by Elisa Braden
“You may leave on your own. Or I may toss you out the door. Your choice.”
She swallowed. Licked her lips. Moved another step closer. “Regretfully, I must prevail upon your honor, sir.”
Most men would have risen by now. Even the lowliest knew it was customary to stand when in the presence of a lady.
She cleared her throat. “With the greatest respect, I would ask you to forfeit Lord Glassington’s markers.”
“No.”
“I haven’t yet explained my reasons. Allow me to—”
“With the greatest respect, Miss Augusta Widmore, your reasons mean less to me than the deposits made in the privy this morning.”
Her mind stuttered as she took his meaning.
“Now. Leave my office.”
“Mr. Reaver, I realize my request is unusual—”
“You are the fourth one this week. And it is only Tuesday.”
The fourth? Blast. It was worse than she’d imagined. Much worse than she’d hoped. “Nevertheless, I beseech you. If you will only listen—”
“How did you elude Shaw? He would not have let you inside, much less shown you to my office.”
She pressed her lips together. How to answer? “Mr. Shaw refused me entry. He is unaware of my presence.”
His expression—as forbidding and chilling as his reputation—darkened. “So, it was Duff.”
“No,” she answered, cursing the tremor in her voice. “I found my way here on my own. You mustn’t seek to punish your employees. They are not to blame.”
He released an amused puff of air. “If you are here, then they have failed in their duties.” Unnerving onyx eyes swept the length of her, pausing almost imperceptibly at her hips and her shoulders. Though, perhaps that last stop had been slightly below her shoulders. It happened too quickly to be certain. “And you are undeniably here.”
She swallowed. Her eyes fell to his hands, casually clasped atop his desk. Blunt, sizable fingers were stained with ink. It was difficult to imagine a man as physically powerful and ruthlessly potent as this one sitting behind a desk all day, complaining of empty ink pots.
“I am here because you are the only one who can help me.” Her eyes lifted to find him frowning. “Lord Glassington’s debt is outrageously large, so it is understandable that you would hesitate to set it aside. But he was deep in his cups when he—”
“If I forgave every marker signed by a drunkard, I would be both a pauper and a bloody imbecile.”
“He has family obligations, sir. Responsibilities.”
“They all do. Never stopped one from turning a card.”
“His judgment was appalling, but—”
Black eyes narrowed upon her. “Who is this blighter to you, Miss Augusta Widmore? Not your brother, for he hasn’t any siblings. Some other relation?”
“How we are acquainted is of little consequence.”
Mr. Reaver’s hands flattened upon his desk. He pushed to his feet. Straightened to his full height.
Dear God and all His angels. Not a myth. Giants were very, very real.
He rounded the desk and approached. She now wished with every fiber of her quivering being that she had not tread so deeply into the room. In fact, she was beginning to regret every choice that had led to this moment—coddling Phoebe, believing Glassington, leaving Hampshire. The last one especially.
Augusta was hardly a small woman—several inches above average for a female, in fact. But he towered a foot taller than she. Maybe more. That would be sufficient to explain her spinning head and sudden need for air. But he was also broad enough to block all light from the office’s window, casting his rough-hewn features into stark shadow.
His gaze scoured her skin. She could imagine what he saw. Plain, albeit dignified, Widmore features. Dark-red hair pinned flat against her head to tame the curl. Unadorned straw bonnet. Woven wool pelisse that might have been fashionable five years earlier, when she’d first sewn it, but was now worn and dull. Gloved hands tightly clasped at her waist.
Despite the intensity in his gaze, she did not delude herself that he found her comely. She’d gone eight-and-twenty years without a man commenting upon her attractiveness. After so long, the conclusions were obvious.
No, Mr. Reaver was not staring down at her from his great, gargantuan height because he was riveted by her beauty. This was a test. His silent regard was meant to intimidate, to make her shrink and retreat.
Well, perhaps she was no beauty. And perhaps her quiet life in Hampshire had been poor training for a confrontation of this sort. But Mr. Reaver had a thing or two to learn about Augusta Widmore if he thought a bit of size and intimidation would dissuade her from her task.
She lifted a brow. “Staring is rude, you know.”
Once again, he frowned. One of those blunt, ink-stained fingers came up to flick her lapel. The gesture startled her. He was like a great bear playing with his food.
“Figured you’d landed a ripe one, eh? Newly minted earl. Did he promise marriage, then?”
She retreated two steps before she stopped herself. Tension took hold of the muscles in her legs and belly and neck. He was too close to the truth.
“Must have disappointed ye when he lost all but the title in a single fortnight.”
“Disappointed” did not begin to describe her reaction. Glassington had destroyed not only his own fortune but everything she’d worked to build since she was seventeen. He’d consigned a woman who had trusted him with her heart and her body to a life of disgrace and poverty.
All for two weeks of drunken revelry.
She raised her chin and held his gaze. “It is not for Lord Glassington’s sake that I make my request. Others will be harmed when you call in his markers. Innocents who have done nothing more than—”
“Trust the wrong bloody nob. Aye. A common problem, that.” His head gave a subtle tilt. “Not my problem, however. ”
She blinked and stiffened in alarm as he closed the few feet between them and leaned forward until his chest nearly touched her nose. Behind her, the faint squeak of the doorknob sounded. A whoosh of air moved her skirts.
Oh! He was opening the door. Thank goodness. For a moment, she’d thought he intended to … but, no. Mr. Reaver might be a lowborn ruffian, but he was not known for importuning women. In fact, amidst all the reports and rumors she’d collected, precious little was said about his habits regarding female companionship. He was unmarried, but that was all her sources knew.
“Time to go, Miss Widmore.”
He smelled better than she would have guessed. Rather good, actually. Like bracing autumn air—clean and golden with just a hint of wool and wood smoke.
A gigantic paw encircled her upper arm. Before she could speak a word, he spun her about and propelled her through the door. While painless, her exit was swift and tidal. There was no resisting it.
Although she lost her breath somewhere inside the antechamber, she managed to castigate him by the time they turned into the corridor.
“Mr. Reaver! This is most unmannerly.” She had to crane her neck to see past her bonnet’s brim, but she caught a glimpse of flexing jaw. “Release me at once, sir.”
He did not release her. He did not even slow his pace, which was striding for him and sprinting for her.
“Have you no conscience? No honor?”
At last, he halted. Turned her to face him.
Breathless, she watched as he bent forward. Was he … bowing to her? How very odd.
His shoulder brushed her midsection. A moment later, the world upended. She yelped as a band of warm muscle seized her thighs. Squeaked as a gigantic hand firmly gripped her backside. Then the world began jostling up and down.
No. She was jostling up and down. He was descending the stairs, hauling her upon his shoulder like a sack of flour. He did not even have the courtesy to breathe heavily, behaving for all the world as though carrying strange women down the front stairs of his club was a tedious routine.
“Mr.—oop
h! Mr. Reaver. I insist you put me down at—ugh. At once!”
Then, suddenly, he did.
Her head swam. Her hands lingered on wide, wide shoulders. His hands lingered on her waist.
“Well, well. The quality of the rabble appears to be improving around here.” The voice was refined and amused. Mr. Shaw.
Mr. Reaver stepped back, leaving her swaying and disoriented. He glared at the majordomo who had appeared beside them. Then, without another word, he climbed the stairs and disappeared—a dark, forbidding giant returning to his lair.
She blinked. Glanced to Mr. Shaw, who stood grinning at her, his teeth flashing white in contrast to his strong-tea skin. Over the man’s shoulder, she glimpsed a statue of a woman holding some sort of receptacle. A cornucopia, perhaps, spilling gold coins.
“Miss Widmore.” Mr. Shaw tsked and gently took her elbow, urging her toward the door. “I did warn you. He does not like visitors.”
A cold, damp breeze rushed in as he opened the door. On the outside, it was painted red.
“Mr. Shaw.”
He paused while pressing her past the threshold. “Yes?”
She spun to face him. “This is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
“I do get that impression.”
“I shall not give up until Mr. Reaver hears me fully. I cannot.”
Mr. Shaw’s grin gentled. Amber eyes grew thoughtful. “A bit of advice, if I may be so bold.”
“Yes?”
“Give up.”
“I—”
“Appealing to Reaver’s mercy is …” He chuckled. “One might as well expect gold coins to fall from a goddess’s basket into one’s reticule. Give up now, Miss Widmore. Save yourself immeasurable frustration.”
“But—”
His only answer was to close the door.
She comforted herself that he didn’t slam it. No, Mr. Shaw—unlike his employer—had been both polite and patient.
Absently, she rubbed a hand over her belly. He hadn’t hurt her, but she could still feel the hardness of his shoulder. The strength of his arm. The heat of his hand on her backside.
How she wished she could take Mr. Shaw’s advice. But neither he nor Mr. Reaver understood the dire nature of her circumstances or the persistence of her character.
She stared at the red door. Tugged her gloves a bit tighter. And straightened her perfect Widmore posture.
They did not understand now, perhaps. But they would. Very soon, they would.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWO
“To a lady of substance, a challenge is merely a call to arms. Consider yourself warned.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s rejection of sound advice.
“You must admit she succeeded better than most.”
Sebastian Reaver ignored his best friend and business partner, electing instead to slice through the seal on yet another letter he did not wish to read.
Adam Shaw leaned against the edge of Reaver’s desk and crossed his arms. “Not suggesting we consent to her request, mind you. But she is resourceful. I suspect she has been monitoring our schedule and habits for at least a fortnight. Duff claims a boy picked his pocket minutes before she appeared in your office. Unorthodox but effective.”
Reaver glanced at Shaw over the top of his reading spectacles.
Chuckling, Shaw flashed him a grin. “Yes, yes. Her demands are absurd, I agree. Still, I admire her determination. Perhaps you should grant her a meeting.”
“No.”
“Might be entertaining. You could use a bit of that.”
Reaver released a gust of annoyance and flung the letter into the wooden tray on his desk’s right corner. “Meaning?”
Shaw shrugged. “Only that you’ve become both tedious and discontented. Your little adventure last spring proved a fine distraction, but now that’s over.”
His “little adventure” had involved investigating the poisoning deaths of at least four wealthy lords. At the time, he’d been incensed because among the victims had been one of the few aristocrats he’d ever liked. So, he’d insisted on aiding Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston in apprehending the villain, whom Dunston had pursued for over a decade. They had succeeded, but only after the villain had managed to poison Shaw and come within a hair’s breadth of killing Dunston’s wife.
“A boring sod, am I?” Reaver shook his head. “You should be glad of it. Another adventure like the last one, and ye mightn’t survive.”
Shaw patted his own chest. “Hale and healthy, man. You, on the other hand, grow dourer by the day. Have you considered taking a mistress? Assuming you can find a woman of sufficiently poor vision.” His head tilted. “Or stout construction.”
“Haven’t you a hazard table to oversee?”
“All I’m saying is that you thrive on challenge. You’ve spent the past fourteen years building this.” Shaw waved toward the bookshelves on either side of the window. Reaver assumed he meant the club in general.
It was true that Reaver’s had long been his sole focus. The club was his wife, his mistress, his child. Every thought and action, every moment of every day had been dedicated to making it into what it was—the finest gaming house in London. It was also true that, of late, Reaver had been … restless.
Shaw straightened away from the desk. “The club is as much a success as it will ever be. Time to find a new hill to climb.”
“I have the expansion to—”
“Frelling could manage the project in his sleep.” Shaw swept a disgusted glance across the ledger and papers piled in neat stacks on his desk. “And his waking hours could be spent on this lot.”
“Not if he prefers taking tea with his wife to tending his work. When did that begin, eh?”
Shaw raised a brow and shrugged. “He asked. I gave permission. The fact that you failed to notice his absence is evidence of your problem.”
“My only problem is employees who cannot keep sharp-tongued spinsters from infiltrating my office.”
“That sharp-tongued spinster is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in months.”
Reaver tossed his spectacles onto the open ledger and shoved away from his desk. Pacing to the window, he braced a hand on the casing and looked down upon the small square bounded by a cluster of brick houses. Beside him, a clock ticked away the time. Below him, the same old faces came and went, most leaving with more brandy and less blunt than when they’d arrived.
“Give it some thought. Take a mistress. God, even a wife, if you prefer a bit more permanence. Frelling would recommend the latter. As would your cousin.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell,” Reaver muttered. “A wife? I’ve enough females burying me in muck at present, thank you.”
“Lady Wallingham is not a female. She is a force of nature. A monsoon.”
True enough. The old woman had appointed herself his American grandmother’s representative here in England. She’d written him every week for the past ten—a campaign to bring him “up to scratch.” Recommendations had ranged from hiring a new tailor to purchasing a country estate to taking discreet lessons from a tutor specializing in “proper diction.” Her imperious, interfering nature made his nerves zing. Every word was like biting down on rusted iron.
A knock sounded. Frelling poked his head past the door. “A visitor for you.”
Reaver glowered. “There were no appointments this morning.”
Frelling adjusted his spectacles, shrugged and grinned. “She insists.”
She? A surge erupted in his belly, rising through his chest, unwanted and unwelcome. Too much like excitement. For a moment, he pictured her as she’d been two days earlier—skin flushed from being carried down the stairs, straw bonnet perfectly straight, brown ribbon neatly tied beneath her stubborn chin. Their hands had lingered on one another for a bare second. Nearly an embrace.
Bloody hell. An embrace? Perhaps Shaw had a point about acquiring a mistress. It had been six
months since the last one. Too long, obviously.
“Tell her to leave. Then escort her outside.”
Frelling ignored his order. Instead, the man turned to speak to someone behind him. Then, the door swung open.
It was not the female he’d anticipated.
“Silly goose,” said the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen, brushing past his dazzled secretary and sweeping into his office in a cloud of white muslin and indigo velvet. Upon her raven hair perched a dark-blue bonnet with tiny white feathers. She blinked thick lashes over mesmerizing blue eyes. “I brought gifts. As promised.”
She glided first to his desk, depositing a flat, square package and a folded sheet of paper, before coming to grasp his hands in her tiny, delicate grip. “Come now.” She shook his hands in hers. “Bend down.”
Bloody hell again. This was the last thing he needed. He bent, lowering his cheek so she could reach it. She laid a kiss upon his jaw and gave him a brilliant smile.
“There, now. It is splendid to see you, Elijah.”
He sighed, straightening. “Reaver, Lady Tannenbrook. Sebastian Reaver.”
“And I have told you to call me Viola.”
“Too familiar.”
“We are cousins. Well, you and James are cousins, at any rate. I am certain he won’t mind.”
“I’ve seen how he looks at you. I prefer to keep my blood where it belongs. Speaking of which, where is your husband?”
Viola gave him a mischievous twinkle, a small scar near her eye drawing his attention. It only emphasized her perfection. “He and Mr. Duff are discussing the correct methods for repairing a chimney. I expect him momentarily.”
Again, Reaver found himself sighing. He glanced to Shaw, who nodded and left to retrieve the man.
James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook, tended to be unreasonable about his wife spending time alone with another man. Better to keep the duration short. Tannenbrook hadn’t the softness of a typical nob. He’d been a Scottish stonemason before unexpectedly inheriting an English title from a distant relation at age sixteen.
