by Elisa Braden
The day had begun at breakfast, where he had informed Augusta they were going riding in Hyde Park.
She’d frowned, nibbled her toast with marmalade, and swallowed. “Must we?”
It had taken him a moment to respond. “You don’t want to?”
“In truth, I am not much of a rider. Haven’t been on a horse in ages. Before that, I was thrown four—no.” She’d raised her eyes to the ceiling, her lips moving as though counting dance steps. “Seven times. I was always too impatient and not well regarded by my mounts.”
“We’re going.”
“I don’t have a riding habit.”
He’d released a sigh of frustration as she’d taken another bite of her toast. “Very well. We’ll take the carriage.”
“To the park?”
“To Berkeley Square. Gunter’s. They have tea.”
She’d glanced pointedly at the teapot on the table.
“Bloody hell, Gus.”
“Well, I just don’t see why we should drive all the way to Berkeley Square—”
“Ye’re such a dashed nuisance.”
“—when we have perfectly lovely tea here. Besides, you have no liking for tea. If we bother to drive someplace in your ill-fitting carriage, at least it should have offerings you desire.”
She was the only offering he desired, but he could not say that. The day was for wooing. Wooing required patience. “Such as?” he’d grumbled.
“Well, what do you prefer to drink?”
“Ale.”
Her eyes had sparked over the rim of her teacup. She’d lit with an enormous grin. “Ale,” she’d breathed, as though he’d said something brilliant. “How perfect. Take me to a public house. Oh! Even better. Take me to where you began your life as a proprietor. Your tavern.”
He’d refused her request ten times. But on the eleventh, she’d brushed his hand with hers and said, “It would please me so, Sebastian.”
Now, here they sat, in The Black Bull with their second round of tankards. And Augusta Widmore was flirting. Or, perhaps not.
Her eyes were closed. She’d fallen asleep.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
He threw some coins on the table and gathered her up into his arms, taking care with her gown to preserve her modesty. Her arm looped around his neck, and her head fell against his shoulder, knocking her new, green bonnet askew. She sighed and snuggled closer.
God, she felt good.
He carried her outside to the carriage, maneuvering so only his ribs were crushed by the door frame.
“Bastian,” she whispered. Gray eyes blinked open as he laid her upon the seat.
He tried to retreat so he could enter the coach properly, but she clung to his neck.
Then, she kissed him. Directly on the mouth. Inelegantly but with purpose.
“Gus,” he murmured. “You must let go, now.”
“No.”
“My lower half would like to be inside, as well.”
She groaned and clung tighter. “Oh, that sounds heavenly, Bastian. Let’s do that next.”
He groaned, wondering if frequent blasphemy earned a man such divine torment. If she were not half-sotted, he might have her skirts up at this very moment.
But she was. So he gently untangled her arms, extracted himself from the coach door frame, then entered in his usual manner.
An hour later, after another cup of tea at the house, her head had cleared, and she insisted they continue their day of outings together. “You obviously had plans.” She plunked the cup down in its saucer, showing no signs of headache or weariness from her tippling. “What was next on your list?”
He narrowed his gaze upon her. She appeared well enough, her skin a bit flushed but otherwise … beautiful. Every day, she looked more beautiful to him. Her green gown was soft and perfectly fitted. Gray eyes shone brightly, as they had at breakfast.
“The British Museum,” he answered. “Elgin’s marbles.”
“Have you seen them yet?”
“No.”
She brightened further. “Splendid. We shall explore them together.”
Explore them, they did. Upon entering the hushed, green-walled room where the statuary was displayed, Reaver felt his stomach tighten into a knot. Augusta gasped, her eyes rounding in amazement.
Aye. They were amazing—amazingly naked. Bloody hell, the gigantic statues were riding, reclining, fighting. And they were all naked. Some lacked heads or arms or legs. But their manly parts were obvious enough, if one could call them that. Proportionate they were not.
Augusta wandered from statue to statue. One, a horse’s head, did not interest her in the slightest. Nooo. Augusta wished to examine the nude males in exacting detail, close enough to put her hands on them.
After an excruciating quarter-hour, he’d had more than he could stomach.
“We’re leavin’,” he growled.
“Oh, but we’ve only just arrived.”
“Now.”
She glanced up at him, her eyes lingering a moment on a headless man’s dainty man parts. “You don’t like them?”
“They’re naked.”
“Well, yes.”
“It’s time to go.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a prude, Mr. Reaver.”
He leaned down near her ear, surreptitiously gathering her scent into his lungs. Of late, it was sweeter, with a hint of lavender. “If ye’re to look upon a naked man, love, I’d prefer it were me.”
She blushed. Blinked. Breathed his name, “Bastian,” so prettily, he wanted to kiss her. Right there in front of the marbles with the disproportionately small—
“Now, then,” she said, clearing her throat delicately. “What is our next destination?”
For this, he had to think quickly. He’d had no “next” on his list, apart from the play, which did not start until later that evening. But he had cut their viewing of the marbles short, so he must think of something.
He recalled her mentioning Rome and Florence, something about wanting to visit someday. She had a liking for items of Italian art. Then, he remembered a minor baron who’d lost a fortune at Reaver’s the previous summer while waiting for a shipment of paintings to arrive from Rome and Paris.
“Portman Square,” Reaver answered, hoping the man was still in town.
As they discovered a short while later, the slim, neatly dressed baron was at home, though he paled considerably when he saw Reaver at his door. “M-Mr. Reaver! Mr. Shaw indicated I had another month—”
“You may consider your debt settled by forty percent if you allow my companion to view your collection.”
“Forty … that is … yes! I mean to say, yes, of course! Welcome!” The baron and his butler showed them inside the brick town house, which was unimpressive from the outside, but positively opulent inside.
Then, the man showed them to his library, where works by Caravaggio and Rembrandt fairly breathed from the walls. Even Reaver found them compelling, and he’d never been one for paintings. As they explored the gallery that spanned the length of the house, Augusta devoured each one with her eyes.
Reaver did likewise with her. She was giddy as a child, her delight causing her to clap lightly in excitement several times.
“Oh, Bastian,” she said, pausing before a particularly exquisite portrait of a young woman. “How he must have loved her.”
He edged closer, squinting. He’d forgotten his spectacles. “How do you know?”
With a gloved finger, she traced the woman’s cheek. “Here. You see? You can just make out the shadow of where her tears fell. And here.” She brushed the woman’s bodice. “The detail of her … well. Let us say it reflects a certain dedicated study on the painter’s part.”
From behind them, the baron cleared his throat. “Mr. Reaver? I do have a humble proposal, if it would please you and your companion.”
Reaver turned with a frown and saw the man holding a small, oval painting. “What is it?”
“This work is by t
he same artist that painted the portrait you were admiring. I can offer it to you, should you find its value worth another, say, ten percent.”
He was about to refuse when Augusta drifted forward, taking the painting in her hands and stroking the frame lovingly. “It is splendid, my lord.”
“It’s fruit,” Reaver replied.
“Pears. And an apple. A still-life. My, how lovely.”
As they took the carriage back to his house, Augusta could not take her eyes from the fruit painting, stroking the frame again and again. He frowned, remembering the high cost—fifty percent of a fortune was still a bloody fortune—but in the end, perhaps it was not such a bad bargain. She seemed rather pleased.
His plans once again deteriorated after they arrived home, however. Augusta had gone upstairs to change into her evening gown. He’d explained they were to attend the theater. Then, after donning a cravat and a black coat, he’d plucked the tickets from the small paper sleeve in which they’d been delivered.
“Seven December?” he said aloud, as though the small cards could speak and inform him that he had not purchased tickets for the wrong bloody evening. “Damn it all to hell.”
He tossed the useless scraps on his writing desk as he exited his chamber and raced down the stairs to find Big Annie. “Mrs. Higgins!”
She poked her head out of the morning room. “Yes, Mr. Reaver?”
“Fetch me The Times.”
She disappeared for several seconds before emerging with the paper in hand.
He donned his spectacles and scoured the pages for an advertisement. He knew he’d seen it earlier that morning, before Augusta had calmly refused to go riding then calmly challenged his plan to take her for tea.
There! There it was. The Haymarket Theatre Royal. An Italian opera. He looked at his watch. It opened in less than an hour. But it was the right day, by God.
“Mrs. Higgins, tell Miss Widmore we must leave in a half-hour.”
“Er—a half-hour, sir? She is only now exiting her bath.”
Ah, God. Why had the housekeeper put that image in his mind? The entire day had been a hellish test of his patience and restraint.
She took just under an hour. When she emerged, she was … breathtaking. Wearing the silver gown with the little, sparkly things on the skirt. Spangles, if he recalled. And her breasts were so round and creamy above the neckline.
He frowned. “You should have a shawl. Or a pelisse.”
“I cannot wear a pelisse with this gown, silly.”
Mrs. Higgins handed her a fur-trimmed cape.
“Better,” he growled.
They arrived at the theater twenty minutes past the opening scene. He’d called in yet another debt to obtain a box for the night. But as Augusta sat down beside him and leaned forward to view the crowd of singers bellowing foreign words on the stage below, he realized he would do it all again. Every day, if he could. He would take her anywhere, give her anything, to see her this happy.
“Oh, Bastian,” she said, squeezing the small opera glasses he’d purchased. “Have you ever seen anything so splendid?”
He ran his gaze over soft, white skin and dark, russet hair. He let his eyes roam across the swells of her breasts and the spangles of her skirt and the parting of her lips. Then, he spoke the truth in a whisper. “No, love. Nothing on earth can compare.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“One might sooner ask Sir Barnabus Malby for instruction in fastidiousness than a stonemason or a secretary for instruction in wooing. When you take the advice of novices, dear boy, you must expect undesirable results.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of admonishment for seeking guidance elsewhere when a vastly superior resource stood readily at hand.
If yesterday had been blissful perfection, today appeared destined to be quite the opposite. Augusta glanced to where her pink ball gown lay upon her bed, wondering how to extricate herself from what would surely be an evening of misery.
She sighed, remembering the previous day’s outings. Sebastian had surprised her again and again, beginning with his presence at breakfast. He’d looked so handsome in his dark-gray coat and white cravat that she’d been speechless for long minutes. Then, in his rumbling voice, he’d suggested riding in the park. Of all the outings he might have proposed, it was perhaps hundredth on a list of one-hundred-and-two Augusta-approved activities. She hated riding, probably because she’d never been very good at it.
Then, he’d suggest a trip to Gunter’s, which seemed rather odd to her, as though his secretary had devised his itinerary. Nothing about Sebastian’s first two proposals had struck Augusta as particularly suited to Sebastian.
But then … oh, yes. Then, he’d mentioned ale. She had recalled that he’d owned a tavern before he’d owned the club. And her perfect day had begun.
It had been glorious. First, seeing yet another business built by Sebastian thrilled her. He was a man of extraordinary will and drive and intelligence, and both The Black Bull and Reaver’s were proof. Then, when Mr. Markham had described Sebastian’s success as a pugilist, her heart had melted even further. He’d accused her once of doing nothing by half measures. In that, they were quite the same.
Everything he did, he did to the furthest extent of his capability. Yet he was no braggart, no toplofty peacock crowing about his wealth and prowess. He was a rough man. And she wanted him for her own.
As their perfect day had worn on, he’d hooked her heart deeper and deeper until she’d wanted to beg him to marry her. His raspy rumble telling her the only naked form he wished for her to see was his. The calculating intensity with which he’d watched her as they’d viewed exquisite works of old masters. His big knuckle brushing a tear from her cheek at the finale of Don Giovanni. His strong, weighty arm around her shoulders as she’d drifted into slumber on the drive home.
Every element had been perfect. Magical. She’d floated high and flown higher.
Then, today, she’d been forced back to earth.
She sighed, hugging her middle before entering her dressing room and sitting at the dressing table. Her skin was pale. She reached up to recoil her hair, tidying the more rebellious curls as she went.
They’d argued. Terribly. The recollection sat like cold rocks in her belly, jagged and aching.
Sebastian had arrived home from the club around three, his expression dark and driven. “We’re attending a dinner this evening,” he’d informed her. “Wear the pink gown.”
Alarm had trilled along her spine. “Dinner? Where? With whom?”
“Acquaintances. Lord and Lady Tannenbrook.”
She’d refused.
He’d frowned, coming toward her with a towering posture. “I have accepted Lady Tannenbrook’s invitation. She will be expecting—”
“I cannot go.”
“Why?”
“They know about me, Sebastian. They came here, day before yesterday, along with Lady Wallingham. I do not know the nature of your relation, but I’m afraid—”
He’d spat a curse, pacing away then coming back, eyes blazing. “What did they say?”
“That they were here to see me. Lady Wallingham was quite rude at first, though her civility improved in time.”
He’d looked furious, releasing a gust of frustration before scraping a hand through his hair. “There’s no help for it, Augusta. We must go. It is important.”
“I don’t see why. They’ve already made my acquaintance. They appear to know a great deal about my family and circumstances—”
“Bloody hell.”
“—and I would imagine my behavior further persuaded them of my disgrace.”
“You’ve done nothing disgraceful,” he’d growled, his mood blacker by the moment. “Dress for dinner, Gus. All will come right, you’ll see.”
“I don’t want to go,” she’d said tightly, the dread settling heavy in her limbs.
He’d drawn close. “Do ye want Glassington’s markers?�
�
The threat had sickened her. He hadn’t attempted such coercion since they’d kissed. So deeply had she come to trust him, she’d even contemplated revealing the truth about Glassington and Phoebe, wondering if he still believed she pursued the earl for herself. She longed to share her burden with a man whose wide shoulders could help her carry the weight. She’d assumed Sebastian’s affections for her had grown as hers had for him, but perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps she’d been fooling herself, weaving fanciful stories about the honor of a rough man.
“You know I do,” she’d whispered.
Her answer had not appeared to please him. Quite the contrary. The muscles in his jaw had flexed, his nostrils flaring. “Then go and dress. We leave at five.”
So, she had agreed to an evening of humiliation because, as usual, it was what she must do. And now, as she donned her new corset and stockings, petticoats and pink gown, gloves and sparkling silver combs, she tried to imagine each piece as her armor, closing her eyes tightly and picturing it over and over. Chain mail. Steel plate. Gauntlets. Helm. She repeated the process until her wounds were buried inside and her face was calm.
This night was for Phoebe and Phoebe’s child. Whatever else happened between Augusta and Sebastian, one thing remained the same—she needed the leverage against Glassington. And, as Sebastian had implied, only he could grant it.
She went downstairs where he waited, dressed in crisp black and white, wearing a scowl as dark as his eyes. Her heart fluttered as though it wished to take flight, but she stifled it. She mustn’t let the thing take control again. The sudden descent broke it too easily.
Inside the coach, she tightened her cloak around her shoulders and stared out the window at billowing iron clouds. It appeared their reprieve from the storms had ended. A loud crack and slow rumble sounded in the distance. A drop slid along the window.
“Gus.”
“Augusta, if you please,” she corrected quietly. “Only my father called me Gus. And he is gone.”
He was silent for the remainder of the journey.
Upon their arrival, Lady Tannenbrook greeted them with a twinkling grin. “Miss Widmore! Delightful to see you again. Why, your gown is breathtaking. The color! I have never seen the like. Mrs. Bowman is a magician, is she not?” The petite beauty looped her arm through Augusta’s, tugging her into a white-paneled, gold-draped drawing room. “Come along, Elijah,” she sang over her shoulder.
