by Elisa Braden
Augusta frowned, wondering to whom the woman was speaking, as she hadn’t seen a man standing near the doors. Soon, however, Augusta’s attention shifted to the other guests arrayed around the room. Most sat on gold-velvet sofas or stood near the fireplace in murmuring groups of three and four. Some she recognized—Lord Tannenbrook, of course. He came forward to greet Sebastian, his gaze warm and approving. Lady Wallingham sat in a chair before the fire, her quizzing glass in frequent use, her headdress a confection of violet velvet and lilac plumes.
Others, she did not know. Three chaperoned young women roughly Phoebe’s age, each a beauty in her own way. A sable-haired man with hooded, turquoise eyes and a sardonic smile. A flame-haired, freckled woman—clearly his wife, for he never stopped touching her—who was taller than any female Augusta had ever seen. As she gestured, the woman’s wrist nearly collided with her husband’s nose. Before it struck, however, he calmly caught her hand in his, laid a small kiss on the inside of her wrist, and gave her a smoldering glance. She turned pink and stopped mid-word, her eyes riveted to his.
Good heavens, Augusta nearly blushed, watching them together.
“I shall introduce you to everyone, Miss Widmore,” Lady Tannenbrook assured. “We have only one more guest due to arrive. I expect him shortly.”
Behind her, she heard Lord Tannenbrook and Sebastian talking in their low rumbles. Once again, she wondered at their connection.
Lady Tannenbrook kindly performed introductions. The sable-haired man and the freckled woman were the Marquess and Marchioness of Rutherford. Lady Rutherford blinked when she heard Augusta’s name. “Widmore. As in, Sir Edmund Widmore?”
Augusta smiled. “Indeed. He was my father.”
“And a dear friend to my uncle, Sir Frederick Farrington. Uncle spoke ever so highly of him.”
She nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”
“You are from Hampshire, yes?”
“Indeed.”
“She owns a cottage there, Charlotte,” Lady Tannenbrook interjected. “Isn’t that lovely? When I lived in Cheshire, I dreamt of having a cottage of my own. On a little lake. Surrounded by pines. Oh! And bluebells.”
Lady Rutherford’s smile was wry and affectionate. “Viola, you now have an entire village full of cottages.”
Extraordinary blue eyes rounded. “Yes, but not of my own. They belong to the villagers.”
Lord Rutherford’s sensual lips quirked. “I’d wager Tannenbrook would build you your own castle and dig you your own lake, were you to mention it.”
Lady Tannenbrook beamed, her eyes sparkling brightly. “Yes,” she sighed. “With his own hands, too. How I do love that man.”
It had been years since Augusta had witnessed such naked adoration between husbands and wives, particularly among the nobility—not since her mother’s death, in fact. She’d begun to suspect her parents had shared a bond unique in the world, and that the norms of marriage were far less loving.
These two couples proved her wrong. Additionally, she’d expected them to shun her. She had, after all, arrived as an unmarried woman with an unmarried man, and they had no chaperone. Lady Tannenbrook knew very well she was living with Sebastian. Both couples should be scandalized by the whole affair.
But they were not. They were friendly. Kind.
Augusta did not understand it in the slightest.
Next, she and Lady Tannenbrook moved on to greet Lady Wallingham, who gave a superior nod and commented upon Augusta’s “remarkably bold choice of gown, my dear. One wouldn’t wish to be missed in a crowd, would one?”
Last, Augusta was introduced to the trio of young women. And the moment their names were spoken, a bell of recognition clanged so loudly in her mind, she scarcely heard another word.
Miss Lydia Chipperfield.
Lady Maria Fitch
Miss Cecilia Eversley
Every one of them had been on Lady Tannenbrook’s List of Prospective Brides for …
Elijah Kilbrenner.
Elijah.
Kilbrenner.
Augusta slowly turned, finding Sebastian standing near the drawing room doors, speaking with Lord Tannenbrook. They looked like brothers.
More to the point, Sebastian looked like a Kilbrenner.
And Lady Tannenbrook had mentioned Elijah when they’d entered.
Oh, God.
“Lady Tannenbrook?” Augusta murmured as the trio of prospective brides wandered toward the pianoforte. “Who is Elijah Kilbrenner?”
The beauty blinked, her thick, dark lashes fluttering, her flower-petal lips an O of surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Elijah is there, speaking with my husband.”
Augusta swallowed against sudden nausea as her eyes went to him. He stared back at her, unblinking, as though he’d been watching her every movement with great vigilance.
“No, I meant …” She was awash in ice. “Who is he to your husband?”
“Oh! He is James’s second … no, third … no, second cousin. Or, perhaps third. Oh, what does it matter? I am certain Lady Wallingham could tell you, as she knows a great deal about these sorts of distinctions. The point is, Elijah is James’s heir presumptive, though he resists it mightily. Their grandfathers were brothers, you see. Elijah’s grandfather moved his family to the American colonies some years ago. Following the war, Elijah’s parents were a bit disenchanted with the cause of independence, and they returned to England. Then Elijah was born, somewhere in Cumberland, I believe. He is most reluctant to discuss it.” Lady Tannenbrook sighed. “His parents and infant sister perished in a fire. Dreadful thing. Elijah survived, of course, but … well, the circumstances of his early life were harrowing, as you might imagine.”
Presumptive heir. Sebastian Reaver was Elijah Kilbrenner, the presumptive heir to a peerage. An earldom, no less.
Far from being a lowborn ruffian, or even a bastard, he might one day inherit a title. Good heavens, his blood was nobler than hers.
He could never marry her, a disgraced spinster from Hampshire. She blinked as the light in the room seemed to dim. He must marry a lady of quality, a woman worthy of being a countess.
Miss Lydia Chipperfield.
Or Lady Maria Fitch.
Or Miss Cecilia Eversley.
“Miss Widmore.”
What had she been thinking? She’d fallen in love with him. She’d given her heart to him. She would have given her body to him, had he not stopped her again and again.
“Miss Widmore, are you quite well? You are dreadfully pale. Perhaps we should serve dinner. I was waiting until our final guest arrived, but I should not wish anyone to swoon … oh! There he is now.”
Light sharpened suddenly. Painfully. Her head tilted as she saw who hovered in the open doors, dark hair rakishly mussed, cravat perfectly pressed.
“Come, I shall introduce you. Though, I confess our acquaintance is tenuous. Elijah requested that I invite him. He seems pleasant enough, though.”
“We have met, my lady,” she replied, the softness of her voice belying her ascendant anger.
“Oh? How do you know Lord Glassington?”
Augusta clenched her jaw and eyed the worthless worm’s white breeches and shined boots, his silly walking stick and slender wrists.
“From Hampshire. We are old acquaintances, he and I.” Her voice was silken, her fury rising to swarm her with bitter heat.
It replaced all that had been left empty and cold.
At least there was that.
When he saw her and went white and sickly, she enjoyed a small degree of satisfaction, but it was not enough. Not nearly.
Her eyes went to Sebastian and saw him watching. Onyx burned and calculated. Made her wonder what he’d intended.
Was it this? This moment of heat and humiliation? Had he wanted to toss everything in her face at once?
The ladies he should be marrying.
The man she should be pursuing.
The truth about how little chance for happiness she’d had all along.
>
By heaven, she had been stupid. So dashed blind.
Lady Tannenbrook cleared her throat. “Oh. Perhaps we should simply go in to dinner, then. Yes. Perhaps we should. The evening can only improve with a fine meal and a bit of wine, hmm?”
Dinner unfolded as strangely as she come to expect. She was seated between Lady Wallingham and Lord Rutherford. The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham made loud pronouncements about the superiority of British wool to French. The turquoise-eyed marquess made wry observations about said lady’s attempts to steal the Duke of Blackmore’s French cook. Then he took a slow, leisurely sip of his tea—having eschewed wine—and sent his wife a burning glance over the cup’s rim. The lady’s freckled cheeks turned as red as the jam in their strawberry tarts.
For the most part, Augusta ignored the byplay. Instead, she ate what she could manage on a hard, churning stomach. And planned.
Sebastian might have intended to humiliate her, but he’d handed her a ripe opportunity. She was here with Glassington’s creditor, a fact Glassington could not have missed. Apart from possessing the markers herself, there could be no better implied threat. But to make the threat more explicit, she must speak with the weak-wristed wretch. It would require a bit of maneuvering, she thought as she sipped her wine and glared. She must catch him alone. After dinner, obviously. Perhaps in the corridor. Or when he prepared to depart.
Yes. She would speak with Glassington, make clear her intention to hold him to his promise. She might even embellish her influence over Sebastian, implying the man was besotted with her. She scoffed at the notion and set her wineglass on the table with a snap, earning her a lifted brow from Lord Rutherford.
“Wine cannot be that insulting, can it, Miss Widmore?”
“Insults, like beauty, are subject to perception, my lord. One may choose to be insulted. Or one may choose deflection.” Augusta smiled, slowly shifting her eyes from Glassington to Sebastian, who glowered at her with predatory potency. “If one deflects with sufficient force and care, the originator suffers the same wound tenfold.”
“I quite like you, Miss Widmore. You remind me of someone.”
“And who is that?”
“Myself.”
She chuckled, enjoying his wry wit and unflappable ease. She did not, however, remove her eyes from Sebastian. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“Well, it is certainly not an insult. I am not so foolish as to test your assertion. Or, for that matter, Reaver’s fists.”
This time, his comment drew her gaze. She collided with the man’s unusual, hooded eyes. “What do his fists have to do with—”
“Come now. You are an intelligent woman. You must be, to put me in mind of myself. No, a woman of your obvious brilliance must surely know when a man is obsessed with her.”
She swallowed. Scoffed. It sounded weak. “Obsessed. Don’t be silly.” She returned her gaze to Sebastian. He hadn’t looked away from her. Not for the entire dinner. Before that, really.
“Take it as you prefer. My wife would most likely offer advice now. Something lovely and straightforward. ‘If he knows your worth, he will prove himself by earning it,’ or some such wisdom. But I am a man, and thus, less inclined toward profundities in these matters.”
“What would be your advice, then?”
He finished his tea and dabbed his sensual lips with his napkin. She noted his hand was scarred along the palm, though the scar looked more like a brand, swirling and floral.
“You have your fish hooked, Miss Widmore. Well and truly. If you wish to land him, it shouldn’t require much effort. A simple yes would suffice, I’d wager.”
“Y-you don’t know him. He is not—”
“I know him quite well, as it happens. We were friends once.”
“Once? What caused your friendship to end?”
He dropped his gaze to where his fingers played with delicate china. “I was acting a fool. He had the audacity to point it out. Only later did I realize what he’d given me.” The man’s eyes found his wife. His smile faded, his stare increasing in intensity until Augusta wanted to squirm in her seat. “For that, I owe him a debt.” He blinked, and the intensity dissipated, cloaked behind a charming smile and studied nonchalance.
After dinner, everyone returned to the drawing room. Miss Chipperfield played the pianoforte. Lady Maria sang. Both were lovely—lovely, talented, proper ladies. And Augusta imagined at least five ways in which they, along with Miss Eversley, could be rendered dreadfully unmarriageable. A favorite was the fantasy in which all three fell into a giant vat of dye. Green. Or puce.
No man wanted a puce bride, surely.
Glassington sulked in the corner of the room between the fireplace and the windows. He chatted with Lady Maria’s mother and sent Augusta occasional nervous glances. Just as Miss Eversley took Miss Chipperfield’s place at the pianoforte, Augusta saw Glassington saunter over to Lord Tannenbrook, who nodded and shook the man’s hand. At his side, Lady Tannenbrook murmured what appeared to be the sort of pleasantries a hostess said to a departing guest.
This was Augusta’s chance. She’d lingered near the drawing room doors since Miss Chipperfield’s first tune. Now, she slipped out into the corridor, making her way into a darkened section just before the turn to the staircase.
He squeaked in a most unmanly fashion when she spoke his name.
“M-Miss Widmore. Didn’t see you there.” He tugged at his coat and tried to look calm. “Waiting for Mr. Reaver?”
She folded her arms and gave him a flat stare. “No need,” she said. “He waits for me.”
The worm swallowed, his cravat wobbling.
Honestly, what had Phoebe ever found tempting in this man?
“How is she?” he asked, his eyes on his boots. “Miss Phoebe.”
She wanted to slap him across his worthless face, just for speaking her sister’s name. “How do you think, my lord?”
He didn’t answer. But, then, she hadn’t expected he would. His demeanor was much the same as it had been the day she’d arrived at his estate in Surrey—shamefaced and cowardly. Then, he’d been in his cups, and she had still believed him a gentleman. Young and foolish and in need of prodding, perhaps, but a gentleman. She’d soon discovered otherwise. The following day, she’d headed to London, a wretchedly miserable Phoebe in tow, and begun learning everything she could about Sebastian Reaver.
“I—I should take my leave, Miss Widmore, though it has been a pleasure—argh!”
She grasped his arm, pinching the flesh just above his elbow hard between her thumb and fingers. Being a washwoman might be humbling work, but there could be no doubt it made her hands strong. “You shall not escape, Glassington. Promises were made, and promises will be kept.”
He yanked his arm away and backed up until his shoulder struck a wall. “You intend to set Reaver upon me? Call in my markers?”
“Perhaps,” she said calmly. “Unless we can be assured of your cooperation.” Best to leave him with the impression she and Sebastian were a united threat, rather than a giant and his nuisance coming apart at the seams.
The man tugged at his coat and thrust his walking stick into the carpet. Then, he thrust his chin into the air, the pose that of a defiant child. “You may tell him I shall have his funds shortly.”
Several breaths passed before she could speak. “How?”
Again, the cravat wobbled. “I shall marry soon.”
No, her mind whispered then shouted. No!
“When I have her dowry in my possession, I shall contact Reaver and settle things properly.”
“Who is she, Glassington?” Augusta gritted. “Who have you deceived this time?”
“Tell Phoebe I shall send her something when I can. For the babe, you know.” He turned to walk away.
“Who?” Augusta growled, a thousand bees stinging her insides. “Tell me!”
But he continued on to the staircase, disappearing from view. She leaned against the wall in the darkness, her fist in her mo
uth.
Oh, God. He’d found his heiress.
The one solution that would render her leverage useless.
She closed her eyes. Buried her face in her hands.
For a long while, she could not move. But finally, she did, breathing and smoothing the sides of her hair. I will find a way, she told herself, just as I always have. Perhaps she could discover the heiress’s name. Visit her and explain what sort of worm Glassington was. Yes. That was it.
If she could find the name. And the woman. And make her listen to a disgraced spinster from Hampshire. In any case, she could not stand here, weak and despairing. She must … she must gather herself. Bind up her wounds. There was no one to carry her. There never had been.
Augusta turned toward the drawing room.
“Where have you been?” The low rumble came from the dark. It was deep, quiet, and cold.
She let silence settle between them before answering. “Here.”
“You were meeting Glassington.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
All of a sudden, the events of that evening gushed upward in a flood. They shot from the floor into her feet and from her feet into her legs and from her legs into her chest. The flood roiled and rushed out, pressuring her bones. It made her pant. It made her gasp.
The steel plate could not hold it.
“Take me home,” she whispered, her words splitting and rusty.
“Augusta—”
“Take me home,” she begged. “Please, Sebastian. Please.” She did not care that she sounded pitiful. She was going to break open, and she did not want to be in Lady Tannenbrook’s drawing room when it happened.
He did not say another word, simply grasping her arm and her waist, pressing her along the corridor to the stairs, then down to the foyer, where the Tannenbrook butler swiftly summoned the carriage. Outside, the storm that had been a mere threat was now a downpour of frigid sleet and frequent thunder.
