by Elisa Braden
Behind her, one step lower yet still a foot taller, stood a man. Augusta had seen such height and breadth only once before: Sebastian Reaver. In fact, this man, with his hard, square jaw, low brows, and permanent crease between said brows, resembled Sebastian to an uncanny degree. Apart from their coloring—dark-blond hair and green eyes rather than black and black—this man and Sebastian could be brothers.
Last was a white-haired woman of at least seventy years. She was small-boned with a triangular nose and an imperious expression. She wore a purple, velvet-covered bonnet with a long peacock plume bobbing lightly in the breeze.
“For a maid, dear, you are frightfully rude.” The old woman sniffed and eyed Augusta’s gown, lifting a white brow at her companions. “Perhaps she is mute. While a mute maid might prove a relief from incessant chatter, no servant should ignore basic courtesy.” The woman tsked and addressed Augusta in a trumpeting voice. “Invite us in, girl. I am too old to find November winds bracing. Or inept servants charming.”
Augusta cleared her throat eyed the old woman and the gentleman, feeling another twinge of familiarity. Finally, she addressed the exquisite creature in the dark-blue bonnet. She appeared friendly enough. “I do beg your pardon, but if you are here to see Mr. Reaver, I’m afraid he is not at home.”
“Oh, we know,” the young woman assured her. “We are here to see Miss Widmore.”
Augusta’s heart stuttered and sank. Her? Why would they wish to see her? “I … I am not certain …”
“Good heavens, girl!” the old woman snapped. “My bones are as frigid as Prinny’s ill-begotten marriage. Show us into a room with a large fire and a larger pot of tea. Then inform Miss Widmore she has callers.” The plume bobbed as she nodded toward her companions. “Lord Tannenbrook, Lady Tannenbrook, and Lady Wallingham.” She gored Augusta with a green-eyed glare. “I should not have to instruct another man’s servants in their duties. My son’s are more than enough.”
Although Augusta felt all the blood drain away from her skin, a lifetime of training and generations of Widmore dignity stood her in good stead. She stepped back, opened the door wide, and waved the trio inside. “Forgive my rudeness, Lady Wallingham. Lord Tannenbrook. Lady Tannenbrook. Do come in. I will show you to the drawing room at once.”
“And fetch Miss Widmore,” the old woman grumbled. “It is about time I meet this upstart who presumes to—”
“Enough, Lady Wallingham.” The deep rumble of Lord Tannenbrook’s voice startled Augusta to her core. “Remember our agreement.”
His voice. It was Sebastian’s voice. Or so nearly as to be …
No. It could not be. Tannenbrook was a lord. And Sebastian was a tradesman.
Perhaps Sebastian was a by-blow. Yes, she thought in relief. He must be. It was the only explanation. Half-brother to Tannenbrook, or some such. That would explain their resemblance. She felt the knot of panic subside. No one would balk if a bastard took a disgraced spinster as his wife, surely.
Something tickled the back of her mind, however. She frowned, wondering what it was. Their titles. Tannenbrook. Wallingham.
Lady Tannenbrook cleared her throat delicately. “I was given to understand Miss Widmore has been … in residence.”
Augusta halted. She had been living in Sebastian’s house without benefit of marriage or chaperone. Until now, her reputation had been protected by her obscurity and the fact that London was largely empty of aristocrats this time of year. Additionally, Sebastian had ordered his staff at both the club and house to maintain perfect discretion or risk immediate dismissal.
Oh, God. Augusta had grown careless. Complacent. The three aristocrats waiting impatiently to be shown to the drawing room so they could converse with Miss Widmore—who had been “in residence”—obviously possessed information and interest enough to pay a visit.
They did not, however, yet suspect that she was Miss Widmore. They thought her a maid. Perhaps she could continue the pretense and claim Miss Widmore had just stepped out when they—
“Ah! Miss Widmore. There you are,” said Anne as she descended the staircase. “Teedle was wondering if you would prefer the boxes from Mrs. Bowman be unpacked by the maids or if you would prefer to review them in your dressing room first.”
The weight of shame, cold and sinking, filled Augusta until she wondered if she might remain rooted to this spot at the foot of the stairs like a weed upon a rock. Her eyes drifted closed.
“You?” came Lady Tannenbrook’s sweet voice. “You are Miss Widmore? Oh, why did you not say?”
“Hmmph. Why do you suppose?” A trumpeting voice answered, followed by a sniff. “Mrs. Bowman. Rather a costly choice. Your talents must be positively legion, my dear.”
Then came the rumble, low and quiet and menacing. “Once more. Just once more, Dragon, and I’ll bluidy well haul ye back to Northumberland myself.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy. More powerful men than you have attempted to intimidate me and discovered their folly too late.”
“Aye. Powerful. But none with my experience breaking stone dragons into dust,” he answered. “Now, keep your tongue civil or we leave. Ye ken?”
While they argued, Augusta’s head spun. How did one salvage pride so thoroughly obliterated? Answer: One did not. One bound up one’s wounds as best one could manage, then donned one’s armor and did what must be done.
She opened her eyes. Tugged her gloves tighter. And faced the titled trio. “My apologies for the oversight. Yes, I am Miss Augusta Widmore.” She gestured toward the stairs, where Anne had frozen halfway down. “The drawing room is this way. Mrs. Higgins, if you would be so kind as to bring tea, that would be lovely.”
A quarter-hour later, Augusta found herself seated beside Lady Tannenbrook, who seemed oddly delighted to be in her presence, confusing Augusta greatly.
“Hampshire! Oh, I’ve heard it is splendid. Serene and temperate. You own a cottage there?”
Augusta sipped her tea, eyeing the infamous dragon over the rim. “Indeed I do.”
“Widmore,” the old woman interrupted. “A very old name. A very distinguished line.”
Augusta inclined her head.
Sharp green eyes narrowed. “You are Sir Edmund’s daughter, I take it. The eldest girl.”
Her heart twisted upon hearing his name, knowing how much shame she’d brought upon it. Quietly, she set her Wedgwood cup in its saucer. “You were acquainted with my father?”
“Once. A fine man. Better than most.”
Augusta swallowed. “Yes.”
“Better by leagues than your uncle, dear girl.”
Raising her chin, Augusta lifted her own imperious brow. “Yes. He was.”
Those eyes took on a considering glint. “What would he think of Mr. Reaver, do you suppose?”
Everything inside her tightened. Squeezed against the need to strike back. “I’ve no earthly idea.”
“No? I do. I suspect your father would not have let you within ten miles of a gaming hell proprietor, a rough brute with trade in his blood and blood on his fists. But, then, I suspect you would not be here at all, were your father still alive.”
For all of three seconds, she managed to suppress her anger. Her shame was her shame, and she would swallow it. But she would not stand for Sebastian to be insulted.
“You are correct, my lady,” she snapped. “My father would not have approved of Mr. Reaver, nor would he approve of my current circumstances. But, you see, he is not here. The title belongs to my uncle, whom you rightly characterize as, shall we say, lacking in certain fundamental virtues.” She leaned forward to set her tea upon the table. “As to Mr. Reaver’s character, you are wrong.”
“Wrong?” Her tone suggested Augusta had accused her of being a frog. “A novel accusation. Do tell, my dear. This should be amusing.”
“Sebastian Reaver is the best man I have ever known. He may be lowborn, and a tradesman, and yes, a bit rough.”
“Evidently, you know him quite well.”
; “No finer man exists. If you knew him at all, you would agree. Perhaps you are too accustomed to weaklings who bow and simper and corset their gluttonous stomachs until they waddle like pompous geese.”
“Oh, my,” breathed Lady Tannenbrook.
Augusta paid her no mind. She was incandescent, her head lifting off her shoulders. How dare this highborn, imperious dragon come into Sebastian’s house and insult him? “Perhaps you enjoy their fatuous flattery and padded pantaloons,” she continued. “As for me, my dear lady, I shall take my rough giant. And I suspect, one day, when all your fine gentlemen have revealed themselves for the flaccid, useless, vain creatures they are, you shall be envious not to have done likewise.”
“Oh, Miss Widmore,” Lady Tannenbrook sighed, giving a small sniff. “I think I may adore you.”
Augusta was having trouble understanding the young countess. Was she an eccentric? She seemed sane, apart from her beaming grin and affectionate declaration after Augusta’s diatribe. By all rights, the little beauty should be gasping in shock and revulsion.
In fact, Augusta noted as she glanced at the other two, none of them appeared either shocked or repulsed. Lord Tannenbrook wore a faint smile. Lady Wallingham, far from being insulted, took a calm sip of her tea and gave what appeared to be a satisfied smirk.
“Excellent tea, my dear,” the old woman said pleasantly. “I have found good tea requires a firm hand. Otherwise, one might find it too flaccid for one’s palate. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Hours later, Augusta still had not reconciled their behavior. Lady Tannenbrook hugged her three times before they departed. Lord Tannenbrook assured her Sebastian was “everything you described, Miss Widmore.” Then, he’d suggested, “Encourage him to visit Derbyshire. I think you’ll both find it pleasing.”
Augusta blinked and frowned, but she hadn’t time to puzzle out his strange message before Lady Wallingham declared, “If you are in town during the season, dear girl, you shall attend one of my luncheons.” She patted Augusta’s shoulder and wore a look of anticipatory delight. “Lady Colchester may need a physician afterward.” The old woman chuckled and left.
The entire visit had been bewildering. First, she still did not know how Sebastian was connected to Lord Tannenbrook. She had her suspicions, of course, but the titled trio had not bothered to provide details, and she had been in too much turmoil to press for more.
After Augusta’s outburst and their odd reactions to it, the conversation had turned to a discussion about Shankwood—evidently, Tannenbrook’s seat—and Lady Tannenbrook’s amusing stories about a pair of elderly women known as the Starling sisters. Lady Wallingham had dominated the remainder of the hour with descriptions of her new grandson, whom they had taken to calling Bain, but whose real name was Charles Rupert Elliott Bainbridge III, along with the courtesy title of Lord Steadwick. Oh, and the infant was astonishingly clever, already having selected his pet name for his grandmother: Bam. It was his first word, naturally. They were quite close.
Augusta had entertained genuine debates with herself about whether walking out of the room and leaving the titled trio to their tea and insanity would further damage her already obliterated reputation. In the end, her mother’s training won out.
But now, as she sank into Sebastian’s new study chair and ran her hands over the oak of his new desk, silence closed in upon her. She laid her forehead upon folded arms and breathed deep. Two truths repeated in her mind.
She loved Sebastian.
And whatever hope she’d had of honoring her father’s name was gone.
Her concerns about being discovered as the village washwoman were laughable now. She was ruined. Truly. Inexorably.
She would have to sell her cottage. She could not return to Upton Downs and face her neighbors, sneering at the haughty Augusta Widmore, who had become a Londoner’s mistress. A fallen woman.
The problem was, she wasn’t fallen. She laughed, the sound a sad echo in the circle of arms and wood. Sebastian had been too honorable to deflower her, or at least she supposed so. He’d avoided her company and, she assumed, temptation.
Which brought her back to her first truth. She turned her head and laid her cheek upon her hand. She loved him. She wanted to be his wife. Would the Widmore name matter to him, soiled as it was? No. Not to a man with such disdain for titles and inherited privilege.
Ironically, she’d spent years pursuing a title—for Phoebe. She’d planned everything from her sister’s gowns to her pianoforte lessons to the list of house parties they should attend, all with a singular purpose. When Glassington had come along, Augusta had rejoiced. At last, Phoebe’s future would be secure.
She’d been a fool. A dashed fool.
Her focus for weeks had been repairing Phoebe’s mistake. And now, she must repair her own, for she’d damaged the Widmore name and made matters with Glassington that much more difficult.
Again, she thought of Sebastian.
If Augusta married him, she would be a Widmore no longer. Instead, she would be Mrs. Reaver.
She smiled. Mrs. Reaver. Married to a lowborn ruffian whose touch made her tingle and sigh. Whose every glance made her burn.
Yes, her pride had taken a mighty beating today. But the answer to her biggest question remained the same: Claim Sebastian Reaver.
Now, if only she could persuade him that claiming her was his answer, too.
*~*~*
Reaver arrived home late, exhausted from his work on the expansion. He needed a bath. A shave. A change of clothes.
Still, subtle tension throbbed beneath his skin, all because of one woman. He would see her again. He’d planned an outing for the next day. He’d been reduced to following Frelling’s advice, and who could say whether it would work, but he had to try.
He must persuade her to be his.
As he handed his hat to the butler and requested a bath and a tray from Big Annie—whom he now must call Mrs. Higgins—he reviewed his plans. He had incorporated various bits from the advice he’d received.
First, he would take her for a morning ride in Hyde Park, then for a drive to Gunter’s, where they would have tea. Next, he would take her to the museum to see the marbles. And finally, after returning home to let her change into one of the gowns that made him lose his mind, he would take her to a play.
Entering his bedchamber, he sighed and stretched his back, feeling the ache from a long day. He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it across the bed. Next went his waistcoat and cravat. As the pile grew, he smiled, remembering Augusta’s reaction when he’d accepted her terms of surrender.
Her eyes had gone dark and soft, lips parting, cheeks flushing. She’d been a vision, and he’d been a willing captive.
Then, she had shown him her hands. Reddened and dry. Callused and rough along the palms and fingertips. God, he’d wanted to crush someone’s throat. Her uncle. His bitch of a wife. But all he could do was hold Augusta, or Gus, as her father had called her. He liked the name. Solid. Strong. He also liked her full name, which was long and lush, suggestive of sultry heat in late summer.
Augusta was all of that and more. He could not wait any longer. Tomorrow, he would woo her. The following evening, he would strip away Glassington’s hold. After hearing about her struggles to raise and protect her sister, witnessing her shame upon confessing to taking in laundry, of all things, he suspected the man’s title was, indeed, the prize she sought. Only pride could have driven her to such an end. Augusta had pride in abundance.
He carried his stack of clothing into the dressing room, intending to shave before he bathed. Just then, he heard Augusta’s voice through the adjoining door. She laughed. Said something stern.
He frowned. Threw his shirt back on. Moved closer to the door.
Now, her voice was soft with affection.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
Who was in Augusta’s chamber? It could not be Glassington. Could it? The man’s estate was in Surrey, not far from London. It was a few hours’ ride, perhaps. Le
ss if a man were determined and lustful.
He pounded on the door, rattling the wood in its hinges. “Augusta!”
She yelped. “Sebastian?” A long silence. “Wh-What are you doing home?”
Whispering. Rustling. Shifting feet.
“I thought you were staying at the club.” More rustling. “You missed supper.”
More whispering.
That was it. He didn’t think. He twisted the knob and charged into the room.
She stood at the foot of her bed in a white dressing gown.
And her hair was … down. So bloody beautiful, like wine and silk and fire combined.
“Sebastian! You might have waited for an invitation.” Her cheeks were flushed, her bare hands clutching a shawl to her bosom. And her eyes were frantic.
“Where is he?” he growled, stalking forward, searching first the dressing room then her bedchamber. “Tell me, Augusta.”
“I don’t know what you mean. There is nobody here. Except me, of course. Perhaps you heard the birds in the chimney. Bound to be a few left, despite our best efforts.”
He moved toward the bed. She stepped in front of him, chin high. He grasped her waist, lifted, and set her aside, ignoring her yelp. Dropping to a crouch, he examined the space beneath the bed. Nothing but shadows and dust.
On his feet once again, he prowled from corner to corner until one thing caught his eye—the long chair at the foot of her bed. The one with a rolled end. The one he’d bought for her because she’d loved it and left it behind. There, on the blue velvet, lay a dented pillow and discarded wool blanket.
Only one reason made sense when she had a perfectly comfortable bed to lie upon. Someone else had been sleeping there.
Bloody, bleeding hell. Had he been a fool? He’d spent his nights at the club to guard against lust pushing him too far. Had she been sneaking Glassington into her chamber? From the corner of his eye, he saw a ripple in the window draperies.
He started toward it, red fury flooding his veins. Small, callused hands grasped his arm. Her feet slid when he did not slow. She leapt in front of him, hands pressing his chest as she scrambled backward. “Sebastian,” she panted. “Be reasonable, now.”
