by Elisa Braden
“I’ll send the Frenchman here to cook for you, if you’re so particular.”
Even closer now. She swallowed, feeling his heat along her back. A giant hand braced on the window casing above her head.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice a bit breathier than before. “I shall hire a cook.”
“Hmmph. A cook. A housekeeper. What next? A valet to shave my whiskers?”
She glanced up. Examined his square, powerful jaw. Slid her gaze across the prominent cheekbone to the sooty lashes and low-slung brows. Felt another strange flutter in her lower belly.
Flashing onyx eyes came down to meet hers. She returned her attention to the tidy, iron-fenced green outside the window. “You appear to be doing fine on your own,” she murmured.
She felt his eyes burning her cheek. Her throat. Her bosom. He could not possibly be contemplating … Surely he did not intend to …
No. Sebastian Reaver could well afford to keep the most beautiful women in the demimonde as his mistresses—actresses and opera singers and courtesans. The last woman he would wish to bed was a red-haired spinster whose only claims to feminine wiles were sound management skills and excellent posture. Which was why she must remember the true purpose of his outrageous proposition—to force her to withdraw her demand for Glassington’s markers and leave him in peace.
That was the only reason he currently stood so close. The only reason he hadn’t yet removed his gaze from her bodice.
Be sensible, Augusta, she chided. And stop tingling, for the love of heaven.
“Ye changed your gown,” he rumbled, low and resonant.
Her heart kicked at her bones. “The other was too tight.”
“Aye. That it was.”
“I could scarcely breathe.”
“Mmm. You’re breathin’ now, eh?”
“I made this gown myself. It fits me properly.”
“God, yes. It does.”
Behind them came the loud clomping of boots. “All finished, Mr. Reaver. Miss Widmore’s trunk is in the chamber next to yours. Shall I return to the club?”
“Aye, Duff. You can leave. Now.” His voice was part bark and part growl.
She took advantage of the intrusion to slip beneath his arm. As Mr. Duff departed, she crossed to the opposite end of the room and pretended her heart was not attempting to thrash itself past the barrier of her bosom. Casually, she bent forward to examine the white marble fireplace.
She thought Mr. Reaver might have groaned but quickly dismissed the notion. Perhaps the sound had been her stomach. She was famished.
“Are all your chimneys in such dreadful condition?” she asked.
“Nothin’ wrong with my chimneys.”
She straightened, turned, and raised a brow in his direction. “Oh, I beg to differ.”
His jaw clenched as he crossed massive arms over a massive chest. “I was a sweep for several years, Miss Widmore. I think I’d know the difference.”
“You—you were …”
“Aye.”
She frowned. “When?”
“Does it matter?”
“I wish to know.”
“Started when I was nine or ten. Small for my age.” His hard mouth quirked. “Things changed a bit later on.”
Yes, they certainly had. Nothing about him was small now. His fingers. His hands. His shoulders. Big, big, big.
“These hearths don’t see much use,” he continued, slowly stalking toward her. “Haven’t hosted too many balls here, ye see.”
Ignoring his mocking tone, she leapt upon the opening he’d left her. “Ah, yes, but disuse is precisely your problem, Mr. Reaver.”
“I don’t have a problem.”
She bent, pretending to listen to the wide-open fireplace, before clicking her tongue. “Perhaps your hearing is less acute than it was in your youth. Understandable. Age does take its toll.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My hearing, on the other hand, is excellent. Which is why I can hear the flapping of wings inside your chimney.”
“Wings?”
“Indeed. Birds, most likely. Or perhaps bats. If you had a proper staff, this would not be a problem.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “For the last bloody time, there is no bloody problem.”
She sniffed. “Vulgarity is unnecessary.”
“Light a fire. That will drive out whatever phantom animal you’ve conjured with your excellent hearing.”
“No!” She stopped to clear her throat. “I shall simply hire someone to take care of the matter. Think no more of it.”
“With what funds?”
“Yours, of course. This is your house, after all. Your chimneys.”
He grunted and shook his head.
“Naturally, I am assuming it is yours. You never did specify how long you’ve—”
“Three years.” His answer was a resentful growl.
“Three …” She blinked thrice. “And it remains empty?” How very strange. He’d owned the house for three years—presumably slept here occasionally—and never thought to buy a single settee or even a writing desk. Yes, it was strange. And a bit sad.
“It is not empty.”
She glanced around the large, empty room pointedly.
He hissed through gritted teeth and stomped toward her, grasped her elbow, and marched her the length of the room to the doors Mr. Duff had left ajar.
Scrambling to match his long strides, she sputtered, “Mr. Reaver, I must insist that you cease hauling me about like a reluctant valise.”
“Valises are not reluctant,” he parried as they navigated the corridor and returned to the staircase. “They go where they are taken and don’t bloody well argue every moment of the journey.”
“Precisely. I am not a valise, and therefore—oh!” At the base of the stairs, he spun her about and placed his large, warm hands upon her waist. She was a bit ticklish along her ribs, which explained why her midsection went buttery and her spine trilled like a pianoforte at his touch.
She was facing away from him, toward the rising stairs, so she could not judge his intention. But a moment later, she was being propelled—nay, carried—up the steps with a fair degree of urgency.
What would happen when they reached the top? She did not know. Strictly speaking, she was his mistress. And strictly speaking, mistresses permitted certain liberties in exchange for a man’s patronage. And even more strictly speaking, Augusta was almost entirely certain she had made a dreadful mistake in believing he would not take full advantage of their agreement. Almost entirely.
They reached the top. His hands slid away from her waist, but one of them settled on the lower half of her back.
“Mr. Reaver,” she began, glancing sidelong at his hard jaw. “I am ambulatory, I assure you.”
He didn’t answer. His hand pressed, and he set the same urgent pace as before, propelling her along a corridor toward the front of the house then guiding her through a door.
White-paneled and long, the chamber was cold but not empty. In fact, centered on the longest wall across from a small, lovely fireplace stood an elegant mahogany bed with fluted posts and a gold velvet coverlet. Near the twin windows sat a small, round table and two chairs.
“It—it is a bedchamber,” she said, feeling her throat tighten, her belly quake.
“Aye,” he rumbled behind her, slowly withdrawing his hand.
For some reason, she felt as though the floor had given way.
“It’s yours,” he said, striding to the chairs and table, waving one long arm at the upholstery and wood. “Not empty, is it?”
Her brows arched. Her eyes widened. Her heart shuddered in relief. At least, she assumed it was relief.
“No,” she agreed. “This room is not empty.”
“Right.” He gestured toward the bed. “That there is a bed, ye see?”
“Well, yes.”
He pointed at another door. “Through the
re is your trunk. You’ll find a dressing table, as well.”
She glanced at the white-paneled door and nodded. “It should be most … comfortable.”
“Go on, then.”
“Go?”
“Through the door.” He came toward her, glowering. “Or must I carry you like a bloody valise?”
She straightened. “That won’t be necessary.” Upon entering the dressing room, she saw that it was precisely as he’d described—her trunk and a dressing table.
He sauntered past her to another door and opened it wide.
Curious, she followed him and discovered the next chamber was his dressing room. This one contained an enormous, doorless wardrobe with the neatest assemblage of men’s shirts, pantaloons, breeches, trousers, coats, and waistcoats she’d ever seen. Some were hanging upon hooks. Some were folded and placed upon oak shelves. All were categorized and arranged in impeccable alignment and color groupings. An equally large chest of drawers occupied another wall. In the center of the room was a simple washstand that appeared to have been customized for a man of Mr. Reaver’s height.
“My dressing room,” he said needlessly. “Also not empty.”
Dear heaven, she had clearly struck a sore tooth with her observations about his failure to properly furnish his house.
He opened another door. Through it, all she could see was a bed.
A massive, heavy, giant-sized bed.
“Come, Miss Widmore.”
“Oh, I can see it from here. No need for me to—oh!”
He’d returned and grasped her elbow in only two strides. Then, she was transported once again at a pace faster than her natural gait through the door and toward the bed of a giant. His bed.
She swallowed as he halted and released her arm.
“A desk. A chair. A bed. Not empty, Miss Widmore.”
No, it was not. It was filled with a bed big enough to sleep five normal humans with room to spare.
Swallowing again, she clasped her hands at her waist and drifted closer, fingering the square mahogany posts. The design was simple—even a bit rustic—but solid as the earth. She quite liked it.
“As you can see, you were wrong about my house.”
Her lips curled with a secret smile. “So, if I understand correctly, you have furnished two bedchambers, one of which is yours.”
A long pause. “Aye.”
“And how many bedchambers are there? In total, I mean.”
Another pause. “Seven.”
“Hmm. Two out of seven.” She tapped a gloved finger along the post before turning to face him. “Well, I concede your house is not precisely empty, Mr. Reaver, but surely it could use a bit less emptiness.”
His expression was both thunderous and perplexed, as though he couldn’t decide whether to toss her out the window or bellow in wordless rage. Instead, he said nothing. His eyes flashed and burned across her mouth and bosom. Again, mouth and bosom. His head tilted at that subtle angle she was beginning to recognize as his alone.
“I—I shall procure appropriate furnishings after I have hired a staff.” Her voice quavered oddly, but he did not appear to notice.
Twice more, his eyes traced their torturous route between her mouth and bosom.
“We shall require a goodly number. Moving furniture takes many”—she swallowed as her gaze fell to where his fists clenched at his sides—“strong hands.”
At last, his eyes came up to meet hers. There, in the black, she saw something that frightened her. Something like her own need.
Then, he broke away. Turned away. Stalked away. “Do as you will,” he barked as he yanked open the dressing room door. “I’ll be at the club!”
*~*~*
CHAPTER SIX
“Whilst I appreciate both the brevity and directness of your response, your phrasing should be revised to read, ‘Please stop, for the love of God, your ladyship.’ When addressing a lady, it is wise to give her due courtesy.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in an addendum to a previous letter on the subject of gentlemanly behavior.
Reaver’s blood did not begin to cool until he turned over the reins of Colonel Smoots to the groom rushing out of the club’s stable.
By God, that woman chafed his temper like a rasp on wood.
His house was not empty. He’d left some of the rooms unfurnished because he was busy. He had accounts to reconcile. He had desperate lordlings to intimidate into paying what they owed. He had an expansion to manage. A club to run.
Taking the steps up to the back entrance in one long stride, he yanked open the door, ignoring Duff’s greeting.
She’d stood in his drawing room, looking as though snow wouldn’t melt upon her skin, while she rendered judgment on his deficiencies. She’d calmly informed him of how she planned to spend his money. And all the while, she’d taunted him with her prim smirks and presumptuous airs and properly fitted gown.
He stalked now through the dark passages to the service staircase and took the stairs three at a time. A maid yelped as he charged past. He didn’t bother with reassurances.
Augusta Widmore was bloody maddening. Assuming command of his household. Behaving as though she’d no expectations of actually being his mistress.
Actually permitting him to kiss her.
He ran a hand over his shorn hair as he stalked the corridor to his office.
God, did he want to kiss her?
His mind rebelled against the thought, but his body issued a vehement confirmation, going tight and hard.
Aye, he wanted to kiss her. But not merely that. He wanted to take her. Over and over. And not in some gentle, careful way as he’d always done with women. No, she made his lust the raging sort. She provoked his worst instincts—to grip her thighs hard and tear her skirts away from her legs and devour those wide lips until the only sounds that emerged were pleas for more.
He ripped open the door to Frelling’s office, startling the bespectacled man.
“Mr. Reaver! I didn’t anticipate your return until tomorrow morning.”
“Plans change.” He continued through the chamber to his office door.
“Ah, I see. Have you spoken with Mr. Shaw—”
The slamming door cut off his secretary’s blather. He shrugged off his greatcoat and tossed it over a wooden chair. The blasted thing made him itch.
Bloody hell, it wasn’t the coat. She made him itch. She made him heat and swell and burn.
And he could not have her.
She was his mistress, yet he could not kiss her presumptuous mouth or touch her soft thighs or suckle those sumptuously full breasts. Because to do so would make him the thing he despised most—a man who preyed upon the weak and desperate.
He moved to the window and stared down at rain pattering on cobblestones. Listened to the tick of the clock on the shelf beside him until his heart slowed its battering slam.
His proposition should have driven her away. It would have done with any other female. But not Miss Augusta Widmore. Everything he demanded, she accepted with a sniff and a seemingly rational reply. He suspected she knew his intention to drive her away—clearly the reason she hadn’t balked. Or blushed. Or run like a herd of draft horses was bearing down upon her.
Instead, she’d stood in his drawing room, red hair glowing like wine in the light, gloved hands primly folded, and announced she intended to hire a staff on his behalf.
Perhaps someone should inform her that mistresses were not charged with issuing edicts or interviewing servants. Nor were they the chief inspectors of chimneys.
He shook his head, nearly laughing aloud at the memory.
Good God. The woman was a lunatic.
Which did nothing to explain his lust for her.
Work was what he needed. Aye. A bit of hammering and hauling would burn away this tension. He would work and sweat and labor until he could not even remember her name. Or the sight of her bending forward and presenting him with her delectable backside. Or those breasts, so
round and—
No! He would cease this torturous mooning. He would work. On the expansion. Now.
Decided, he pivoted to gather his greatcoat. Just then, the door opened and Shaw entered, his black hair standing in spikes.
“Reaver,” he said, striding into the room with unusual urgency. “Thank God.”
“First time anybody connected my name to that sentiment.”
Shaw dismissed his grumbled quip with a wave. “When were you going to tell me you’d taken Augusta Widmore as your mistress?”
“I haven’t,” he said. “Not really.”
“Her sister claims otherwise.”
Reaver frowned. “Her sister? She came here?”
“Bloody hell, man! When I said you should acquire a mistress, I assumed you would know better than to proposition a baronet’s on-the-shelf daughter.”
His frown deepened into a glower. “I was removing a nuisance. My aim was to make her cry off.”
“Her sister claims you’ve moved Miss Widmore into your house. Was that also intended to remove the ‘nuisance’?” The snap in his voice, the outrage flaring his eyes, surprised Reaver.
Shaw often said he’d seen everything once. Some of it lived in his nightmares. Much he’d forgotten. He’d left India at fifteen, a half-English orphan with no possessions, no coin—just fierce intelligence and determination to flee his father’s homeland and find fortune in his mother’s. The man who had seen everything did not boil easily, even when he’d been beaten by a piece of filth Reaver had later pummeled into paste. Or when he’d been poisoned to the edge of death by a vicious, elusive enemy.
No, indeed. Provoking Adam Shaw beyond a low simmer was generally impossible.
Generally.
Reaver sighed. “I meant to drive her to disgust, to reject my proposition and never return. She’s so bloody-minded about it. Fixed on acquiring Glassington’s markers and blind to all else. Even her own safety.”
“You’ve ensconced her in your house, Reaver.” The words sliced like a blade.
“Aye,” Reaver growled back. “Now she intends to spend my money to furnish my house.”
Shaw blinked and shook his head.
“And she’s hirin’ a staff. Housekeeper. Butler. Footmen. A whole bloody army.”
