by Elisa Braden
From his tone, she could not discern whether his statement was an observation or an accusation. So, she opted for a neutral “Hmm.”
“I shall take you.”
She blinked. Glanced behind her at the closed door. Then at his desk. Then at him. “T-take me?”
“Aye. To buy furniture. We’ll say you’re my adviser.”
“Adviser.”
“Aye. About decorating and such.”
“Decorating.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Well, start making sense, and perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary!”
He raked a hand across the top of his head. “Bloody, bleeding hell, you’re a nuisance.”
“And you are a boorish beast. Yet, somehow, I manage to control the urge to insult you repeatedly in every conversation. What a fascinating contrast.”
Releasing a frustrated breath, he came around his desk, covering the distance between them in several paces. “There is a man who builds furniture. He has a warehouse. I shall take you there today.”
“Does this man owe you money, perhaps?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Hmmph. I shall take that as a yes.”
His scowl turned darker. “A nuisance and a prude. Quite the charmer, you are. Must have dazzled all the gents in Hampshire.”
The sting of his comment thrust hard and deep, but she took care not to let it show. “You might be surprised,” she lied calmly. “I, however, find nothing surprising about you.”
“Is that so?”
As he inched closer, she raised her chin. “Indeed. You hold these men’s markers as trophies. It gives you power over them, and you relish it. Just as you do with me.”
“Think you know everything, do you? Think I’m so predictable?”
She felt a tug beneath her chin. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Removing your bonnet.”
She swatted at his hands, but he tugged her hat away and held it aloft, leaving her swatting at air. “Give that back!”
He tossed it across the room. It landed neatly in the center of his desk. “Go and get it.”
What in blazes? He’d widened his stance, placing himself between her and the stolen bonnet like a cricket fielder.
“You are mad.”
“Aye. But not predictable, eh?”
“Mad is not better, you gigantic dunderpate!”
Black eyes glittered with … excitement? “Take down your hair.”
“I will not.” She ran a hand above her ear, tidying what she could.
“I wish to see it.”
“With the greatest respect, Mr. Reaver, your wishes mean less to me than the deposits made in the privy this morning.”
His head tilted and his mouth curved in a wicked half-smile. “A fine parry, Miss Widmore. Come now. You’re my mistress. Mistresses do these sorts of things to please their patrons.”
Tingles bubbled over her skin as though she’d bathed in champagne. Gritting her teeth against the sensation, she strove to ignore his inexplicable hold upon her senses.
“At the moment, pleasing you is the opposite of my aim. Apart from which, we both know I am not truly your mistress.”
Glittering onyx sharpened. “How do we know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly. You spent last night here. You’ve told your staff I am your employee, not your paramour. And, while you have a disturbing tendency to haul me about like a valise, you haven’t so much as kissed me. I predict you shall never do so, because you do not want me for that purpose. You’re merely trying to force me to back down by making outrageous demands. Well, I shall not back down. I mean to have Lord Glassington’s markers.”
His jaw hardened and flickered. “So you can drag him to the altar.”
“My purpose is of no consequence to you. Now, step aside, if you please. I should like to retrieve my hat.”
“Come and take it,” he rumbled softly.
Her eyes narrowed upon him. Without warning, she feinted left and darted right. Perhaps she should have done the opposite, because in a blink, a steely arm snagged her waist, seizing her firmly against him. She squirmed against outlandish muscles, her hands pressing his chest, her hips grinding and arching into his thighs.
A warm, massive hand gripped her nape, tilting her head back so she could not avoid his gaze. The sight struck her hard and low.
Onyx had gone molten. One muscle—impossibly long and thick—had gone hard as stone against her belly.
Oh, dear heaven.
Did he want her?
As his mouth swooped toward hers, she knew. Preposterous as it seemed, he wanted her. And nothing could have surprised her more.
*~*~*
CHAPTER NINE
“A lady judges a man’s worth on both his appearance and his behavior. Signs of gentlemanly character may be subtle, but they form the foundation of her good opinion. I recommend employing the following: A temperate demeanor. An excellent tailor. And a cravat, Mr. Kilbrenner. A cravat would not go amiss.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter addressing strategies to improve one’s gentlemanly allure.
Seconds after his lips touched hers, he knew two things: She’d never been kissed, and he would never get enough of her.
The first realization came when a wide, tempting mouth that thought it knew everything slid against his with awkward pursing and eager ineptitude. She moaned and fisted his coat, ground his lips into his teeth, and generally felt her way with more enthusiasm than grace.
The second realization came when a kiss intended strictly to prove a point—never mind that his cock had been hard enough to crack marble—sent his head spinning like a bottle of his best brandy.
Despite her amateurish response.
Despite his qualms about compromising a spinster’s reputation.
Despite the foolishness of giving in to his lust.
He wanted to claim her. Hard and deep and forever.
Instead, he made do with her sweet, wide, virginal mouth. Gripping her nape firmly, he caressed her jaw with his thumb and forced her harder into his hips. “Open for me,” he growled.
“Why?” she panted.
“Just do it.”
She did.
He dove deep with his tongue, ignoring her squeak of alarm. Ah, God. She was intoxicating, her slick, soft tongue fluttering experimentally then stroking against his. Her hips writhed and her hands clutched. Circled his neck. Pulled her body higher. She pushed and rubbed lush breasts into him so desperately he could feel her nipples like little diamonds, even through layers of clothing.
Head swimming and chest heaving, he lifted her and turned, bracing her back against the wall beside the door. His hands, free now to explore, gripped her hips and grasped her thighs. Dug in and slid. Spread. Pulled her closer.
He ground his cock against her, sending quakes of pleasure radiating up his spine and out into every muscle.
Heat. So much heat and beauty. He was burning in relentless fire, awash in waves of it. He devoured her even as she devoured him. His cock set a rhythm, needing something like the sensation of thrusting inside her.
She would be tight.
He groaned into her mouth, pulsing his tongue in and out. In and out.
God, she would fight to take him inside. He knew it. Sensed it. Felt it in her restless hands and eager hips. She would not just accept his cock. She would claim it.
He’d never known anything like this. The fire was building. Gathering between them. Scalding wherever they touched.
Her skirts fought him. He pulled them higher. Hitched her up and dragged her down, eliciting a sobbing moan.
Her fingers dug into his scalp. Cradled his jaw and clawed at his neck and shoulders.
His hips worked harder, grinding against the core of her, where her sweet heat burned highest. He wanted a taste. He wanted to consume her.
He moved his mouth to her neck, kissing and suckling and feeding
on her scent. Skin and water and arousal.
She responded in kind, laying frantic kisses against his cheek and temple—whatever she could reach. Moaning in the sweetest voice, dusky with her need, she was gasping for air, her hips now catching his rhythm and moving in time.
Like a dance with an ever-rising cadence.
“Oh. Oh, dear heaven. M-Mr. Reaver.”
“Bloody hell, woman,” he groaned. “Dispense with the mister.”
“Sebastian. I fear I might … Oh, my word. Please.”
He’d meant for her to call him Reaver. But he liked the sound of Sebastian on her lips. He liked her last word even better. Pleeeaaasse. Long and low as she used his cock for her pleasure.
Her pleasure. Her peak. It was coming. She was coming.
He’d never desired anything more ferociously.
“Mmmmm. Sebastian. Dear heaven.”
Aye. His name. He loved it. He loved her scent, hot and rich. He loved her skin, silken against his tongue. He loved her thighs, gripping him hard. And her sweet center dampening him through his trousers.
Heart pounding like a bloody drum, he pushed her higher until her body jerked in his arms and her sharp cry signaled her pinnacle.
He could feel her. Good God, he could feel the little shivering pulses against him, even through his trousers. He pulled back to watch.
And was stunned by her beauty. Head thrown back, eyes closed, cheeks flushed a blushing peach, she shook and panted and gripped his shoulders. All the while, she wore a beatific smile. A single tear had fallen over her cheek, glistening in the light from the window.
How had this woman gone so long without a man claiming her for his own?
He absorbed every detail—the wide, sensual lips. The gentle slope of her jaw. The long, white column of her neck.
Slowly, he plucked pins from her hair. Watched waves of wine and wood, fire and sunrise tumble down upon her shoulders. He lifted a curl to his nose and breathed deep. Felt as though he was falling into darkness with only her skin and scent and smile to keep him oriented.
Gray eyes opened, fluttering lazily. “Sebastian,” she whispered, holding him captive.
Her gloved hand stroked his cheek.
He wiped away the shimmering trail beneath her eye.
He wished he could say something. But words didn’t exist.
Kissing her again was the only answer. So, he did. Lowered her legs gently to the floor then threaded his hands through her hair and drew her mouth to his once more.
This time, her lips were pliant and responsive. She took his lead. Sighed sweetly and nibbled tenderly. He didn’t want to let her go.
But he had to. If he lingered much longer, he would take her. Already, his body demanded it with thrumming force.
He rested his forehead against hers and breathed her breath.
“You may call me Augusta, if—if you prefer.” Her voice was so soft and tentative, he scarcely recognized it.
“Augusta,” he uttered, savoring the word. “I like your hair.” He rubbed a lock of the silken stuff against his jaw.
“Oh!” She patted her head. “My pins.”
He released her and backed away slowly, determined not to take further liberties. From the look of her—cheeks flushed, hair loosened, lips swollen, eyes glazed—the liberties he’d taken had been shocking enough.
“I shall leave you here to …” He stopped. Stared. Good God, she was beautiful. Even in that shabby brown pelisse. Her pale skin glowed. Her russet hair fell in looping waves. One curl brushed her breast.
He ran a hand over his face. He needed to go. The urge to toss her upon his desk and make her his mistress in truth was rapidly overwhelming his moral fortitude.
“Right.” He pivoted on his heel and retreated to his desk. Once there, he dug the small pieces of metal out of his waistcoat pocket and piled them on the oak surface. “Your pins.” He cleared his throat. “Fifteen minutes. Then we’ll leave for the warehouse.”
As he stalked past her and opened the door, he noted her bewilderment. Inwardly, he cursed himself. He should explain, but he couldn’t stay any longer.
Even if he could, what would he say? I kissed you because you vex me as no other woman ever has. Now, I must either leave or take you fully, for I am every bit the beast you accused me of being.
Aye, that would delight the prim Augusta Widmore. To be deflowered by a beast upon his oak desk. In his gaming club, no less.
Next to his office was a chamber where he often slept. While he washed and changed, his mind churned over the quandary of Augusta.
She’d never been kissed. Not by Glassington. Not by any of the gents in Hampshire. Only by him.
Which made her fixation upon Glassington more of a mystery. Why would a young earl promise marriage to a country spinster he’d never kissed? Augusta was an extraordinary woman, Reaver acknowledged. Intelligent, determined, and astonishingly sensual. But most men would fail to appreciate those qualities.
Most men obviously had, given her unmarried status.
Reaver glanced down to where a violent erection still raged. He should stop thinking about her, if only for decency’s sake. Except that he couldn’t.
Hours earlier, his intention had been to rid himself of her. No. That was a lie. He’d wished to win their battle. And perhaps savor her reactions as he pushed her sensibilities to the breaking point.
But now …
Aye, now he tried to imagine letting her go.
To Glassington.
Who would make her his countess and take her virginity and plant his son in her belly.
He caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. Bloody, bleeding hell. He looked murderous. Shaking his head, he turned his back and yanked a fresh shirt over his head.
She did not belong with that useless lordling. So, what compelled her to pursue him, risking ruin by sneaking into Reaver’s club, waging a battle of wills to rival Waterloo?
The answer came immediately—Phoebe.
Her sister was ill. Severely, according to Shaw. If Augusta sought to provide a physician’s long-term care and a permanent home for Phoebe, she could not marry the girl off, for what man would want a sickly wife? Instead, being the clever creature she was, she would seek a husband for herself, preferably one of means.
Glassington had spent time in Hampshire with friends during the previous summer. That must have been her plan—to secure the loftiest nob of her acquaintance, and in so doing, secure a future for herself and Phoebe. Glassington may have agreed to a match initially, then cried off when he realized Augusta wished to bring her sister into their household.
It was the only answer that fit all the pieces he had. The problem was that he had so few pieces. He needed to understand her connection to Glassington. The unknowns were gnawing at him like a hound with a boot.
Quickly, he finished dressing, tying on a hated cravat and shrugging into a green tailcoat. Then he went down to the first floor to find Shaw.
“Reaver,” his majordomo exclaimed from behind an overpriced desk as Reaver strode into his office. “Just the man I was hoping to—”
“I need you to get a message to Drayton.”
A frown was Shaw’s only reply. He laid down his pen, sat back in his chair, and folded his arms.
“Send him back to Hampshire. I need to know about Augusta Widmore’s connection to Glassington. Everything. I want every bloody detail.”
Shaw gave him a peculiar smile and briefly dropped his gaze to his desk. “Why not ask Frelling?”
“He is occupied.”
“With?”
“Interviewing staff.”
“For?”
“My household.”
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
A black brow lifted. “Oh, nothing. So, you wish me to send Drayton back to Hampshire.”
“That’s what I said.”
Shaw’s head tilted. “And you are wearing a cravat.”
“Aye. What of it?�
�
“A bit unusual, that’s all. Going somewhere interesting?”
Frowning, Reaver felt the itch begin around his neck. “To collect a debt.” Before Shaw could ask the obvious next question, Reaver answered, “From Thomas Beauchamp.”
“The cabinet-maker. I’ve been to his warehouse. Impressive.”
Reaver grunted. “Just send Drayton the message. I need answers within the week.”
“Consider it done. Did Miss Widmore have a pleasant visit with her sister?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
“The younger one doesn’t approve of our agreement. She assailed me the moment I entered, so I left.”
“Hmm.” A strange mix of affection and amusement overtook Shaw’s features. “She is most discerning, Miss Phoebe.”
Reaver tugged at his cravat, running a finger between the cloth and his neck. “I shall be gone the rest of the day.”
Shaw’s grin widened. “Evening, too?”
“Bloody hell, man, if you want to say I’m dancing to Miss Widmore’s tune, then cease the daft questions and have done with it!”
Shaw didn’t bother to make the point. He didn’t have to. His response came in the form of laughter, which mocked Reaver as he left his partner’s office in disgust.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TEN
“Reason Number Seven: A lady possesses an instinct for creating pleasurable surroundings which offer a gentleman comfort and ease. A man possesses an instinct for enjoying said surroundings without acknowledgment of their origin.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter enumerating the benefits of acquiring a wife.
It took long minutes of trembling and breathing before Augusta managed to shove away from the wall. Her legs were the consistency of blancmange, her lips swollen and tingly.
But neither oddity compared to the chaos in her head.
She’d never known such pleasure. Never suspected it was possible to want a man until nothing would do but having him inside her.
If this was what Phoebe had felt for Lord Glassington, it was little wonder she’d lost her wits along with her innocence.
At last, Augusta gathered her senses and crossed to his desk. She eyed the neat pile of pins beside her bonnet. He’d kept them in his pocket.
