by Elisa Braden
Slowly, a grin curved her lips.
He hadn’t tossed them carelessly on the floor. He’d collected them one by one and tucked them into his pocket while he pleasured her with his lips and his … well, his manhood she supposed, though she would have sworn such size was impossible.
Closing her eyes, she recalled the sensations. The feel of him pressing into her, the burning slide of his mouth, the black furnace of his eyes. She covered her cheeks with her hands, reeling with residual heat.
Once again, she was forced to collect herself and focus upon something other than hard muscles and strong arms and gentle hands. She shook her head, took another deep breath, and began gathering her hair into a coil, pinning as she went. By the time she donned her bonnet, she felt more in command.
That was when curiosity burrowed down and took hold. She glanced at the door. Surely it had only been ten minutes since he’d exited, which left her five to discover more about the man whose every heated stare made her forget herself—forget everything but him, in fact.
Slowly, she let her fingertips drift over the dark oak surface of his desk. Inside a wooden tray occupying one corner, a stack of papers was weighted down with a small painting.
She plucked it up and turned it over. How lovely, she thought, smiling again. A little village painted in gray and green. In the corner, it was signed with a simple, flourished A. She wondered if it was, perhaps, some club member’s attempt to settle a debt. Examining the walls of Sebastian’s office, she thought it would look rather well. Perhaps she would suggest he hang it here.
Setting the painting aside, she hesitated only briefly before sifting through his correspondence. Her brow crinkled in confusion when she spotted a peculiar note titled Lady Tannenbrook’s List of Prospective Brides for Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. The feminine, looping hand obviously belonged to a woman. She supposed some helpful sister or friend might compose such a list, but why would Sebastian Reaver have it? She didn’t recognize any of the names, but then, she hadn’t had a London season in … well, ever. And, for Phoebe’s sake, she’d paid far more attention to eligible gentlemen than ladies over the past several years.
Shrugging, she set the list aside and picked up the next letter. It was likewise addressed to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. This one was not from Lady Tannenbrook, but from Lady Wallingham. Even Augusta knew who the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham was. Powerful in ways that remained mysterious to a spinster from Hampshire, Lady Wallingham was widely recognized as one of the most influential women in England. “Formidable” was the word most often used to describe her. And “dragon,” of course, although the latter was seldom spoken in the lady’s presence.
Augusta scanned the letter, chuckling and gasping by turns. The woman was instructing Mr. Kilbrenner in the art of gentlemanly conduct. She’d suggested such measures as joining “a reputable club, rather than that glorified hell in which you take unseemly delight,” and hiring “a tutor to redress your unfortunate lapses in diction. The letter ‘g’ at the end of a word is not optional, Mr. Kilbrenner. It is past time you learned civilized pronunciation and ceased imitating a Cumberland halfwit.”
By the time Sebastian returned, she’d read two more letters and grown increasingly intrigued by the mysterious Mr. Kilbrenner. Two ladies of high standing had taken an intense interest in matters ranging from where his boots were made, to whom he should invite for dinner, to which debutante would make him an “excellent wife.” Such a gentleman must be rather unusual to garner such notice.
And yet, no man could claim Augusta’s attention quite like Sebastian Reaver. As he stalked through the office door, tall and commanding, wearing a dark-green coat and—of all things—a cravat, she smiled despite his dark scowl.
“Sebastian,” she breathed like a perfect ninny.
His nose flared and his eyes darted between her lips and bosom. Long strides halted a moment before resuming. “Time to go,” he barked. “The day is wearing on. You will wish to see Beauchamp’s wares while we have sufficient light.”
She swallowed, her smile fading. Why had she expected his manner to change? So, he’d kissed her. Passionately, yes. Pleasurably, to be sure. But for him, it must have been little more than a maneuver to gain the upper hand in their battle, for he gave no indication it had affected him as deeply as it had her.
She would simply have to tuck away the harsh, sour pain of disappointment and continue as though nothing had occurred. Going soft every time he came near? Weak and ridiculous and distracting from her purpose, she chided. Mentally, she doubled her imaginary armor, layering chain mail and steel plate.
Tugging her gloves tighter upon her hands, she nodded and allowed him to escort her out into the corridor, down the service stairs, and out the back door, where his coach waited. All the while, they did not speak, although she could feel his eyes upon her from time to time.
She greeted Mr. Duff as they exited, and he attempted to help her up into the carriage. But Sebastian intervened, pushing the large sentry aside and clasping her waist from behind.
“Oh!” she gasped as he lifted her. “M-Mr. Reaver, really. A steadying hand is entirely sufficient—”
He climbed in behind her, his arm circling her waist then turning them both and plopping her down on the seat beside him. “Sebastian,” he corrected, low and clipped, before tapping the ceiling and leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.
She scooted closer to the window to give him room. “If you prefer, you may return me to your house.”
“Why would I do that?”
She sniffed. “I assumed, given your boorish behavior, that you have tired of my company.”
“You assumed wrong.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Mr. Reaver, that I will not tolerate such treatment.”
“Look at me.”
For a long while, she refused, training her eyes upon the passing shops of Pall Mall.
“Augusta.”
Hearing her name in his low rumble was nearly her undoing. She squeezed her eyes closed then turned and looked.
Flashing onyx was stunningly near. “I’m a rough sort.”
Heart kicking, she replied, “Is that an apology?”
“I won’t apologize for kissing you. I do not regret it.”
“That is not the behavior to which I am referring.”
“Good.” His voice went lower, his eyes hotter. “Would an apology please you?”
She swallowed and struggled for breath. Armor plate was no barrier to Sebastian Reaver when he looked at her that way. “Perhaps.”
“Then, I beg your forgiveness for being rough.”
“And boorish.”
He smiled slowly. “That, too.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands, loosely clasped between his knees. They were long-fingered and powerful. For all his talk of roughness, he had never hurt her. Not a single time. “Very well,” she said softly. “You are forgiven, Mr. Reaver.”
“Sebastian.”
She inclined her head and gave him a small, sidelong grin. “Sebastian.”
For the next half-hour, as they traveled east along the Strand, past Charing Cross and onto Fleet Street, Sebastian asked about her life in Hampshire. She described her small cottage—the chestnut trees rustling in spring, the garden scented with thyme, the lovely wooden shelves filled with her father’s books.
She grinned as she recalled Phoebe’s first night there. “Owls,” she chuckled. “Phee was frightened of the owls, poor girl. To be fair, they were nested right outside her window. Dreadfully loud. Of course, I explained the Legend of the Night Guardians, which calmed her nerves considerably.”
He raised a brow. “Night Guardians?”
“Why, yes. Since the days when giants and dragons roamed the earth, owls have served as watchmen—er, watch-creatures? In any event, they are charged with watching over all the young ladies of the
realm, ever vigilant against those who might seek to steal the maidens away. So long as one can hear an owl’s call, one may be assured all is well. You’ve never heard the story?”
“I fear I haven’t.”
“Well,” she sniffed. “Perhaps that is because I invented it.”
He laughed, deep and rich and rumbly. “How old was she?”
“Thirteen.”
“You would have been one-and-twenty, then.”
Why his knowledge about her background should continue to surprise her, she could not say. The man was renowned for gathering and selling information, most of it a good deal more valuable than her or her sister’s ages.
His eyes sharpened upon her. “How long have you played Night Guardian, Augusta Widmore?”
Her smile faded. She broke away to stare out the window. “My, we are nearly to Mrs. Renley’s lodging house. It is on the other side of St. Paul’s, you know. How much farther?”
He took a long time to answer. “Not far now.”
She nodded. Moments later, they halted in front of a sprawl of brick and oversized radius windows. Above the door was a large sign that read, “Beauchamp & Sons.” Inside, she was astonished by the elegance of the space. It was enormous—at least two hundred feet long and thirty feet high—but it had been divided into rooms by columns and cleverly arranged furniture. Excitement grew as she thought of how quickly she might fill the rooms of Sebastian’s house. He would have a proper home. A sanctuary.
One might lodge many criticisms of Sebastian Reaver. He was a rough man, just as he’d said. He was blunt and rude, stubborn and ill-tempered. But he was also good and honorable, in his way. Furthermore, he had built something grand, built it from nothing with every ounce of effort and cleverness, ambition and determination he possessed—a quantity sufficient to fill a hundred of Mr. Beauchamp’s warehouses.
She glanced up at where he stood beside her, his fingertips resting lightly upon her back. A man of those admirable qualities deserved peace and comfort after so many years of struggle. Before she returned to Hampshire, she intended to see that he had it. Empty rooms simply would not do.
“Beauchamp,” he greeted a short, trim man with a mop of brown curls. “It’s time you settled your debt.”
The man’s welcoming smile faded, and his outstretched hand curled and fell. “M-Mr. Reaver. I … that is, I …”
“I’ve been informed I must furnish my house.”
“In-informed?”
“By my adviser.” He nodded to Augusta. “Miss Widmore. She will tell you which pieces I shall take. Keep a list. We’ll compare sums at the end.”
The man’s eyes rounded and his curls bobbed comically as he rushed to agree. “Of course, Mr. Reaver. Anything you like.”
“Miss Widmore,” Sebastian corrected. “Whatever she likes.”
“Yes, yes. Welcome, Miss Widmore.” He beckoned a young man holding a pencil and notebook then waved her toward a wondrous assemblage of divans and gilded tables. “Come right this way.”
Over the next several hours, Augusta selected pieces for nearly every room in the house. She began with the dining room, choosing a golden-mahogany dining table with twenty matching, shield-backed chairs. Next, she started on the drawing room, choosing an elegant walnut secretary, eight broad-striped blue chairs, two gold damask sofas, three settees, and a multitude of dark rosewood tables. Then came the bedrooms, each with its own color theme, followed by the morning room and sitting room and parlor.
She resisted an exquisitely curved chaise longue of carved rosewood and sky-blue silk that would offer a lovely spot to recline at the foot of her bed. She likewise resisted a mahogany chest-of-drawers and a full-length, gilt-framed mirror that would perfectly complete her dressing room, though the latter riveted her with its beauty.
Instead, at every turn, she considered Sebastian’s needs. Yes, the straight legs on this table are much better. No, he does not find Egyptian designs whimsical; he finds them silly. I shouldn’t think flowers are appropriate. Let us consider stripes. Larger, Mr. Beauchamp. The chair must be larger.
And, at every turn, she could feel Sebastian’s gaze upon her. He stood nearby, yet kept to the perimeter, occasionally murmuring and nodding to Beauchamp’s assistant as the young man made his list.
During one such conference, she pulled Mr. Beauchamp aside. “I have two additional rooms to furnish, but I should like them to be a surprise for Mr. Reaver. They will require, perhaps, two or three pieces crafted to my specifications, along with some items we may select here.”
Beauchamp’s eyes lit and he withdrew his own notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Oh, I say. Splendid, Miss Widmore. Splendid, indeed. We have two hundred apprentices and many, many craftsmen here at Beauchamp and Sons. We can make whatever your heart desires.”
“Excellent. Let us begin with the most important piece—a desk. An exceedingly large desk.”
Frantically, he took notes, producing sketches and dimensions based on her descriptions. By the time they completed her order, the light streaming through the radius windows had dulled and darkened. Sebastian settled matters with Mr. Beauchamp and bundled her outside, where the wind had begun howling. Once again, he fairly lifted her into the coach and climbed in beside her.
This time, she was grateful for his assistance—certainly not because she enjoyed the feel of his hands gripping her waist. No, no. It was merely that her feet and lower back ached from standing so long, and she was light-headed and weary.
She glanced to where he sat, his elbows on his knees. “Mr. Beauchamp appeared displeased before we left.”
“Aye. He attempted to overcharge me by ten percent.”
“Well, it was quite a large order, and he will have much trouble delivering it in a timely fashion.”
His response was a grunt. As usual, she could not decide whether it signified agreement or poor digestion.
“Have you considered his family?” she asked. “His sons—”
“He hasn’t any sons.”
“Oh, but his business is named—”
“Aye. An attempt to mimic his competitors and suggest longevity.”
She frowned. “But, it is a lie.”
“A lie that worked.”
“Is that all that matters? Surely one should strive for honesty in one’s dealings.”
“Depends. Honesty comes at a cost. Most men favor utility. Even those who fancy themselves gentlemen.”
She considered his point, considered her position and that of Phoebe. Recalled the fibs she had been forced to tell recently. Compared those small infractions to the disreputable behavior and broken promises of Lord Glassington. Yes, honesty was a laudable standard, but as she’d learned over the past few months, life was rarely so simple.
“Perhaps you are right.” She turned her eyes to the window, noting the gas lamps along Pall Mall were already lit. “Good heavens, how long were we in Mr. Beauchamp’s warehouse?”
“Six hours.”
“Oh, dear.” She chuckled and relaxed against the seat. “No wonder I am famished.”
He frowned, the shadows in the carriage drawing deep furrows along his brow. “We’ll stop at the club first. Have dinner. Then home.”
“Home?”
“My house.”
What was this queer pang that struck her heart the moment he’d said the word “home”? As though it was their home. His and hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry?” he demanded. “We could have returned tomorrow.”
She blinked, startled by his hard tone. “I had a task to finish.”
“Aye. But it did not have to be finished in one day, woman. Bloody hell. You never do anything by half measures.”
“Half measures take one precisely nowhere. My goal is to reach my destination, not mill about helplessly whilst pretending I shall arrive someday.”
His head tilted toward her. In the growing dark, onyx flashed and fired. “What is your destination worth, Augusta Widmore
?”
The odd question came in a low rumble that made her bones quiver. She knew what he asked, but she could not answer truthfully without revealing too much. It is worth anything, she thought. Everything. Because, unless I reach it, my sister’s life will be a mire of regret and shame. I could bear anything but that.
No, she could not tell him the truth. So, she gave him another answer—honest, but far less than he’d wanted. “At the moment, Sebastian Reaver, reaching our destination will gain me a fine meal. I would give anything for a taste of something other than bread and cold tea.”
“Anything, eh?” He leaned closer until she could feel his heat, smell the scent of wool and man. “Have a care what you promise. A gentleman might hesitate to take advantage. But, I ain’t a gentleman, and well you know it.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Regarding courtship, some strategies are universal. Gifts. Flattery. A fine head of hair. Others must be tailored to the object of one’s affection, necessitating gentle conversation to learn her preferences. In your case, Mr. Kilbrenner, I would emphasize the hair.” — The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of advice on the subject of wooing.
“I want to keep her.”
Shaw’s brows arched at Reaver’s declaration. “As your mistress?”
“No.”
Abandoning his post by the window, Shaw strolled toward Reaver’s desk and sat on its edge, idly examining the painting Lady Tannenbrook had given him. “As your wife, then. Certain of that?”
“If I could have the deuced wedding this morning, I would.”
“Hmm. What does she say about it?”
Reaver released a frustrated gust. “Haven’t asked her. She is fixed on bloody Glassington. Apart from the title, I cannot guess why. The man is a reckless idiot.”
“Yes, I recall. Lively chap. Blustering sort of charm. Drunk as an emperor after his second brandy.” Shaw frowned. “Never saw a man suffer such steep losses so quickly. Remarkable.”
