by Elisa Braden
Her thoughts clambered, spun, and slipped like carriage wheels in October mud. First, she imagined she’d misheard him, an idea she quickly dismissed. No. She’d told him to make a demand, and devil that he was, he’d made an outrageous one, likely intended to shock her sensibilities. In that, he had succeeded.
Next, she scrambled for alternatives. Unfortunately, she had little to offer the man. It had always been her plan’s great flaw. Her skills were limited, her wealth nonexistent. Her bloodline was old and distinguished, but that would be meaningless to someone like Mr. Reaver. And she gravely doubted offering to mend his shirts or write his correspondence would lure him away from his scandalous proposal. In short, she’d hoped to rely upon his sympathy for her plight. Clearly, he had none.
Last, she contemplated the bargain he had offered—truly considered it. He obviously assumed she would decline, probably hoping she would storm out of his office and never return. After all, if she were seeking to marry Glassington herself, becoming Sebastian Reaver’s mistress would negate her purpose. Any lord in Glassington’s position would refuse a sullied woman regardless of her leverage, for all he had left was his dubious gentlemanly honor. But, as she was not seeking to marry Glassington herself, Mr. Reaver’s assumption was in error. And that was to her advantage.
Indeed, she was so deeply on the shelf, she might as well be covered in mold. Who would mind if she carried on a brief, discreet liaison—even one with the proprietor of a notorious gaming club? Once Phoebe was safely wed to Glassington, Augusta’s affairs would cease to matter in the slightest. She could return to Hampshire, enjoy a sisterly visit from time to time, and consign these weeks in London to a dim, hazy corner of her memory.
The more she thought about it, the better the bargain seemed.
She examined Mr. Reaver more closely. This time, she did not allow his impossible height to distract her. Shoulders? Wide. Waist? Trim. Hands? Huge. So were his arms and thighs. Come to that, every inch of him was thick and heavily muscled, from neck to ankles. The man’s power was visceral.
She swallowed and caught her breath as she forced herself to meet calculating onyx. Pressing her lips together as a curl of heat wrapped around her spine, she gave her gloves another tug and straightened her posture.
“We have a bargain, then.” She was glad her voice remained steady, for nothing inside her did likewise.
Several heartbeats passed while his smile disappeared and his gaze cooled into a glare. Evidently, he was displeased she had recognized his gambit.
A displeased Sebastian Reaver was an intimidating sight, indeed.
She struggled for a deep breath. Her bodice refused her. Shallow would have to do.
“I shall be your mistress,” she continued, refusing to shrink beneath the force of his withering stare. “After six weeks, you shall deliver me Lord Glassington’s markers.” She sidestepped his desk, came forward, and extended her hand. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Reaver. I accept your terms.”
*~*~*
Reaver glanced down at the small, gloved hand then returned to the dove-gray eyes of Miss Augusta Widmore.
She had agreed. To the most insulting demand he could devise. Bloody, bleeding hell. Did the chit have no sense of self-preservation? Was she witless? Mad?
“It is customary to shake hands when sealing a bargain.”
No. Neither witless nor mad. The intelligence in those eyes was no illusion. She might be a bit blurry this close, but even he could see it. She expected him to back down. Perhaps she even counted on it.
Aye. That was it. He merely needed to push her harder.
“That is not how I seal anything with a mistress.” He kept his voice low and suggestive, but he suspected he hadn’t done it right—her reaction was a prim smirk.
“I am not your mistress until we finalize our bargain. Mmm. Quite the paradox, I agree. Let us shake hands so it cannot continue to befuddle us with its contradictions.”
Thought she was clever, did she? Rubbish. This drab little country spinster who’d likely mistaken Glassington’s drunken groping for a marriage proposal was no match for him. He would send her scurrying for Hampshire with her cheeks burning and her handkerchief clutched to her bosom.
The thought drew his eyes there, where she was strangely flattened. Different than before.
“You assume my terms are final,” he said, inching closer and lowering his head. “They are not.”
She withdrew her hand before it brushed his belly, folding it neatly at her waist. “Oh? I should think ‘mistress’ covers a good deal of territory.”
“My needs are very … specific.”
“Ah, I see. You wish to add details to our arrangement.”
“Aye. Details.”
“Such as?”
This was not going as he’d anticipated. She appeared more amused than apprehensive. “Your gowns, for a start.”
“My gowns.”
“They are ugly. Dull.”
Glancing down at the white apron tied at her gown’s high waist, she plucked at her skirt’s folds. “Well, this one is not actually mine, Mr. Reaver. Perhaps you hadn’t realized. It is a maid’s costume. I borrowed it from an acquaintance.”
He frowned and eyed her bosom again. “It doesn’t fit you properly.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know. Dreadfully tight. One can scarcely draw a full breath. But it did facilitate my entry into your establishment. For that I am grateful.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t hear much beyond “dreadfully tight.” He was picturing those full breasts being pressured and squeezed. How they might look once unbound.
“As to my other gowns, I admit they are a trifle staid. I have never been a mistress before. If you would like to provide new garments for me to wear, I shan’t object.”
He found himself scowling. “You should.”
“Why?”
Deliberately, he traced the high neckline of her gown. “This will be much lower.”
Her breathing quickened and gooseflesh bloomed on her throat.
At last, she was taking proper offense. Perhaps he should kiss her and have done with this aggravating business. His eyes fell to her lips. Not remarkably full, but certainly wide. The shape of her jaw—gentle and narrow—made them appear more prominent.
“The garments will be at your expense, Mr. Reaver. If you wish them to be more … revealing, that is your prerogative. Presumably, I would only wear them in my capacity as your mistress.” She blinked slowly and quirked those wide lips. “As you can see, costumes do not frighten me.”
What would? That was the question. He frowned down at the woman who seemingly had few qualms about selling herself to a stranger. Something was amiss.
After her second thwarted visit to Reaver’s, Shaw had recommended investigating her background. Part of Reaver’s business involved collecting information through a vast network of sources inside and outside London, so the task had been a simple one.
She was an unmarried woman of eight-and-twenty from a quiet village in Hampshire. Her father had been a baronet, but upon his death, the title had passed to her uncle. She’d lived with the uncle for less than four years before securing a cottage for herself and her younger sister, Phoebe Widmore. None of these facts suggested a woman of flexible morals.
On the contrary. According to Drayton, a Bow Street runner he’d sent to her village to make inquiries, most of her neighbors described her as pleasant but a bit too proud. “High in the instep,” Drayton had said, mimicking the villagers’ accent. He’d huffed and shaken his head. “Polite way of sayin’ she fancies herself too fine for us commoners.”
Reaver had been sure she would balk at his crude proposal. Let him bed her? Any woman who valued her reputation—her virtue—would have spewed fire and stormed out of his club at the mere suggestion. Of course, any woman who valued her reputation would not have repeatedly invaded an exclusive gentleman’s club.
Still, her acquiescence was out of character.
Ei
ther she expected him to back down, or her aim to marry Glassington was a lie. The latter was possible, he supposed. But why else would she be so desperate to acquire Glassington’s markers? Revenge, perhaps? Had Glassington harmed her?
The thought made his guts knot. Men who preyed upon women and children deserved a long, slow death.
He examined her face—slender nose and wide mouth, gray eyes and russet brows. She was taller than average, but her bones were slight. Her skin was pale, as were her lips. But her eyes were far from cowed or wounded. Rather, they sparked with wry intelligence. The tilt of her head and the straightness of her spine gave no hint of victimhood. They spoke of pride. Dignity. Challenge.
“You’re daft, woman,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“If you plan to renege, Mr. Reaver, be warned: I shall regard such an action as a breach of promise similar to that of Lord Glassington. And you have seen the lengths to which I will go in reminding him of his obligations.” Gray eyes sharpened and wide lips pursed. “You and I have an agreement, sir. Should you break it, I will stand outside your club’s entrance every day. I shall inform every man who enters that the proprietor of Reaver’s hasn’t the decency to keep his word. How many of them will feel honor-bound to pay their debts then, do you suppose?”
That did it. The only way to be rid of her was to raise the stakes. “Where are you staying?”
She opened her mouth to answer.
“Never mind. You’ll be moving in with me.”
Her eyes flared. “I—”
“Being my mistress means being available. All the time.”
“All—all the time?”
“Aye.”
One gloved hand flattened over her middle. She glanced around his office. “Do you reside … here?”
He wondered which would be more to his advantage—the truth or a lie. On one hand, he reckoned most women would blanch at the idea of living in a gentlemen’s club. On the other, she’d been unabashed about entering Reaver’s on multiple occasions.
A wonder the club didn’t feel like home to her already.
No, the truth was better. The audacity of suggesting she move into the private house of a man she scarcely knew—where that man would have her all to himself—was likelier to put her off.
Biting back a grin, he answered, “I sleep here from time to time. But, no. I have a separate residence. You’ll live there. With me.”
For several breaths, he watched her. Gray eyes explored his face and shoulders. Gloved hands flattened and squeezed over her waist. Wide lips pressed together. Finally, she released a puff of air. “Very well.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I understand it is customary to keep a separate residence for one’s mistress. Many gentlemen do. But as our arrangement is of short duration, I concede this is more sensible.”
Bloody, bleeding hell. He was wrong. She was mad. Utterly, blindingly mad.
She acted as though he’d suggested they take ale rather than wine with their supper. Her slender nose and delicate jaw and russet brows were all composed. Utterly, maddeningly composed.
“Tonight,” he gritted, searching for her snapping point. “I want you there this evening.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t—”
“This is not negotiable. Either comply or our agreement is void.”
“—be too onerous. I must return to my current lodgings to retrieve a few items, of course.” She glanced toward the window. “There appears to be ample time before dark. Shall we consider our agreement settled, then?”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FOUR
“An obligation to one’s bloodline, however burdensome, must be attended. Tolerance for a nephew’s imbecility or encouraging a son’s latent procreative instincts, for example, forms the mortar of our very civilization. Gird your loins, my dear fellow. And do what must be done.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the onerous nature of performing one’s familial duty.
Augusta slipped her gloved hand into the overlarge one offered to her. Then, pining for a free breath, she climbed down from the hack and gave her thick-necked escort a nod of thanks.
“I do appreciate your assistance, Mr. Duff, but this is quite unnecessary.” She glanced pointedly at the shabby residence with its soot-stained bricks and peeling-paint door. “Coming here is a daily occurrence, you see.”
The oversized man merely shot her a flat gaze and uttered, “Reaver says I’m to see ye here then see ye to ’is ’owse.”
She would sigh, but her bodice made expressing annoyance difficult. “It seems we both are bound to follow Mr. Reaver’s instructions. Did he specify that you must accompany me inside?”
“Nah.”
“Excellent. Then wait here, if you please. I shall return momentarily.” She spun on her heel, stopping short when she spotted a furtive shadow lurking where the alley entrance loomed like a great, dark mouth. Swallowing, she tugged at her gloves and straightened her spine. “On second thought, Mr. Duff, I could very much use your help.”
“Eh?”
“Since you’ve been so good as to accompany me, perhaps you could carry my trunk down the stairs.”
While Mr. Duff turned away and argued with the hack driver, offering to remove his arms if he should leave while they were inside, she rushed toward the alley entrance. “I told you, boy,” she whispered, pretending to lean against the bricks while examining her half-boots. “I haven’t any more tasks for you.”
“That ’im?” the boy squeaked.
“That is Mr. Duff, yes. You should not be here.”
“Did ’ee catch you, Miss Widmore?” The boy’s voice darkened. She could scarcely see his features in the shadows cast by the buildings. “I could ’elp. You run inside. I’ll lead ’im a merry chase, like last time.”
Her heart twisted. The boy had been haunting her over the past few days, hovering in the alley, jumping on the back of her hired hacks, following her to the market. She had paid him well for his timely distraction of Mr. Duff, of course, and she assumed his desperation drove him to seek out additional “work” from her, but little remained of her small savings. And that pittance would be needed to provide for Phoebe while Augusta stayed with Mr. Reaver.
At his house.
At his beck and call.
For six weeks.
Good heavens, had she really agreed to such an outrageous bargain? Once she’d consented to move into his residence, she’d half expected him to cry off and thrust the markers into her hands, just to be rid of her. Instead, his features had hardened to stone. He’d growled, “Aye, Miss Widmore. Have it your way.” Then he’d called for Mr. Duff to escort her home and retrieve her belongings.
Now, her stomach cramped. It was likely hunger, but she admitted some trepidation. Becoming a mistress was no small step. And she was leaping into it like a horse into a dark ravine.
She glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Duff gestured strangely with his forearm dangling from an outstretched elbow. He appeared to be illustrating what the driver would experience should his arms be broken.
“Boy,” she whispered. “You mustn’t let Mr. Duff see you. Hide until you see us depart, do you hear? I shall leave a coin with my sister. You may retrieve it later.”
The boy shivered and shook his head. She wanted to ask where his coat had gone.
“Hide? Not if ’ee means to hurt ye.”
She frowned and took his arm gently. Her fingers overlapped. “You must. He will not hurt me. He is here to see me safe. But he may hurt you if he recognizes you.” Firmly, she moved him deeper into the shadows.
“Why’s ’ee ’ere?”
She released his arm, tugged his sleeve straighter, and glanced over her shoulder. “I have an arrangement with his employer,” she murmured. “Mr. Duff is no threat to me, I promise you.”
The boy grunted. “What about Reaver?”
She chose not to answer. “Do as I said, and seek out Miss Phoebe
after our departure.” She started toward the door then halted after two steps. “And, boy?”
“Aye.”
“Buy yourself a coat.”
Minutes later, as she led Mr. Duff up a creaking, half-rotted staircase, she worried the boy would ignore her. He was a stubborn one.
She stifled her fretting and continued climbing the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “Mind the hole, Mr. Duff. And the rat. Mrs. Renley should have removed it by now, but … well, perhaps she was occupied with emptying buckets. The leaks in the roof are legion.”
“’Ow long you been stayin’ ’ere?”
“Three weeks or so. Why?”
“’Ow much you pay?”
“Five shillings per week.”
First, a snort. Then, a grunt. Last, a grumble. “Ain’t fit. Five shillings. Wouldn’t pay five pence for this place.”
She didn’t have the air or the patience to explain her choice of accommodations. In truth, it had been the best she could do on short notice and a scant budget. They reached the door to her room soon enough, and she turned the rickety knob, leading Mr. Duff inside.
“Good heavens, Augusta, I thought you’d never … oh!” Phoebe halted mid-pace, blue eyes flaring wide. Just recently, Augusta’s younger sister had developed the habit of pacing back and forth in front of the small hearth in their rooms. She claimed it helped ease her unsettled stomach. Her discomfort must have been particularly bad this morning, as her ivory complexion was tinged green.
“Miss Phoebe Widmore, this is Mr. Duff. Mr. Duff, my sister, Miss Phoebe Widmore.”
Looming behind her, Mr. Duff grunted again. “Why ye repeatin’ yerself? She ’ard of ’earin’?” He nodded his massive head in Phoebe’s direction and tugged at his cap. “Miss.” The word was a bellow.
Phoebe frowned. Blinked. She wore the same expression she’d had as a girl when Augusta had explained they would be required to empty their own chamber pots—bewilderment edged with disgust. “Who is this, Augusta? What is going on?”
