by Elisa Braden
“I want to know how Elijah Kilbrenner became Sebastian Reaver. I want to know why you lied to me.”
Blunt fingers drummed along the rim of his cup as he gave her a look of hard calculation. “That is quite a long tale, Gus. And not a particularly pleasant one. Are ye certain ye wish to hear it?”
“Yes.” She must. She needed to understand him, because at the moment, he seemed wholly unpredictable.
“Aye, then. I shall tell you. After we marry.” He raised a finger as she began to object. “That’s the bargain, Gus.”
“Very well. We have an agreement.” She stood and moved around the small table to extend her hand. “I trust you will keep your word, Mr. Reaver, as I will mine.”
He glanced down between them and shook his head. “That is not how I seal a bargain with a wife.”
Swallowing against a dry throat, she answered, “I am not yet your wife.”
His gaze crashed into hers. “Soon enough.” With that, he grasped her hand and pulled her forward between his knees. Then, his hands went to her waist. “Kiss me. Show me you mean to keep your promises.”
“I always keep my promises.”
“Then, it shouldn’t be hard to kiss the man you intend to take as your husband.”
No, it wasn’t hard at all. She wanted it with everything inside her. That was the problem. He made her weak.
“Do it, Gus,” he murmured with strange intensity.
Slowly, she took his jaw between her hands. She stroked the smooth-shaved chin with its deep cleft. She traced the defined lips and re-routed nose.
“Are you certain?” she whispered, her eyes searching his.
His fingers dug into her waist. Pulled her closer. Held her tighter. “Aye.”
She lowered her head and gently brushed his lips with her own. The feel of his lips always surprised her—firm and soft. Curved to fit hers. The first time she’d felt them, she’d wondered how two mouths could match so perfectly. Now, he surprised her by letting her take the lead. She breathed against him. Nibbled and stroked. Then, she grew bolder. Flushed. Warm. She flickered her tongue against him. Back and forth. Back and forth. He opened for her and she slid inside.
Her hands moved to the back of his head, spearing through thick, black hair. Still short, but longer. Enough to let her grab hold and take more of his mouth. She did. Oh, how she did. And that wasn’t all. She pressed her aching breasts against him, stroked her needy tongue along his, breathed his scent deep inside herself.
And craved more.
He pulled away. Grasped her wrists and moved her backward. But he was gasping. Heaving breaths worked in his chest. Red streaked his cheekbones. “Ye should go, Augusta.”
She didn’t want to. She wanted to kiss him again.
“Please, love. I need …” He cursed and closed his eyes. “I will wait until you are my wife. I will wait.”
Slowly, she grinned, feeling oddly victorious. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear, “Soon enough, eh, Reaver?”
*~*~*
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“No longer required? My dear Mr. Kilbrenner, marriage is a landscape far more perilous than courtship and far less forgiving of a man’s foibles. You need me now more than ever, I assure you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s precipitous and inadvisable rejection of sound advice.
From the portico of St. Marylebone Church, Phoebe watched her sister climb into Mr. Reaver’s black carriage, aided by her new husband’s enormous hands. They were oddly beautiful together, Augusta slim, elegant, and glowing in her shimmery silver gown and dainty, veiled hat. Sebastian a dark, mythical giant wearing a black wool coat, white cravat, and an expression of smoldering intensity.
Phoebe struggled to breathe past the ache in her chest. The air was cold and damp, the streets wet from the night’s storm. She clutched her nosegay of red roses and tucked her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
Augusta had done this for her. Once more, Phoebe had forced her sister to stand as shelter. Her one consolation was that, although it seemed impossible, Augusta appeared to regard marriage to Sebastian Reaver as more of a prize than a punishment.
She loved him. If Phoebe had doubted Augusta’s assurances during their conversation early that morning, she’d been left with little question upon seeing her sister enter the church and walk toward Reaver. Augusta had been lit from within. Her eyes had shone and melted like silver in a blacksmith’s fire, liquid and soft.
Equally, Reaver’s feelings had been on full display. His face had been hard, his jaw flexing, but his gaze had made Phoebe’s heart twist. He’d stared at Augusta throughout the ceremony, black eyes obsessively roaming her features as though witnessing something both wondrous and rare.
He would take excellent care of Augusta, she hadn’t a doubt. And, as Augusta had explained, he intended to help Phoebe, as well.
“Sebastian will use Glassington’s markers,” she’d said after waking Phoebe in the early dawn to inundate her with a series of shocking revelations. First, she’d revealed that Reaver knew about everything—the babe, Phoebe’s foolishness, Augusta’s efforts to bring Glassington to the altar. He even knew about Sir Phillip and Georgiana, and about how much Phoebe and Augusta had struggled to disguise their impoverished state.
Immediately, Phoebe had wondered whether Adam knew these things, as well. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from asking, willing to endure Augusta’s suspicions. When she’d learned that Adam knew much of it—especially about the babe—Phoebe had swooned. Having never swooned before, she found the experience most unnerving. She’d awakened with her sister’s arms around her, being rocked and soothed.
For a time, Augusta had been frantic beneath her usual calm, commanding surface. Her fingers had trembled against Phoebe’s back and arm as they’d retreated to the settee to partake of tea and ginger biscuits. That may have been why it took another ten minutes for Augusta to inform her that she was marrying Sebastian Reaver—whose real name was Elijah Kilbrenner, and whose real bloodline made him the heir presumptive to the Earl of Tannenbrook—at St. Marylebone that very morning.
Phoebe had selected her best sprigged-muslin gown, the white one with tiny, primrose flowers and green leaves. Then she’d hugged Augusta tightly and made her swear marriage was what she desired.
“I love him, Phee,” Augusta had confessed in a raw whisper. “So much I can scarcely breathe.”
Now, as the chill sank past her shawl and mocked thin layers of muslin and cotton petticoats, Phoebe gazed past the iron fence to where Reaver’s coach rolled away.
“You should wait inside the church,” came a crisp, masculine voice from behind her. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
His voice was as cold as the wind. It swirled around inside her, deepening the cracks and hollows until she felt every one as keenly as a cut.
“I have endured worse,” she replied. Then, unable to help herself, she glanced over her shoulder. Those beloved golden-amber eyes were locked upon her. “Are—are you attending the breakfast?”
Adam’s mouth twisted. “I must, mustn’t I? Best man, and all that.”
“Adam, I …” She swallowed and turned to face him. “I am sorry.”
“For?”
“Not telling you the truth.”
His eyes wandered over her shoulder as his face tightened. “Yes. Bit of a shock. Though perhaps I should have seen it.”
“You deserved to know.”
He blinked. Tilted his head. Focused upon her. “Why? I was nothing to you.”
“On the contrary,” she answered, her voice trembling and warping. “You are everything to me.” Her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away with an impatient hand. “Whatever else occurs, you must know that.”
He frowned. Stepped closer. “Phoebe.”
“You are right. I should go inside.”
She made to move past him, but he grasped her elbow. He drew he
r close, lessening the chill.
“Do you wish to marry him?”
“I have no choice.”
“But do you wish to?”
She met his eyes, golden and glowing. “There is only one man I wish to marry. And I found him too late.”
Astonishment wreathed his handsome features. His breath quickened. His grasp tightened.
“You must never imagine my regard for you was false,” she said. Her eyes closed as her voice crumpled. After a moment, she gathered her composure, though several tears tickled a trail down her cheeks. “Nothing could be truer.”
Behind them, the clatter of wheels and the nicker of horses approached.
“Phoebe,” he whispered.
“I must go.”
“I—God, Phoebe. I wish—”
“I know.” She smiled at him through her tears. “I wish, too.” Her hand covered his, stroking tenderly. “If only wishing made it so.”
His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed as they dropped to her shoulders and arms. “You haven’t been eating properly.”
“My appetite fled. I had a terrible row with a beloved friend, you see.”
His gaze met hers. “Eat. For the babe’s sake, if not your own.”
She nodded and spoke to the roses in her hand. “I shall miss you. For the rest of my life, Adam Shaw. Long after you have forgotten me, there will be a woman somewhere in England whose heart remains yours.”
His hand dropped away.
She turned blindly and descended the steps, accepting the footman’s help into the carriage. Then, as it pulled away, she found the strength to look back at her handsome Indian chap. He stood gazing after her with the most peculiar expression.
It was the look of a man who had buried his mother, traveled across the sea to English shores, and fought to earn his place, inch by inch. A man who refused to let anything keep him from what he desired.
His was a look of fiery resolve. And for a moment—just a moment—Phoebe wondered if she’d been wrong.
Perhaps she hadn’t found him too late. Perhaps she’d given up too soon.
*~*~*
Hours after Augusta spoke her vows to Sebastian, she lost track of him. It happened while she was listening to Ash’s animated account of an encounter with Lady Wallingham.
“She says if she saw me take another piece of bacon, she’d wallop me backside! Gor, that lady is fierce. So, I tells her, ‘Lady, this bacon is for guests,’ to which she answers, ‘Guests, not urchins fresh from the chimney.’”
Augusta smothered a grin at his wide-eyed tale. “And did you, in fact, take another piece of bacon?”
“Oh, aye. But I waited until she weren’t watchin’. I lost it, though.” He scratched his head. “Don’t know what ’appened. One minute there, the next gone. I ’ave my suspicions, I do. Old lady with the feather in ’er hat looked mighty pleased with ’erself. Sent a chill down me spine, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”
This time, Augusta could not help laughing. She tousled the boy’s hair. “I suspect you are fortunate to have avoided a sore backside. Lady Wallingham is not to be trifled with.”
He snorted and shook his head. “That’s God’s truth, Lady Reaver. God’s truth.”
“Mrs. Kilbrenner, Ash,” she corrected gently.
“Nah. Too big a mouthful. I like Lady Reaver.”
She sighed, electing not to argue the point. “You have your own bedchamber now.” She raised her chin and gave him a stern look. “I trust you will sleep there and not run off again.”
“Aye. I promised, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. Now, I shall expect you to keep it.”
He grumbled beneath his breath.
“Something to say, Ash?”
“Nah. Somethin’ in my throat.”
Her lips quirked. “Perhaps it is the bacon.”
A few minutes later, Mrs. Higgins ushered Ash into service helping clear the trays from the dining room, and Augusta discovered she was alone in the drawing room, all the guests having departed.
Only a few had attended the ceremony, but they had all been gracious and kind—even Lady Wallingham. Lord Tannenbrook had braced Sebastian on the shoulder and said quietly and simply, “Well done, man. Well done.”
Lady Tannenbrook had pulled her aside to apologize for any discomfort Augusta might have suffered at the dinner. “I made all the arrangements before I knew about you. By the time Elijah informed me he would be bringing a guest, I had already invited three young ladies from my list of potential matches. Of course, everyone could see how much Elijah adores you, so there was never any misunderstanding on the ladies’ part. But when you departed so suddenly, it occurred to me that you—”
“Not to worry, my lady. You’ve been most kind. It is I who should offer apologies for leaving so abruptly.”
“Silly goose. I am over the moon for you and Elijah. And do call me Viola.” Blue eyes had twinkled. “I have an inkling we shall be the greatest of friends.”
Lady Wallingham’s congratulations had contained more grandeur and less affection, but Augusta sensed she was pleased at the match. “Now, my dear, your real task begins.”
“Real task, my lady?”
“Taming this gamester into something resembling a gentleman. You may begin by correcting his speech. Good heavens, one shudders to think of language better suited to the docks echoing through the House of Lords like an ill-tuned pianoforte.”
Augusta had merely smiled and met Sebastian’s dark, burning gaze across the room. “Hmm. I rather like his speech, my lady. I fear if someone were to insist he change it, I should be very cross, indeed.”
The lady had harrumphed and changed the subject to her grandson, who had already begun speaking, and whose diction was demonstrative of his superior breeding. Quite unlike Lord and Lady Rutherford’s son, of course, who was months older, yet already showing signs of his father’s dissolute ways.
To this, Lord Rutherford had replied, “Yes, he is both profligate and indiscriminate with the wooing of females. Still, a boy must begin early if he wishes to master a subject, mustn’t he?”
Lady Rutherford had given her husband a fond smile. “It is the eyes. Who can resist?”
Now, Augusta sighed, watching through the window as Lord and Lady Rutherford’s carriage left Cavendish Square. They were the last of the guests. Phoebe had moved her belongings from the club into a guest chamber on the third floor shortly before the wedding. Augusta hadn’t wanted to risk her sister’s reputation any further than necessary.
Presently, Phoebe wandered into the drawing room, looking pale and weary. “It was a lovely wedding, Augusta.” Her smile was sweet, though her eyes were sad. “I am so pleased for you.”
Augusta went to her, a frown tugging at her brow. “Are you fretting about Glassington, Phee? There is no need. Sebastian will—”
“I know. I am exhausted, that is all. Someone awakened me at dawn to attend a wedding, you know.”
Augusta chuckled. “You never did favor an early rise. Remember when you claimed the owls told you that, to be safe, you must sleep past eight?”
“Early is a dreadful time to be awake. Owls know this better than anyone.”
All of a sudden, Augusta was overwhelmed with the need to hold her sister. She gathered Phoebe in for a hug—long and tight, just like when they’d been girls. “I love you, Phee,” she whispered. “Everything is going to be fine, now. Do you hear? You will be safe. Your child will be safe. I promise you.”
Phoebe was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was thin and wobbly. “No, Augusta. I promise. You have loved me so well, that I … I let your sacrifices go on too long. Attend your happiness, darling sister. Your time as my Night Guardian is ended. Now it is my turn to keep watch. For myself. For my child.”
Startled by her declarations, Augusta pulled back. Phoebe’s cheeks were damp, but her blue eyes were solemn. Steady. She meant it.
What foolishness.
“I shall always w
atch over you,” Augusta said fiercely. “That is what love means. I cannot simply stop.” She brushed at Phoebe’s cheek. Then, she touched her forehead to her sister’s and whispered, “So long as I live, you will have a safe place. Your child, who is my blood, will have a safe place. Whatever comes, Phee.”
“I love you, Gus.” Phoebe grasped her hand and kissed it. “Always.” Then she pulled away and left the room.
It took a long while for Augusta to gather herself and give the knot in her chest time to loosen. By then, she’d begun to wonder in earnest where Sebastian had gone. She went in search of him, first asking Mrs. Higgins—who appeared to have her hands full with a chattering Ash—then Teedle. The elderly butler smiled. “Ah, of course, Mrs. Kilbrenner. He is in his study.”
Surprise bolted through her. Surprise and displeasure. “His study?”
“Indeed, madam. I believe he was searching for a quiet room in which to read his correspondence, and it was suggested he locate his study.”
She gritted her teeth. “Suggested by whom?”
“Lady Wallingham, I believe.”
Drat and blast. She had wished to be present when he saw his study for the first time. Well, perhaps he hadn’t seen the library yet.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor and strode to the door at the end, in the quiet rear of the house. She found him sitting on the edge of his desk, spectacles perched on his nose, reading a letter.
His head turned swiftly when she slammed the door.
“Bloody hell, Sebastian! You could not have waited? I had planned to reveal this as a wedding gift. Now my surprise is ruined.”
Onyx eyes sparked with something deep and hot. “Are you vexed with me, Gus?”
“Yes. Vexed. Quite earnestly vexed.” Her hands landed upon her hips. “What are you reading?”
He glanced down briefly then removed his spectacles. “A letter.”
“I can see it is a letter,” she snapped. “What is so important that you disappeared during your wedding breakfast and spoiled my surprise?”
“I’ve word from my solicitor. He’s begun research on a task that will prove highly disagreeable to a certain baronet.”
