to support him when he was ready to leave.

Asbury nodded, taking the opening bid.

The man with the harsh gaze stepped forward. “Two thousand.”

“Three.” This from another gentleman she didn’t know.

“Five,” from Villieux. She exhaled in relief. He had a voracious appetite she was more than willing to appease if it meant escaping Rothburn.

“Seven.”

“Eight and a half.” Asbury was at his limit, his face red with anger at losing her to another yet again. She wondered if he would ever win her favors.

Villieux looked insulted by the drop in bid increments and bumped out Asbury.

“Ten.” They often bid against each other, since they shared the same taste in women.

All was quiet. A good price. Spending the next month and some with Villieux was no hardship. He was a considerate lover.

Maybe Rothburn hadn’t recognized her.

All eyes were now on Mr. Chisholm. “Excellent. Well, then, gentle—”

“Twenty thousand.”

Heads turned away from the auctioneer and toward the deep voice. Jinan could have sworn she heard a hiss from Asbury’s direction. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the pillars straight ahead. Jinan didn’t need to see the man who had bid the outrageous sum. She remembered his voice, the deep baritone that had had many a woman swooning in her ballroom days.