Anything but a Gentleman

by Elisa Braden

  How Augusta wished it were not so. But it was.

  She fell asleep with her heart aching for her sister. She awakened when Bastian kissed her lips and murmured, “Come, love. Let us go inside where it is warm.”

  She blinked, realizing the coach had stopped. “Where are we?”

  “Near Stevenage, I think. The snow is growing too deep, so the coachman stopped at the first inn he could find. Shaw is inside now securing our accommodations.”

  As Augusta’s half-boots crunched down into six inches of white, she began to worry. What if Phoebe had continued on? It was dangerous enough for a female traveling alone at night on the Great North Road. Add poor weather, and the risks increased greatly. Would she insist on traveling onward, despite the conditions? Surely she—

  Augusta blinked and shook her head as they entered the inn’s dark, warm interior. There, by the stone hearth, stood Phoebe, who appeared flushed from either the fire’s heat or her present interaction with the handsome Mr. Shaw. He stood very close, his head bent near hers, speaking with an intensity she recognized after hours in his company. Phoebe, meanwhile, had a pugnacious tilt to her chin and a blaze in her eyes that rivaled the one in the hearth.

  Her sister gazed up at Adam Shaw, eyes shining. Alive.

  Good heavens. Phoebe loved him. Emotion choked Augusta, rushing in upon her all at once. She had not seen Phoebe this incandescent in … well, ever. After months of listless despair, Phoebe had awakened.

  And Adam Shaw was the cause.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Life can change quite suddenly, my dear boy. Just when you suppose you have accounted for every probability, the odds turn on their heads as if they recognize your arrogance and mean to prove you wrong.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s reflections upon unexpected turns of fate.

  Phoebe felt her very existence shift like a boat captured by a rogue current the moment Adam Shaw entered the inn. She’d maintained her resolve all the way from Marylebone to St. James. Then, after long minutes of anguished regret while inside the club where she’d fallen in love, she’d hired a post-chaise, secured a driver, and reviewed in her mind all the reasons she must marry Glassington.

  That had lasted until Smithfield Market. Then, as the snow had continued to fall, she’d huddled beneath her blanket, looked out upon the growing dark, and felt the surety of a bleak future settling in.

  Any future without Adam was bleak.

  Still, she’d forged on, certain this was what must be done. Wasn’t it? Of course it was. Well, perhaps. The quandaries and questions had swirled like snowflakes, and she’d grown weary. The hired coachman had recommended stopping for the night when the snow had shown little sign of easing. He’d chosen a busy Hertfordshire coaching inn.

  The same one Adam Shaw had entered minutes earlier, when Phoebe’s heart had resumed beating. It pounded away at her breastbone as though it wished to leap from her chest and into Adam’s hands. Perhaps it did.

  Perhaps she did.

  He stood close, golden eyes blazing bright, his words making her head spin.

  “You cannot marry him, Phoebe. He doesn’t want you. I do.”

  Her teeth gritted and her chin went up. “It is better this way.”

  “Not better. Easier, perhaps.”

  “I must do what is necessary for—”

  “Tell me you love him. Go on, then. Tell me.”

  She could not speak for several seconds. “You know I cannot.”

  “Precisely.” He inched closer, his head lowering until she could feel his breath at her cheek. “Because you love me, Phoebe. Me. And you will marry me. No one else.”

  Dear heaven, how could he do this? She was being torn in two. “Please, Adam. I—I must wed Glassington. For my child’s sake. For Augusta.”

  From behind her came a voice she’d not expected. “What do you mean, ‘for Augusta’?”

  She spun to face her sister, who appeared heartily displeased. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  “Following you. Now, answer my question.”

  Phoebe had never been able to withstand that stern tone, that motherly insistence. “This is everything you’ve worked for, Gus. How can I possibly answer your sacrifices by discarding it?”

  A stern frown deepened and crumpled. “Oh, Phee.” Augusta’s hands came up to rest upon her shoulders. “Your happiness is everything I’ve worked for. It is the only thing that matters to me.”

  Phoebe reached for Augusta’s hand, clasping it in both of hers. “But you were right. I made a mistake with Glassington. Trusted him when I should not have. Now, I must make sacrifices of my own. I must protect my child, as you have protected me. I owe him that. I owe you that.”

  For a long while, Augusta did not answer. Then, she arched a brow. “Well, I might agree if Glassington were not such a worthless scapegrace.” She glanced over Phoebe’s shoulder. “And if you had no better option.” Her eyes returned to Phoebe. “But he is. And perhaps you do.”

  Hope, fragile as the tiny life in her womb, sprang forth like fledgling flame. Small at first, it turned stubborn. And grew.

  “Now then,” Augusta continued in her usual managing manner. “I suggest the following: Entertain the question of which sort of man you wish your son to become. A man like Glassington. Or a man like Mr. Shaw.” She held up a finger. “Consider everything, now. The hardships. The title. The place within society. And, above all, the substance of one’s character.”

  Her heart thudded. Then thundered. The answer was simple. And right. “Adam,” she whispered. “I should want my son to be just like Adam.”

  “Well, there you have it, then. You must certainly marry Mr. Shaw. For your child’s sake. And, now that I consider it, for mine. I should loathe being forced to spend Christmases with a worthless scapegrace.”

  Phoebe released her hands and turned to Adam. His eyes shone with fierce triumph.

  “It will not be easy,” she whispered, aching as the flame of hope grew into blaze.

  “No,” he answered, his wondrous voice hoarse. “But better. Better than anything.”

  She drifted toward him. Reached for his hands. Laced her fingers with his and held tight. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you love my child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am yours.”

  “You have been from the moment you fell into my arms, Phoebe Widmore.”

  She grinned, her belly tingling and fluttering madly. “I made a proper mess, didn’t I?”

  He cupped her cheek. “You stole my heart. Now I expect payment in full.”

  Her lips pursed. “Payment?”

  “A lifetime should do.”

  She stood on her toes to lay a gentle kiss upon his lips. “You’re in luck, Mr. Shaw,” she whispered. “For, a Widmore girl always keeps her promises.”

  *~*~*

  Late that night, Adam cracked the door of his room and eyed the inn’s long corridor. If he was not mistaken, Phoebe’s door should be the seventh. It was dark, with only a faint glow coming from a window at the end. He crept forward, counting.

  Upon reaching her door, he turned the knob. It twisted easily. Unlocked. He frowned. Was she mad? Anyone could enter her room without invitation. He would speak to her about taking sensible precautions. Good God, he must marry her quickly. The woman needed to be taken in hand. At the thought, his cock hardened to a painful throb. He breathed through it and slipped past the door. To his surprise, she was awake, sitting at the window, a lantern burning on the table beside her.

  Her hair was down, a spill of brandy and port. Her eyes were soft as periwinkle flowers, her skin ivory fine. She was … beautiful.

  “I wondered when you would come,” she said wryly, giving him a twinkling look from beneath her lashes. “It has been hours.”

  He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it across the foot of the bed. The th
ing was narrow, but it would do. “You should have locked the door. Who knows what sort of brigand might intrude upon you in the dark of night?”

  “Oh, I think I know. That is why I left it unlocked.”

  A breath shuddered in his chest. His fingers paused over the buttons of his waistcoat. “Be certain,” he said.

  “I am.”

  “Come here.” He reached for her. She came, her blue gown swaying in the lamp’s glow. “I need to kiss you.”

  “Adam—”

  He pulled her in tight. Buried his fingers in her silken hair. Stroked her cheek with his thumb. Then, he brought her mouth to his.

  Soft. So soft and sweet she was. He started gentle, but as he felt her response, passionate and eager, he deepened the kiss, pulsing his tongue inside her over and over. Her arms wrapped around his neck. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into his body.

  Then, he felt it. The small mound of her belly, barely discernible. But there.

  He pulled back. His eyes dropped to her abdomen, disguised by the folds of her gown.

  “Adam?” Her question was querulous. Uncertain.

  He withdrew further. Swallowed hard, his head spinning.

  “Are—are you … Do you want …?”

  He dropped to his knees. Reached for her. Dragged her toward him. Rested his palm flat upon her belly. Where her child lived. His child. He kissed her there, over the folds of her gown. But he needed more. He needed to be closer. And bare. It took but a moment to raise her skirts. He ignored her indignant yelp and slid the fabric higher.

  Then, there it was. The babe. Tiny and growing. His lips loved her skin, soft and white. He shaped his palm against her. Felt the tiniest flutter. Imperceptible, really. He wondered if he’d imagined it.

  He looked up, wanting to know.

  Tears streaked her face and welled in her beautiful eyes. “I love you,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

  He grinned helplessly wide. “He is mine, too, Phoebe.”

  “Yes.” She gave a watery laugh. “We both are.”

  For the third time in his life, he was seized by the strangest sensations. Tingling swirled in his arms and neck and scalp and the place where his hand rested over his child. He’d felt it only twice before—with Reaver and with Phoebe.

  Reverently, he kissed his child one last time. Then he rose to his feet and lifted the woman he loved into his arms. He slowly undressed her, stroking every inch of skin he revealed. He laid her upon the narrow bed, loving the way her eyes glowed, the way her breasts swelled and flushed with desire.

  He stripped away the remainder of his clothing. Then, he lay down beside his beautiful Phoebe, climbed between her long, beautiful legs, and held her beautiful blue eyes with his while he slid inside.

  She rubbed her hard little nipples against his chest and held him tighter. Stroked his cheek and kissed him. She repeated his name to the rhythm of his thrusts, first whispering then panting then groaning. He held her eyes, forcing her to remain tied to him.

  “Do not look away, Phoebe,” he said, feeling the warning ripples of her pleasure tightening. Tightening. Tightening. “Do not.”

  Her expression was agonized, but he knew it was not pain that caused it. Quite the opposite. He grinned down at her. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “I want you to see.”

  She grunted as he thrust harder, her hips writhing desperately. “See what?”

  He cupped her cheek. Ran his thumb over her lips. “How much I love you.”

  Her body bowed and her eyes slid closed.

  “No, no, my darling. Watch.”

  Her eyes opened. Drowned him in a field of blue flowers. Her body twisted and seized, clenching him hard in her body’s sweet grip. Her ecstasy was an explosion that detonated his own. It rushed in upon him like a furious wave, tipping his world sideways.

  Only later, as they lay together, their limbs a tapestry of light and dark, could he tell her. “I thought I’d seen everything once,” he said, rubbing one of her port-and-brandy curls between his fingers.

  “Mmm. Yes, I have heard you say that,” she murmured sleepily.

  “I was wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  He kissed her forehead and whispered the truth in her ear. “I have never seen anything as wondrous as you.”

  *~*~*

  The following morning, they awakened to cerulean skies and crystalline beauty. The gentle, rolling hills of Hertfordshire glittered white, and the sounds of the inn’s courtyard—snorting horses, clinking harnesses, rolling wheels—were muffled by winter’s thick fur.

  “Hired drivers,” Reaver muttered, glaring at the post-chaise as it disappeared down the snowy lane. “Highwaymen’s what they are. Hired thieves.”

  Augusta chuckled and soothed him with a kiss. “He accepted the payment you offered. Eventually.”

  “Aye. Such measures shouldn’t be necessary.”

  “You are most intimidating.”

  The way she said it made him hurt—low and appreciative. A little breathless.

  He sighed. “We’ve a long ride ahead of us. Half-day at least.”

  She was eyeing him like Ash eyed a plate of bacon.

  He frowned. “No time for that, woman. We’re leavin’ in—”

  She dragged him down into her kiss.

  By God, how she tormented him. And how he loved her for it.

  Behind him, he heard Shaw speaking with their coachman.

  Augusta released him and whispered, “Soon enough, eh, Reaver?”

  “No, love. Not nearly soon enough.”

  Shaw’s voice halted mid-sentence. Boots crunched in the snow as he approached. “Reaver.”

  He turned. Shaw pointed to an older man and younger woman exiting a coach. They were well dressed and arguing. The young woman had sallow skin and large teeth. Reaver grunted in surprise.

  “Who is it?” Augusta asked.

  “Mr. Elder,” Shaw answered. “And his daughter. Interesting.”

  “He must have caught up to them last night,” said Reaver. “Wonder where Glassington is.”

  Just then, a coach emblazoned with an elaborate crest pulled into the yard.

  Augusta gave a disgusted snort. “There. His trappings were always of greater worth than the man.”

  Glassington scrambled down from his coach with a desperate lack of grace. He fell to his knees in the muddy slush. But soon, he regained his feet and ran toward Elder and his daughter.

  Elder turned at hearing his name shouted. A disagreement ensued in which Glassington claimed to be a changed man and Mr. Elder insisted he was a weak, scurvy knave with more cravat than sense.

  “This is not going to end well for Glassington,” Reaver observed.

  Augusta turned her gaze from the argument to him. “Why do you think so?”

  “An earl from Surrey is no match for a tradesman from Newcastle.”

  Not more than a minute later, Glassington lay with his backside in the muck, a bruise roughly the size and shape of Elder’s fist reddening his cheek. Miss Elder moved to help the prone peer, but her father grasped her elbow, said something that made her frown of concern transform into a frown of disgust, and led her willingly into the inn.

  Glassington struggled to his feet, rubbing his jaw and wincing. He looked about and spotted Reaver.

  Reaver smiled.

  Glassington blanched.

  “Should you kill him, or shall I, Reaver?” The question came from Shaw.

  “Nah,” he replied. “Killin’s too easy. Man like that should suffer.”

  “Mmm. You make an excellent point.”

  The inn door opened again and Phoebe appeared. Her eyes rounded as she spotted the earl, and she halted in place. Beside Reaver, Augusta made a sound of distress and started forward. He grasped her arm gently, tugging her back.

  “Oh, but …” When she spied Shaw striding purposefully to Phoebe’s side, she came back to Reaver, sliding her arm through his. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Right you a
re.”

  He grinned down at her.

  She gave him a prim smirk and lifted brow. “Savor it, my darling husband. For, you shall hear it rarely.”

  Then, together, they moved closer to the scene unfolding before the inn’s weathered door.

  “… suppose it might be best to continue on to Gretna,” Glassington muttered in morose tones. “We can be married there if Mr. Shaw and Mr. Reaver agree.” He turned his gaze to Shaw. “How soon might I expect the markers to be delivered?”

  “Hmm. Let me see,” said Shaw softly. “It takes four days to reach Scotland—five or six in the snow—then an additional four or six days for your return to London. So, if my calculations are correct, your markers will be delivered at half-past never.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Never. You will not receive the markers. You will pay the markers. Every. Single. One.” Shaw moved closer, angling to place himself between Phoebe and the earl. “Oh, and you will not be taking her to Gretna. You will not be marrying her at all.”

  “I—I won’t? But, I thought that was what she wanted.” He tilted his head to see past Shaw to Phoebe. “Your sister has plagued me for months.”

  Phoebe’s chin elevated in a distinctly Widmore way. “My sister believed you a gentleman. As did I. But gentlemen keep their promises. You have not.”

  His expression turned sullen. “I never promised you marriage.”

  “We both know that is a lie.” She sniffed. “Still, it is no longer of any importance. I would not marry you if you begged.”

  “Have a better offer, do you?” he sneered.

  “As a matter of fact”—she looped her arm through Shaw’s—“I do.”

  Shaw’s face was pure, possessive triumph.