Anything but a Gentleman

by Elisa Braden

  He was watching her backside.

  Her smile widened. “I shall see you there, Mr. Reaver,” she called.

  “Aye,” he rasped. “That you will.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “When conversing with a lady, beware of descending into long, brooding silences. A young woman tends to spin elaborate fancies that you are composing sonnets in her honor, when in truth, you are contemplating either how long you must wait to bed her (most likely) or how long you must wait to have your second port (slightly less likely). Such misunderstandings are best avoided.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter filled with cautions for a gentleman seeking a wife.

  He’d managed one supper. One long, torturous supper with Augusta Widmore. He hadn’t returned to his house since.

  Of course, the place scarcely resembled his house. There were carpets on the floors, draperies on the windows, chairs and tables and sofas everywhere he turned. All of it was rather pleasing, he supposed. He appreciated that most pieces were straight and sturdy, substantial enough to hold him without cracking. He’d sat at the dining table, comfortable in the wide, cushioned chair.

  Until she’d entered. Then, he’d been deeply uncomfortable. Hard and ready in seconds. She’d worn a gown with faded green stripes. It had been washed numerous times. It was designed to wear with a fichu. She hadn’t worn a fichu.

  And he’d scarcely been able to speak, let alone eat.

  Now, days later, he was equally uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because his head was crammed near the ceiling of the coach. It was because Augusta sat across from him, wearing her worn, brown pelisse and a prim, pursed expression. By all rights, she should be the last woman to torture a man with lust.

  But she did. God, how she did. He dreamt of removing her gown. Or not. Perhaps just lifting her skirts and taking her upon his desk or against a wall or on one of those substantial sofas. Several times should do it. Thereafter, he could go slowly. Strip her bare. Explore those sumptuous—

  “It has been three days since we have spoken,” she said tartly. “Can you not muster a word of conversation?”

  No. No, he couldn’t.

  Nothing was working. Not his laboring. Not sparring with Duff, who hadn’t stopped complaining about his ribs for two days. Not even the measures he’d resorted to as a randy youth.

  Reaver’s tension pounded so loudly inside him, his skin vibrated like a never-ending drum.

  “Mrs. Bowman was quite pleasant when she came to take my measurements last week,” Augusta said, evidently deciding to carry on the conversation alone. “I was surprised to learn she hails from Rome, though she spent much of her youth in Toscana. Florence, to be precise. Ever since reading one of my father’s books about the region, I have desired to see it. Remarkable paintings and statuary. Architecture. We spoke at length about its wonders. Did you know the city has a rich history of cloth-making? Wool and silk, mainly. I had read about the moneylending, of course, but not about the textiles.”

  He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was saying. He watched her lips—those wide, sensuous lips—and wondered how he was going to survive the next few hours without kissing them.

  “Sebastian.”

  Aye. He liked the way she spoke his name.

  “Mr. Reaver!”

  “What?”

  “Have you nothing to say?” Gray eyes snapped with annoyance.

  He tightened his jaw and forced himself to look elsewhere. Out the window would do. “We are here,” he said.

  Her sigh was loud and telling.

  As they entered the blue-draped shop, he noted the stiffness in her posture. Augusta appeared to relax when the dark-haired dressmaker with the lilting accent and wild gestures greeted her and drew her toward a small, curtained area. Reaver made to follow, but Mrs. Bowman held up an imperious finger.

  “No, no, no, Mr. Reaver. Wait here.”

  He glowered his displeasure.

  “We shall return, and you may see the gowns one by one. Mary will fetch you tea. Mary!”

  A harried blonde assistant scurried forward.

  “Fetch Mr. Reaver tea.”

  “I don’t want tea.”

  Mrs. Bowman fluttered her fingers at the assistant, who exited through a curtained archway. Once again, she raised that imperious finger at Sebastian, pointing toward a settee a few feet away. “Wait,” she commanded.

  Augusta, meanwhile, shot a prim smirk over her shoulder as the dressmaker ushered her past the curtain.

  Bloody-minded females. He sat on the edge of the delicate silk settee, crossed his arms, and tried not to imagine Augusta being undressed piece by piece. The assistant delivered him tea, which he didn’t drink. She then offered him biscuits, which he didn’t eat.

  He ran a hand down his face, wondering again how best to persuade Augusta to become his wife before madness set in. He’d queried Frelling a second time, hoping the man proved a more competent advisor in matters of wooing than he’d been initially.

  “Perhaps an outing, Mr. Reaver,” his secretary had suggested.

  “To where?”

  “She’s lived in Hampshire her entire life. Show her some of what London has to offer. Even in winter, it is filled with delightful entertainments.”

  “Such as?”

  “Take her to a play. I understand Edmund Kean is excellent. Or perhaps a visit to the British Museum to see the marbles. Or a carriage ride to Berkeley Square. Gunter’s tea is really quite decent.”

  “Tea.”

  “Some people adore tea. Not you, of course, but Miss Widmore does seem to favor it.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “The point is to tailor your entertainments to her preferences. Mrs. Frelling advises enhancing your acquaintance a bit.” When he’d looked baffled, Frelling had clarified, “Learn what she enjoys. Then, you may demonstrate how well you listen by offering—”

  “Bloody hell, Frelling. I haven’t time for all that.”

  “Urgency is understandable, sir. We all have felt similar—”

  “Not like this.”

  “Have you considered simply … asking her? To marry you, I mean.”

  That was when Reaver had given up entirely on Frelling. The man was an excellent secretary. But his wooing advice fell woefully short.

  Reaver’s agreement with Augusta expired in three weeks. He hadn’t time for lengthy outings and conversations about her favorite dessert. He needed a bloody a shortcut. Drayton had not yet replied with news about her connection to Glassington, and until he knew why she intended to blackmail the useless worm into marriage, he suspected no strategy would work, whether short or long.

  Sighing, he rested against the back of the settee. Upon hearing a warning creak, he resumed his previous position. God, how he hated waiting. Over the years, he’d become good at it. But that did not make him loathe it any less.

  “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Reaver,” said Mrs. Bowman as she swept aside the drapery to reveal a silk-garbed Augusta. “What do you think?”

  He couldn’t think. She was beautiful. Gowned in silver, shimmery silk with some sort of sparkling overlay upon the skirt, she glowed. Simply glowed. Her eyes shone deeper. Her skin appeared luminous. Her breasts rounder. Her hands … gloved.

  Mrs. Bowman continued, “The gown is silver satin. Six folds define the bodice and small puff sleeves. It also has spangles sewn onto an outer skirt of sheer silk gauze. White embroidery in a tiny dot pattern adds to the—”

  “Remove the gloves,” he said, his voice down to a thread.

  Augusta raised a russet brow. “I will not. These are French kid. Besides, gloves are part of the ensemble.”

  He would have pressed his argument, but she turned on her heel and returned to the dressing area.

  Over the following two hours, Reaver endured temptation after temptation. The ball gowns and evening frocks seemed designed to torture a man obsessed with her breasts—him, in other words.
Even the green walking gown and blue pelisse and gold day dress were oddly alluring. Every frock fitted her lovingly, accentuating the length of her arms and the slenderness of her shoulders. All the colors—none of which were wash-worn brown, he noted—highlighted some feature. The wide curve of her lips. The rich red of her hair. The soft gray of her eyes.

  God, he wanted her.

  Right bloody now.

  And he wanted to know why she always wore gloves, even with the simplest, long-sleeved white morning gown. The dressmaker herself had looked askance at that one. Reaver had noted the gloves she wore were her own, the leather thin and stained along the fingertips.

  “This one is special, Mr. Reaver,” called Mrs. Bowman from behind the blue draperies. “I save the most exquisite for last, yes?” She swept aside the curtain.

  Revealing a vision.

  It was Augusta, with her russet hair gently curling out of its confines, gowned in silk the precise shade of ripe raspberries. Her skirt and bodice shimmered in the waning gray light. More spangles, he supposed. But all he could see was her face, her form, her hair, her eyes, her … everything. The radiant hue was so unexpected against her pale skin it was like seeing the sky go from blue to brilliant crimson in a blink. Stunning. She was stunning.

  “Ah, I see you approve, Mr. Reaver. I have a bit more of this silk if you would like—”

  “Leave us,” he ordered, watching Augusta’s eyes flare and fire, her lips part.

  “There is the matter of the bill—”

  “Send it to the club. Leave us.”

  The dressmaker departed without another word, taking her assistants with her.

  “Sebastian,” Augusta whispered into the silence, her bosom rising and falling at a rapid pace.

  He shoved to his feet, ignoring the groan of the settee. “Remove your gloves, Augusta.”

  They were white silk, extending past her elbows.

  Her chin tilted to a proud angle. “We have already discussed this.”

  “You refused.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “None of your concern.”

  Now, he must know the reason. His curiosity fired hotter than Hades. “I wish to see your hands.”

  She sniffed. “Don’t be silly. They are simply hands.”

  “Then, show me.”

  Gray eyes sparked with temper. “An uneven bargain, I daresay. You wish me to remove my gloves. What do you intend to remove, Mr. Reaver?”

  Oh, now she’d done it. Like the opportunist he was, he closed the distance between them and moved in for the kill. “Anything you like, Miss Widmore. Name your price.”

  *~*~*

  Blast. She should have refused and demanded he leave her alone to don her faded gown and worn pelisse. Instead, after hours of feeling him burn her alive with his black gaze, after days of missing his rumbling voice and enormous hands, she had let her temper thwart her good sense.

  She did not want him to see her hands, dash it all. But she did want to see him. So much that it might be worth her pride.

  Breathless and overwarm, she examined the man from dark head to booted feet. She stood on a small dais, making the difference in their heights less exaggerated and giving her a better view. He wore a cravat. A waistcoat of fawn silk. A tailcoat of deep blue wool. Of late, his attire had grown increasingly fine, as though he’d decided if his house was to be furnished, he should dress accordingly.

  Her gaze fell to his brown pantaloons. She supposed she might ask him to remove them. Surely he would decline such an outrageous proposal and abandon this foolish demand to see her hands. Pressing her lips together, she swallowed as she eyed the shadowy muscles of his thighs.

  Probably best to keep his lower half out of the discussion. For now.

  No, if she were honest, the part of him she most longed to see was the upper half. The shoulders. The chest. The belly. The arms. All bared to her.

  “Your shirt,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes from said shoulders.

  “My shirt?” His tone was either amusement or surprise. Perhaps both.

  “Mmm. That is what I want. Your shirt.”

  “Fancy them, don’t you? At least you’re askin’ rather than takin’ this time.”

  Now that she’d suggested it, the desire to see him without a shirt had expanded out of all proportion. She tried to imagine what he would look like. Muscular and impossibly big. She’d seen renderings of statuary that might come close.

  “Very well,” he rumbled. “Your gloves for my shirt.”

  No, even statuary was not solid enough. Vital enough. Big enough.

  “I’ll go first, eh?” He untied his cravat with impatient tugs, tossing it onto the settee. “Bloody thing was strangling me anyway.”

  Her eyes were held prisoner by his hands, riveted by his every motion. Distantly, she replied, “Then why wear one?”

  He answered with a grunt.

  Next went his coat. Then his waistcoat, unbuttoned with the same deft efficiency he’d shown when she’d interrupted his work at Number Five. Finally, he wore only the white linen shirt.

  He grasped the hem. Lifted it over his head.

  And her knees nearly buckled. Oh, dear heavens. Not like statuary. Not like she’d imagined. Not even close.

  Great slabs of muscle swelled and rippled from neck to waist. His shoulders, which would be wide simply by virtue of massive bones, were surely doubled by hard, rounded—

  “Augusta.”

  —slopes of muscle, which bulged again along his biceps—

  “It is your turn.”

  —and forearms. She’d seen his lower arms already, of course. Liberally dusted with black hair. Rippling with strength every time he flexed his hands. His chest was the same. Black hair. Visible, shocking power. She wanted to touch him. So badly, her fingertips tingled.

  “For God’s sake, woman. Do ye intend to keep your word or not?”

  Her gaze flew up to his. His cheekbones were a bit ruddy, his eyes like molten glass. “My …?”

  “The gloves. Your part of the bargain.”

  Stomach sinking, she glanced at her hands, heat receding in favor of dread. For years, she’d fought to hide what they revealed. How desperate her life had been. How far she’d allowed the Widmore legacy to fall. Her father would have wept to see what she’d been reduced to, though she hoped he would understand. She’d had little choice. To protect Phoebe, she had done many things no gentlewoman with an ounce of pride would do.

  Including sneaking into a gentleman’s club and making outrageous bargains with its owner.

  Her eyes rose again, exploring his face. The sharp, rerouted blade of a nose. The onyx eyes and square, shadowed jaw. A deep crease between black brows signaled his aggravation.

  She’d been more than fortunate to find Sebastian Reaver seated behind that oak desk, rather than some other man—Lord Glassington, for example. Honor of Sebastian’s sort was not bestowed with a title or a name. It was born. Then earned.

  For her, it had been a miracle.

  Swallowing, she nodded. “Very well.” A whisper was all she could squeeze past a tight throat.

  Slowly, she tugged her fingers loose of worn leather. Unbuttoned the wrists. And slid the gloves free.

  For a long while, neither of them spoke. She knew how her hands looked, of course. Red. Roughened. Callused. Some of her fingernails were cracked and torn, though they’d lengthened since she’d been in London.

  He reached for her hands.

  She stumbled back, hiding them behind her.

  “Augusta.”

  With a shake of her head, she forced herself to meet his eyes, raising her chin and straightening her posture. “You asked to see them. Now you have.”

  She could not read his expression. Onyx had hardened until it appeared cold.

  He stepped onto the dais, his head tilting subtly. “Our bargain was for the gloves. Do ye intend to renege?”

  “I removed them.”

 
“I want them.”

  Her chest tightened all the way to her throat. Her lower lip began to tremble, but she firmed it up. “I want your shirt.”

  He nodded toward the settee. “It’s there. Take it.”

  “Don’t be foolish. What will you wear beneath your other garments? How absurd to go about naked but for a cravat and waistcoat and—”

  “Give me the gloves, Augusta.”

  Her breathing hitched and shuddered. She gritted her teeth. Pictured her armor—layers of chain mail and steel plate. It wasn’t working. All she could see were his eyes, black and deep. Hard with resolve.

  Although dread froze her inside, she knew she must give him what he demanded. She had promised. Perhaps she’d done things no gentlewoman would do. But she’d never shamed the Widmore name by breaking her word. It was a small thread with which to anchor her pride. It was all she had.

  She extended the gloves to him.

  He took them and captured her wrist in one swift motion. Tugging her toward the dressing table where a lamp burned, he caressed her bare arm up and down, gently turning her hand over and over. His thumb tested the calluses. Stroked the roughened knuckles. Soothed the skin she could never seem to soften.

  “What have ye done to yourself, love?”

  She could not bear it. Her forehead fell against his heavy, muscled biceps. She crushed a sob before it could emerge. Squeezed her eyes shut.

  He pulled her fully against him. Wrapped her up tight in a furnace of heat and hard flesh. Whispered against her hair, “Tell me.”

  She managed to contain the tears, but a small whimper escaped. “I don’t want to.”

  “Aye.” His deep, quiet rumble vibrated through his chest into her cheek. Big hands stroked her nape and back. “Do it anyway.”

  “I take in laundry.”

  “Laundry? Ye have a living from your father. Is it not enough?”

  “No. We have … we are … p-poor.”

  He waited.

  She listened to his heart thudding rhythmically through muscle and bone. The loud beat slowly synchronized with hers. Calming. Steadying. “When my father died, he set aside dowries for my sister and me. But my uncle inherited everything else. The house. The lands. The title. He is … dishonorable.”