by Elisa Braden
Strong arms tightened and flexed. “Dishonorable in what way?”
How to explain without inviting pity? She’d lived through it, and even to her, the tale seemed pathetic. But he did not let her go, did not loosen his hold, and slowly, as his heat warmed her and his patience gave her room to remember, she told him the truth and hoped he might understand. He was, after all, an extraordinary man.
“My mother died the year Phoebe turned three. A fever. She was strong. Capable. I never thought she would go. But she did. Phoebe … needed me. And Father was … His grief was all he could manage.”
“So, you took command.” He said it as if there was no other conclusion.
She nodded against him, her hands sliding down to rest at the sides of his waist. “I had to. There was no one else. I managed the household. Comforted Phoebe. Our governess was useless. I dismissed her.”
“You were eleven.”
“A fact she never let me forget. Phoebe cried every time I left her alone with the woman. She spoke to me rudely and ignored my commands. I dismissed her without a reference.”
“Hmmph. I’d expect nothing less.”
“In any event, Father’s grief eased in time. He saw that I had done an admirable job managing things, so he encouraged me to continue with the household. But he did resume his ordinary duties—lease negotiations, collecting rents, and such. I enjoyed those tasks, as well, but truthfully, I was relieved. It is difficult for a thirteen-year-old girl to be taken seriously on estate matters.”
He grunted. His arms tightened again, his hands cupping her neck and lower back. Surrounding her. Protecting her.
Her own arms encircled his ribs, her hands sliding to a stop beside the buckle at the back of his waistband. Of its own accord, her thumb stroked the smooth skin just above the wool.
“When he sickened,” she continued in a whisper, “I was so afraid, Sebastian. So afraid. But I could not let Phoebe see.”
She felt his lips in her hair. His chin resting upon her crown.
“Before he died, he set aside funds for us. Dowries, he said. He wished us to find good husbands. Phoebe, especially.” She smiled, recalling the conversation. “He said, ‘I expect you shall be either a duchess or Prime Minister within a year or two, Gus.’” She chuckled. “Gus. That’s what Phoebe called me when she was very small, before she’d mastered multiple syllables. Father liked it so well, he …” She swallowed against a sudden welling of grief. “In any case, he was not as concerned for me as he was for her. I was seventeen and had been managing the house for six years. Phoebe was nine and about to be an orphan.”
“You were an orphan, too.”
“I suppose I was. But I hadn’t time to dwell upon such things. My uncle took possession of the estate straight away. He was our guardian, at least until we married or reached our majority, and although he could not touch our dowries, he could create difficulties for us. Our home became his. We lived there by his leave. We relied upon him for our sustenance. To marry before we came of age would have required his consent.”
“He is dishonorable, you said. Explain.”
Her hands gripped his waistband, her knuckles digging into hard muscle. “His wife, Georgiana, became Lady Widmore, of course. To her, we were a burden. A reminder that the title had first belonged to our mother. Apparently, they did not get along, for I had never met her before she came to live at Binchley Manor. Her resentment was clear from the start. Bitterly so.”
“What did she do?”
“In the beginning? Petty things, really. She moved us from our chambers to a single room near the servants’ quarters. She insisted that we empty our own chamber pots and haul our own water and build our own fires.” Augusta smiled. “Our housekeeper, Mrs. Gandy, refused to allow it. Secretly, she assigned us two maids.” Her smile faded. “When Georgiana found out, she dismissed Mrs. Gandy. Such a kind woman to be treated in such a scurrilous manner.” Augusta sighed. “I wrote her a letter of reference. She obtained a position in Winchester within days. We still correspond from time to time.”
“What did your uncle have to say about all this?”
Augusta breathed deeply the scent of Sebastian’s skin—soap and air and man. The hair on his chest tickled her cheek. She wondered if he was chilled, whether she should release him so he could dress. Her hands refused. Her cheek assured her he had heat enough for both of them.
“Sir Phillip said if I did not care for my accommodations at Binchley, I could leave. Of course, he knew very well I had nowhere to go. No funds of my own. No way of earning a living except perhaps as a governess, which would have required leaving Phoebe behind. Other means of employment for a seventeen-year-old girl were … less palatable.”
Sebastian stiffened against her, his chest and arms flexing. “He knew yet did nothing, then.”
“Yes. In character, my uncle and my father were quite different. I believe, in the end, Father hoped we would be shown gentlemanly courtesy. But Sir Phillip sought only to please Georgiana, and she had taken a liking to our discomfort.”
He grunted. Well, perhaps it was more of a growl.
She sighed, bewilderingly calmed by the contact with his skin. Ordinarily, remembering the time after her father’s death sent her charging off to find a distraction—polishing the stairs, tending the garden, sewing a gown for Phoebe. But his solidness was akin to oak, thick and deeply rooted. It surrounded her. Sapped whatever poisons the memories held.
“In time, discomfort no longer satisfied her,” Augusta whispered. “Her cruelties … worsened. I quickly learned to hide the pain, for it seemed to fill her with a strange fire.” She closed her eyes, gripping him harder. “Phoebe was too young. She c-cowered. Begged. Which only made Georgiana … I don’t know how to describe it. Gleeful, I suppose. Triumphant.”
“God Almighty, love.”
“I knew I must protect Phoebe. Get her away from Georgiana. I could not simply marry and leave her there.”
“How long? How long did this go on?”
“Three years and five months. At first, I expected Georgiana to tire of her games and order us from our home. She did not. She enjoyed it and sought to keep Phoebe there.”
“You waited until you were one-and-twenty.”
She nodded. “Sir Phillip no longer had control of my dowry. I did. I could leave, and he could not compel me to return. But he remained Phoebe’s guardian. So I made a bargain.”
His chest rose and fell on a sigh. “You gave him Phoebe’s dowry.”
“Yes. In exchange for Phoebe. I had the better part of that bargain, I assure you.”
“What of your dowry?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Ah. Your cottage, eh?”
“I wished to own it. I wanted no man to have dominion over us again. Not even a landlord.”
“But your funds ran out.”
“Eventually, yes. We have a small amount from my investments, but I have used it exclusively to replenish Phoebe’s dowry.”
“So, you take in laundry.”
“Yes. And sewing. I also tutor a boy and girl from time to time.”
“And that is why your hands—”
“Resemble a scullery maid’s. They are not the hands of a lady, that much is certain.”
“Augusta.”
“Hmm?”
“I sent a man to Upton Downs.”
“My village? Why?”
“A strange woman was determined to invade my club; I would be daft not to discover more about her, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose.”
“Now, explain why none of your neighbors mentioned you took in laundry.”
“They don’t know.”
“How is that?”
“I taught a washwoman to read. In exchange, she serves as an intermediary, delivering the laundry and the funds. She also assists me occasionally. I was ill for several days once. She was most helpful. Her name is Ann, like your housekeeper, but without an E. Ann Bishop.”
“Bloody, bleeding he
ll, Augusta.”
“There is no need for vulgarity.”
“There damn well is. You should not be taking in laundry.”
“A lady does not labor. I know.” The shame of it thinned her voice to a thread.
She felt him kiss the crown of her head then slowly slide his arms from around her. She clung, unable to let him go. But he grasped her arms and set her away.
Being denied contact with his skin left her in cold desolation, like being thrust from fireside into a blizzard. The contrast was deeply unpleasant. Disorienting.
He took her hands in his, stroked them as he had before. “God, woman. I’ve never known anybody like ye.”
She swallowed, her eyes riveted upon their hands. His, dusky and massive. Hers, reddened and small. “I might say the same, Mr. Reaver.”
Tugging her closer to the dressing table, he pulled her in front of him. “Turn and look. Look how extraordinary you are.”
She looked. And saw a woman wearing a gown of dark, brilliant pink. The color should clash with her hair. It didn’t. It shimmered in the lamplight. Her hand brushed the flowers on the skirt. Embroidered silk. She’d never possessed anything so fine, even when her father had been alive.
“Do you see?” he demanded, his voice a rasp.
Her eyes lifted to meet his in the mirror. There, in the black, the intensity nearly drove her to her knees. “Sebastian.”
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Understand? No lady could match ye. By God, you are a thousand times their worth, Gus. A thousand times.”
She longed to kiss him. Hold him. Feel him against her. “I want to touch you,” she said.
His nostrils flared on a rough breath. “Then do it.”
Slowly, gently, she laid her hands upon his chest. Hard muscle and smooth skin and straight, springy hair. Her fingers pressed. Tested. Her palms smoothed. Stroked.
Hard, flat nipples fascinated her. Bellows breathing excited her. Drumming heartbeats invited her.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and found her way home again.
He cupped her head against him. “Never be ashamed of your hands, love. They are strong. Capable. Like your mother’s, eh?”
Tears sprang forth, not to be stopped. They spilled and washed between her cheek and his chest.
“Those hands have comforted your sister. Protected her. Built a life out of nothin’ but work and bloody-minded backbone. Hands like yours are most pleasin’ to a man like me.”
“They are not a lady’s hands,” she repeated, the echo ghostly and weak.
“Then I do not want a lady.”
Generations of Widmore pride lived in her blood and bones. And she had failed to sustain it, try as she might to disguise the truth from curious neighbors. Never before had a man’s opinion meant more to her than the shame of her poverty. But his did.
Sebastian Reaver was no gentleman. He cared nothing for one’s genteel status or, by contrast, signs that a noble family had fallen into ruin. He had no name to enhance, no legacy to maintain. He was a commoner. A tradesman. Indeed, should she ever marry, she could not do better than a husband like him.
The thought was a bolt of lightning, spearing through her from the middle outwards, bright and hot.
Husband.
Sebastian.
Yes. Oh, yes.
Dear heavens. Everything inside her clenched around the words. Husband. Sebastian. So brilliant and … right.
“Augusta. I should … take you home.”
She shook her head. Kissed his chest madly, over and over. His hair teased her nose. His scent and heat made her want more.
“Ah, God. Love, ye must stop.”
“Why?”
One strong arm anchored her lower back and forced her ribs and belly tighter against his hips and thighs. “Feel that?”
Her heart kicked and pounded. Good heavens. “Oh.”
“Aye.”
“Perhaps we could—”
“No.”
With dragging reluctance, she withdrew her arms and slipped from between him and the dressing table. “Very well,” she sighed, her fingers trailing against his ridged abdomen as she moved away.
His answer was to grunt and brace a hand on the dressing table as though needing to catch his breath.
She sniffed and went to the settee, using his cravat to dab her cheeks. At least, she pretended to. In reality, she gathered up the scent of him. Like a ninny in … love. Her mouth went dry. Her heart jumped, paused, then flew back into rhythm.
Love. Sebastian. Husband. Yes. Heavens, yes.
She needed to think. Contemplate how she might lure him into such an arrangement. Surely there was a way. More kisses, perhaps.
Later, she decided. Too many thoughts swarmed and spun. For now, she needed a distraction. She collected his garments, draping them neatly over her arm and presenting them to the glowering giant she … loved. Hmm. Yes. Love was precisely it. Perhaps adored. Desired, certainly.
He plucked up his shirt without a word.
“Take me home, then,” she said, attempting nonchalance.
Next was his cravat, tied carelessly. She reached to help him, but he brushed her hand away and snatched up his waistcoat.
“Promise me you will commission a taller carriage, Sebastian. The one you currently possess cannot be comfortable for you.”
As he shrugged into his tailcoat, tugging it into place across massive shoulders, he shot her a heated glare. “I haven’t been comfortable since the day I met ye, Augusta Widmore. A right nuisance, you are.”
This time, when he said it, she did not take offense. She blushed. And smiled, slow and breathless. Then, she began formulating a plan.
A plan to claim Sebastian Reaver as her own and give him a very comfortable life, indeed.
*~*~*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“As I have had no response to my last four letters, I assume you require greater intervention than correspondence allows. I shall accompany Lord and Lady Rutherford to London, though it pains me to contemplate it. One hopes a journey so fraught with tedium and inconvenience will be compensated by gifts of equal proportion. Deliveries may be made at the Park Lane house.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter informing said gentleman of an impending (and generous) visit.
Standing in the midst of Sebastian’s new study, Augusta trailed her fingers across the vast expanse of oak and smiled. He was going to love it. Polished and rich and substantial, the desk anchored the center of the room. Beneath it, an azure blue carpet warmed wood floors and echoed the draperies on the window. Behind it sat a padded, carved, high-backed oak chair with casters to slide easily, even with a giant’s weight resting atop the seat.
She pictured Sebastian there, his funny round spectacles upon his nose, his pen scratching away at the accounts. She would bring him coffee and discuss plans for the expansion at Number Five. Then, she would tease him and kiss him and slide down upon his …
She sighed, covering her cheeks.
He would love this room. She would make sure of it.
How to ensure he loved her, on the other hand, remained a mystery. She’d ruminated upon the subject for two days, and apart from a blunt declaration or outright blackmail, a plan had yet to materialize.
Enticing a man fell well outside her talents. She was dreadful at flirtation, more apt to frighten a potential husband than lure him into her web. Not Sebastian, of course. He was too imposing to be intimidated by the force of her will. It was merely one reason she loved him. There were countless others.
His tenderness. His strength. The warm shelter of his arms and the rumble of his voice. The way he called her “nuisance” when he meant something quite different.
So many reasons, and yet only one conclusion: She must persuade him to marry her. But how? The man spent all his time working on the expansion. Acceding to his wishes, she had stayed away. It had given her the chance to put his study and library into pro
per order, but dash it all, she missed him.
A quiet knock came at the study door. “Miss Widmore?” Anne inquired. “Another delivery arrived. This one is from Mrs. Bowman.”
Augusta grinned and resettled her faded, checked skirt. This might be the last day she would wear the old frock. It had served her well, but should have been torn into rags long ago.
She followed Anne down to the entrance hall as footmen accepted boxes upon boxes from deliverymen and Teedle, the gentle-eyed, white-haired butler, organized the lot. “You may deposit them in my dressing room. Thank you, Teedle,” she directed, marveling at the sheer quantity of packages. She hadn’t remembered there being quite so many gowns and gloves.
But, then, she’d been distracted. Sebastian had watched her like a great, starving bear eyeing a plump, succulent rabbit. When she recalled the look in his eyes, she wanted to melt. Simply melt for him.
The deliverymen from Bowman’s departed, but another cartload of furnishings arrived from Mr. Beauchamp. By the time she’d directed the placement of two large, winged chairs and several tables for the library, she’d checked nearly everything off her list. Satisfaction filled her. A delivery of books from Lackington, Allen and Company, and an assortment of vases from Wedgwood and Byerley’s showroom were all that remained.
She set her list upon the entrance table and started toward the stairs. Just then, another knock sounded. Knowing it was likely another delivery, and that Teedle was occupied, she elected to answer it herself.
But when she opened the door, she did not find deliverymen from Wedgwood and Byerley. She found the oddest trio she’d ever encountered.
First was a petite, raven-haired woman wearing a dark-blue bonnet with little white feathers. Apart from a small scar near the corner of one eye—half of an impossibly lovely indigo-blue pair—her skin was as creamy and flawless as the finest china. Augusta blinked several times to be certain she was real. The woman smiled wide, and her beauty grew. Twinkled like starlight. She was quite the most resplendent creature imaginable.
