by Elisa Braden
She winced as the wind splashed the stuff into her face. Sebastian immediately surrounded her, taking the worst of it on his back and ushering her to the carriage door. He lifted her inside, where she huddled against the leather-lined wall and held her breath against the urge to let the flood free.
Not yet, she thought frantically. Not yet. Not until she was safe.
He climbed inside and tapped the ceiling with his fist. It felt like the storm had come inside with him, dark and looming and coldly furious.
Impossible to wait until she was safe. The flood was coming. She covered her face as the carriage jerked forward. Distantly, she heard her own rough breaths, the low, piteous whimpers as the flood split chainmail and steel and bone.
“Augusta. By God, woman. Don’t.”
She could not stop it.
He lifted her. Scooped her into his arms and onto his lap, gripping her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. “Please, love. Do not.”
There was no stopping it. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, her hands gripping his fine black coat. The flood was upon her, and nothing could stop it now.
*~*~*
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“We all have trials, my dear boy. Have I mentioned how many lady’s maids I have been forced to dismiss?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of reply to said gentleman’s complaints about the increased frequency of certain correspondence.
Sebastian Reaver had experienced many kinds of pain in his life. A broken nose—twice. Poundings and illnesses. Hunger and thirst. Thwarted lust and deep betrayals. His family’s deaths.
Nothing had been more agonizing than holding his strong, capable Augusta while she fell apart. Nothing. Ever.
She’d been unable to speak, her sobs infrequent and unwilling, her breathing as labored as if she’d gone forty minutes in a fight with Rude Mayhem. He’d carried her to her chamber, stripped her down to her shift, tucked her into bed, and sat waiting until she’d fallen asleep.
Now, he could not leave her. He leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, and watched her breathing. He didn’t know what to do. None of his plans had gone right that evening, and even now, his murderous hatred for Glassington ate at him like rats upon a tavern’s food scraps.
He rocked in place, attempting to endure her pain. Trying to avoid the taunting images of Glassington putting his hands upon her. Wanting a solution that would make Augusta Widmore his forever.
His goal had been to prove to her that he could give her everything Glassington could and more. That she needn’t pursue any other man, because he would gladly accept the loathsome role of presumptive heir if a title mattered that much to her. He would move them both to Derbyshire, buy her twenty thousand acres and a bloody palace, and speak with Shaw-like diction.
He would do anything if she would agree to be his.
But his plans had been disastrous from the start. First, she’d felt humiliated by Tannenbrook’s visit—a visit Reaver had known nothing about. At the dinner, he’d confronted Tannenbrook, who had explained, “It was Viola’s idea. When she learned of your attachment, her excitement about Miss Widmore took hold, and she wished to meet her. Lady Wallingham caught wind of it, and she insisted on accompanying us. She claimed having her on Miss Widmore’s side would be a boon, should there ever be a question about Miss Widmore’s … accommodations. Which is true, but I should not have allowed it. I am sorry, Reaver. Viola meant well. She quite admires Miss Widmore.”
Reaver had understood, but had warned Tannenbrook that if Augusta were placed in such a position again, they would exchange more than hard words.
Tannenbrook had smiled and nodded, bracing his hand on Reaver’s shoulder. “Aye,” he’d said simply. “I would do the same.”
Later in the evening, Reaver had watched Augusta move from conversation to conversation with perfect composure, even as she’d grown whiter and more pinched. When Glassington had entered and her eyes had fixed on the other man, seething with some fiery emotion, he’d cursed every daft inch of himself. What the devil had he been thinking?
You wanted to possess her, that’s what, he thought. He’d lost patience with waiting and had elected confrontation over persuasion. Now, as Augusta’s breathing hitched and shuddered with the aftermath of her collapse, he realized how he’d hurt her. Without meaning to, he’d wounded the woman he wished to protect. And he still did not understand Glassington’s hold upon her.
He ran a hand through his hair and released a frustrated breath. In the quiet of the room, amidst the wind and sleet and distant thunder outside, he heard a low tapping at Augusta’s chamber door. Curious, he pushed to his feet and answered it, revealing the boy Augusta had taken in.
God, the woman had a soft heart beneath all that fight.
“She’s sleeping, boy,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I know,” Ash murmured, peeking past Reaver’s leg. “Is she … well?”
It took him a moment to answer. “She will be.” He meant it as a promise, one he intended to keep.
The boy nodded. “Mrs. ’Iggins sent me up. There’s a man to see ye. Says ’ee has a message ye must hear.”
Reaver left Ash to watch over Augusta and made his way downstairs. He found Shaw, drenched and dripping, wiping his face with a cloth offered by Big Annie.
“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins,” Shaw said quietly, returning the damp thing and placing his hat on the nearby entrance table.
“I’ll fetch tea, shall I?”
“Thank you, but no. I shan’t be staying long.”
Reaver frowned as the housekeeper nodded and left. “Shaw,” he said sharply. “What’s happened?”
“We received word from Drayton.” The other man’s face had an odd cast to it. Cold. Hollow. Hard as a steel blade. Reaver hadn’t seen Shaw this way since their earliest days, shortly after his arrival in London. “It’s about Glassington.”
“Tell me.”
“The circumstances are not quite as we’d imagined,” he began, brushing droplets off his sleeves in an odd pretense of nonchalance. “The Widmore sisters encountered Glassington at a house party in June. He was considered quite the catch by the local gentry, apparently. Young. Titled. You understand. He soon set his eye upon one particular lady, and their mutual admiration invited speculation of a match. Some said they’d come to an understanding, but nothing was announced.” Shaw’s voice was as cold and flat as his expression.
Reaver moved closer, wanting to see his friend’s eyes. They were tortured. Haunted. Near mad. “Shaw. What the devil—”
“In August, he left Hampshire for London, and the rumors of an engagement abated. As you know, Glassington subsequently visited the club with a friend and lost his fortune. Thereafter, he retreated to his estate in Surrey to drown himself in brandy and self-pity.” Shaw’s lips curled at one corner. It was not a smile. “But the lady he’d admired would not be allowed to forget him. For, she was left with a memento of their courtship. She—or more rightly, her sister—wrote him urgent letters. His response was less than satisfactory. The vile whoreson admitted fathering the babe, but he refused to acknowledge he had promised marriage. And the lady and her sister were left with no other option but to travel to London—”
“No.”
“—and coerce the holder of Glassington’s markers into—”
“No, by God. She cannot be with child.” It would destroy him. She was his.
“No,” Shaw said softly. “Augusta is not with child.”
Silence fell. Distantly, Reaver heard the tap of footmen’s boots as they went about their duties. The whinny of a horse outside in the square. The patter of sleet and the rush of wind. And all the while, gears clicked and spun, finding their way into proper place at last.
Phoebe was with child. She’d been seduced by Glassington, promised marriage, and abandoned to bear his babe alone.
Augusta had never wanted Glassington for herself. She’d needed him to marry
Phoebe, to ensure the babe was born on the right side of the blanket, and that her sister was made a wife—a countess—before anyone discovered her condition.
The relief he felt was so profound, his vision swam. Relief and triumph.
She was his. Augusta was his.
Why she’d never told him the truth, he did not know. Likely she’d thought she was protecting Phoebe, but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered now.
He would take Augusta as his wife. He would shelter both her and her sister. He would bloody well choke Glassington with his own cravat until the man did his duty by Phoebe and the child.
“Did he say anything else?” Reaver asked, wondering what had caused Shaw’s torment.
The other man’s lips twisted bitterly. “A warning. Glassington has set his cap for another woman. An heiress by the name of Miss Elder. Her father is a coal merchant, quite plump of pocket. She is his only daughter, so her dowry is rather sizable. Greater by half than the fortune Glassington lost.”
Reaver’s stomach hardened. “Bloody, bleeding hell.”
Shaw’s eyes dropped to his boots. The twisted smile had disappeared, leaving his mouth flat and tight. He reached into his coat and withdrew the folded letter, tossing it onto the entrance table before retrieving his hat.
Reaver frowned at the damp sheets then at his friend. “Shaw—”
But Shaw wasn’t listening. He was leaving. “Drayton sends his apologies for the delay. The matter required more travel and far deeper investigation than he’d anticipated.” Shaw returned his hat to his head and opened the door. “It seems both Miss Widmores possess an admirable talent for keeping secrets.”
Ignoring Reaver’s calls for him to stay, Shaw exited without another word.
Reaver spent the remainder of the night pacing his bedchamber and scouring Drayton’s report. It was precisely as Shaw had said. Phoebe Widmore had been impregnated and left to bear Glassington’s bastard. Augusta—following the pattern set since she was a girl—had done everything in her power to set things right, to protect Phoebe from the consequences.
Now, Reaver intended to protect them both. But first, he must persuade Augusta to allow it. A woman too proud to admit she took in laundry could grow a mite stubborn about submitting to his demand for marriage. Especially when she’d resisted being under a man’s thumb for so long.
No, he thought as he paced and pondered, she needed a husband. More specifically, she needed him. The fact that she would belong to him for the rest of her days was merely the price he would exact.
He found himself grinning on a surge of satisfaction. Aye. The rest of her days.
He did not sleep well that night—a few hours, perhaps, and those filled with restless, depraved visions of Augusta’s naked body and everything he planned to do to it.
Despite the lack of rest, he awakened the next morning with purpose, his blood thrumming as it had once done before a fight. He washed, shaved, and dressed, listening for sounds of Augusta from the other room.
Shrugging when he heard nothing, he went down to breakfast. She was seated at the morning room table, her hair neatly pinned, wearing a light-blue, long-sleeved gown and white shawl. She was pale but composed.
His heart kicked and ran hard at the sight of her. “Augusta.”
“Sebastian.” Her greeting was muted, her eyes cast down upon her eggs. She hadn’t taken a bite, merely scooted the yolk around her plate.
He wanted to gather her in his arms. Tell her he understood now, that he would keep her safe. Keep Phoebe safe, as well. Instead, he steeled himself for a fight.
Augusta was no delicate creature who would be grateful for manly intervention. She was bound to resist his proposal. He must apply pressure in the right places and to the right degree, as he would in any fight with a worthy opponent.
“We have a matter to discuss,” he began, taking his seat and pouring his coffee.
“Matter?”
“Glassington.”
Her fork scraped hard and stopped. She set it beside her plate then calmly lifted her gaze and a single brow. “Oh?”
“I know why you need the markers.”
She sniffed. “Of course you do. I have told you already—”
“I know about Phoebe. That she is carrying Glassington’s child.”
She stared at him, her breathing rhythmic but fast. “Where did you learn of this?”
“A Bow Street runner. I wanted to understand your connection to Glassington, so I sent a man back to Hampshire. His report came yesterday.” Deliberately, he took a sip of his coffee. It was rich and smooth. Augusta ensured it was always served as he preferred.
The woman had no idea how far he would go to keep her. But she would soon find out.
Her hands curled and clenched on the table. “And?”
He lowered his cup. “And I intend to bring him to heel.”
Lips parting, she blinked twice. “You do.”
“Mmm. For a price.”
“What price?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Well, start making sense!”
Slowly, he smiled. “I am. You just haven’t caught on yet.”
Her delicate jaw muscles flexed. “Explain, then.”
“I will force Glassington to marry Phoebe.” He took another drink of his coffee then leaned forward so she could not miss his next move. “If you marry me.”
*~*~*
Was he mad? Or was she? Augusta could not be certain. Presently, the floor was the ceiling, and the ceiling had turned to jam, formless and deep.
She was drowning.
And he wanted—no, demanded—to marry her. What could he be thinking?
“That is by far the most absurd thing you have ever suggested,” she retorted upon catching her breath. “Worse than taking tea at Gunter’s.”
He frowned. “Gunter’s was Frelling’s idea.”
“I knew it.”
“It is not absurd.”
“It is when we have better tea right here at—”
“I meant marriage.”
Her mouth tightened and her chin elevated. “You should not be marrying a disgraced spinster.”
“Why not? She is the one I want.”
She stiffened, her muscles contracting in an effort to resist him. “She is not an appropriate countess for Elijah Kilbrenner.”
Onyx eyes gleamed and narrowed. Long, blunt fingers carefully set his Wedgwood cup in its saucer. “She is the one I want,” he repeated. “All she must decide is whether the prize she seeks is worth the cost I will exact. The rest is my concern, not hers.”
She gritted her teeth, the two bites of bacon she’d eaten earlier resting uneasily in her stomach. “But you will bear the scorn. So will I.”
His eyes went hard and fierce. “No. You will never bear it. Do you understand?”
It was he who did not understand. Disgrace was a corrosive acid. It wore away at everything over time, even stone.
Yet, her objections were fruitless. She could see that Sebastian was set on his course for reasons she did not understand. In the end, was there really a choice? She would endure anything for Phoebe’s sake. And he offered her everything she wanted—including himself.
“Glassington plans to marry an heiress,” she said tartly. “How do you propose to handle that contingency, Mr. Reaver?”
His mouth curved into a half-smile, unexpected and shamefully arousing. “That is for me to fret about. You need only concern yourself with selecting which gown to wear at the wedding tomorrow.”
She blinked. “Tomorrow?”
“There ye go repeatin’ again.”
“W-we cannot be married tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“The banns.”
“Don’t need them. I have a license.”
“How? A license requires at least a week—”
“I purchased it three weeks ago.”
She had no
response. He’d stunned her. Utterly stunned her.
“Aye, Gus. All that time. Oh, that’s one more stipulation, by the by. I can call ye Gus. And I can touch ye any way I please.”
He’d stolen her breath. Her heart raced as he held her eyes with his, black as Hades. “Have I any say in the terms of this bargain?”
He sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “Make your demands, Miss Widmore.”
She looked him up and down, taking his measure. She wanted so many things—at least one kiss every day. A chance to touch his naked chest whenever she desired. His promise that when she was drowning, she could find shelter in his arms. But she must focus upon what was important.
“First, I want a permanent home for Ash. Here. Or wherever we are.”
“Done. Next?”
“My cottage. When we marry, all that is mine becomes yours. I wish to retain ownership.”
“No.”
She glared and gritted her teeth. “Why not?”
“Because ye wish to keep the cottage so ye’ll have a place to run, should ye decide to leave.” His voice grew quieter, his eyes deadly serious. “I’ll not abide leavin’, Gus. Ye’ll stay and fight. And I vow the fight shall be fair. I will listen and we’ll make another bargain, you and I. We’ll make as many bargains as it takes. But ye won’t be leavin’. Understand?”
Hating how he dug beneath her roots to expose everything hidden, she dropped her gaze and nodded.
“Good. Other terms?”
“A new coach. Taller. One that fits you properly.”
He smiled, slow and sensual. “Done. Anything else?”
“Lady Tannenbrook is most anxious for you to visit Shankwood Hall. I would like your promise that you will do so.”
“When?”
She blinked. “Whenever it suits. Next year, perhaps?”
“Agreed. On one condition. You must come along. You shall be my wife, after all.”
True. She would be his wife. Starting tomorrow. Good heavens. “Very well,” she answered. “I have one last demand.”
“Ye’re a right nuisance, woman.”
