CHAPTER TWENTY
“Mornings are an excellent opportunity to set a proper tone. A kind word or affectionate gesture or humble apology soothes many aggravations a wife might suffer over the course of a day. Being awakened too early, for example. Or being married to a man.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining effective measures for achieving domestic tranquility.
Upon awakening in Sebastian’s bed the following morning, Augusta stretched and winced. Good heavens, she felt as though she’d been thrown from a horse and then washed an entire houseful of bedding.
It was glorious. She grinned, rolling onto her back and blinking at the light from the windows.
He’d loved her four … no, five times. The first two had blended together a bit. The last three had been slower. He’d been thorough. With his hands. With his mouth. Yes, most diligent, indeed, as though he’d had something to prove.
God, how she adored him, her rough man.
Nothing he’d done had much surprised her, apart from the extraordinary pleasure of it. Her mother had been a plainspoken, earthy woman, and she’d been adamant that, before her death, Augusta would be well informed about every aspect of womanhood and marital congress. At age eleven, Augusta had sat at her mother’s bedside, round-eyed and alarmed by her descriptions.
“He will touch you everywhere, Augusta.”
She’d gulped and dropped her gaze to her own flat bodice. “There?”
“When your bosoms grow, you will understand why it is pleasurable.”
“I don’t think I should like to have bosoms.”
Mama’s laugh had quickly turned into a terrible cough before she’d continued, “You shall feel pain the first time he beds you. A man worth having will ensure this is balanced by pleasure, but you should be prepared to endure the discomfort. It eases considerably after the first time or two.”
“D-discomfort?”
Mama’s gaunt features had gentled into a smile. “Choose a good man, my darling, and you will soon forget such pain occurred. Now, let us move on to childbearing.”
“Oh, must we?”
Augusta could still hear her mother’s laugh, feel the squeeze of her strong, capable hand, see the steadfast love in her eyes. Augusta smiled at the memory, knowing how well Mama would have liked Sebastian. Father would have approved as well, she thought. Particularly once he learned Sebastian stood to inherit a title. Father had wanted gentlemen—preferably titled ones—for his daughters. She’d meant to keep her promise to him that she would find a gentleman of quality for Phoebe.
Glassington might be titled, but he certainly wasn’t of quality.
She sighed and rolled over, wondering where Sebastian had gone. She wanted to speak to him about her sister. She quickly washed and dressed, donning a soft, gracefully draped gown of cerulean wool.
She found him in the morning room, sipping coffee and reading The Times, frowning past his spectacles. Phoebe was there, too, her lips colorless, her eyes dull. Augusta frowned. “Phee, have you lost your appetite again?”
Phoebe looked up. “I had chocolate and a bun.”
“No eggs? Perhaps some bacon?”
Phoebe shook her head.
“Come now, you must have more than—”
“Leave her be,” Sebastian said quietly, folding his paper and tucking his spectacles in his coat pocket.
Augusta blinked and raised a brow at him. “I beg your pardon.”
Phoebe scooted her chair back and stood. “I shall take tea and ginger biscuits in my chamber. Later, perhaps. Please excuse me.” She left, looking haunted and listless.
Gathering her breakfast and taking her seat beside her husband, Augusta waited until the footman had exited before saying in a low voice, “She must eat, Bastian. You know why.”
“Mmm. She also knows why.” He took a sip of his coffee and looked infuriatingly unfazed by her irritation.
“You don’t understand anything,” she snapped, her fork scraping hard against her plate as she cut into her baked eggs. “When we were at the lodging house, it was all I could do to persuade her to eat a bit of bread and butter. She was dreadfully ill—”
“Aye. Now she’s better. You’ve been managing her too long, Gus.”
“I do not manage her.”
He snorted.
She slammed her fork down and leaned closer to him. “I do not,” she hissed. “I care for her. She is my sister.”
“She’ll soon be a mother.” His eyes roved between her lips and bosom. “So will you be, should things continue as they did last night, eh?”
Heat bloomed everywhere—her belly, her breasts, her thighs, her skin. “Do not change the subject.”
“Love, where you’re concerned, that subject is always foremost in my thoughts. You are fortunate I restrained myself.”
“Restrained? Five times is restrained?”
Black eyes met hers. They were hard and feverishly hot. “Aye.”
Good heavens. She could scarcely catch her breath. “Bastian.”
“Stop temptin’ me, Gus. I’d wager you’re too sore for the consequences.”
“How am I tempting you? I simply spoke your name.”
“Precisely.” He glowered. “Perhaps I should go to the club.”
Her vexation with him returned. “It is the morning after our wedding. You will stay here, where you belong.”
“There you go tempting me again. Best finish your breakfast, love. You keep on like this, you’ll need the sustenance.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve done nothing remotely provocative—mmph!”
He’d grasped her nape and pulled her into a kiss before she could finish a sentence. He tasted of coffee and lust. When he released her, her gown felt too warm and too tight and … oh, how she wanted him.
“Bastian,” she panted against his mouth.
“Aye, love,” he replied, stroking a sensitive little spot at the back of her skull, just above her nape. He sent shivers rippling down her spine.
“I am worried for Phoebe.”
“I know.”
“I want to help her.”
He kissed her once more, this time with sweet, slow tenderness. “We will. I’ve a plan.”
“Tell me.”
He sighed. Chuckled. Released her nape. “You are the most obstinate woman I have ever known, Augusta Kilbrenner.”
She smiled, hearing the pleasure in his voice. “It has served me well.”
He answered with a grunt. Then, he sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “The woman Glassington plans to marry.”
“An heiress. Yes?”
“Aye. Her name is Miss Elder. I plan to speak to her father this afternoon. If the man has any sense, he will prevent the marriage.”
Hope—a frightening degree of hope—swelled in her chest. “Do you—do you think it will work?”
“Depends. Shaw mentioned he spotted Miss Elder and Glassington by chance outside a shop on Piccadilly a short while ago. Said she appeared smitten.” He shrugged. “Her father intends to purchase her a title, that much is clear. If the cost is her misery—”
She nodded, nibbling her lip. “Yes, I agree. Unless he bears her a great affection, he may ignore your warnings in favor of making his daughter a countess.”
“What would your father have done?”
Blinking, she considered his question. “Father wanted us safe and happy. Although he believed a title would give us the best chance at the first, he would have wanted us to have both, title or no.”
Sebastian nodded. “He would not have approved of Glassington.”
“No, I expect not.”
Ash entered, carrying a fresh pot of tea. He set it on the table with a clatter and released a dramatic breath. “Mighty ’eavy pot, Lady Reaver. Whew! I might need another slice of bacon, if ye can spare it for a poor, small lad what works ’is fingers to the bone.”
Augusta raised a brow. “Have you completed your tasks in the kitchen?”
“Every one. I carried in wood. I swept the floor. I even cleaned some pots.”
Her eyes narrowed upon him. “And the stables?”
He shifted his feet and dropped his gaze. “Might be a task or two left.”
“Such as?”
“Tendin’ the stalls.”
She waited.
“And cleanin’ the saddles.”
She suppressed a smile. The boy was incorrigible. “Have you entered the stables at all this morning, Ash?”
“Nah.”
“Did you spend the entire night in your bedchamber?”
His sweet little chin went up. “Aye, indeed, Lady Reaver. I promised, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” she said gently, unable to stop herself from stroking his hair. “Very well, you may have more bacon. But I expect you to complete your duties in the stables. And do not run off, understand? You must tell Mrs. Higgins when you have finished.”
As usual, he ceased paying attention the moment she gave him what he wanted. He dashed to the sideboard and filled a plate bigger than his head with a pile of bacon, then returned to the kitchen.
Beside her, Sebastian stood. He bent and kissed her mouth with a bit more fervor than she’d been expecting. She moaned and melted, grasping the back of his head and pulling him tighter against her.
But he drew away to gaze into her eyes. “I must go. You make me want too much, woman.”
“I do?”
“Aye. You’re bloody wondrous.”
She blinked, her throat tightening. “I am?”
“You are, love.”
“Will you be here for dinner?”
“I will.”
“Because I want you home as soon as possible.”
“Is that so?”
“Luncheon, even.”
He kissed her again.
“Or—or midmorning tea.”
And again.
“Now, Bastian. We could go upstairs now—”
He kissed her one last time, grinned wickedly, and stroked her cheek. “I like when you call me Bastian.”
“It is how I think of you,” she confessed in a whisper. “My bastion. A fortress of stone surrounding me.”
“God, love. I’ll be takin’ ye right here on the table if ye don’t stop temptin’ me.”
“Oh. Am I meant to object?”
He pulled away, the skin upon his cheeks and jaw tight and flushed. “Bloody, bleeding hell, Gus.”
As he stalked from the morning room, his pantaloons offering flagrant proof of his desire, she called, “I shall see you at dinner.”
A grunt was his only reply.
*~*~*
Outside an absurdly ostentatious house on the edges of Mayfair, Reaver watched his breath plume in the frigid air and glared hard at Shaw. “What the devil was that?”
Shaw settled his hat tighter on his head and raised a brow. “To what are you referring?”
“Ye bloody well made a muck of everything.”
A sniff. “One man’s opinion. I would say I made a fair and reasoned argument.”
“You told the man his daughter stood no chance of landing a title like Glassington’s, should he refuse to allow the match.”
“Which is true. You did not see her, Reaver. Sallow skin. Teeth better suited to Colonel Smoots, there.” He nodded at Reaver’s horse.
Reaver ran a gloved hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Elder hastens the wedding now.”
“In fairness, Glassington is precisely the sort of gentleman he set out to leg-shackle. Titled and desperate.” He shrugged. “Who can blame a father for wanting—”
“When I told him of Glassington’s tendency to seduce and abandon virtuous young ladies, you said he should prevent disaster by locating a clergyman at once.”
“Sound advice.”
“Then you implied Glassington would ‘mature’ once he was married.”
“It could happen. Some men do.”
“What am I to tell Augusta?”
Shaw glanced down at his boots. His fists tightened and loosened. His lean jaw hardened. When he raised his eyes, they were blazing. “Tell her Phoebe should never marry that miserable pile of dung.”
Stunned by Shaw’s cold ferocity, Reaver studied the man with whom he’d built an empire. The man who had been his best friend since their docker days. Unlike Reaver, he never suffered black moods or untoward restlessness. His passions were limited to British ships, excellent tea, and the club. Reaver assumed Shaw had bedded many women, but they rarely discussed it. Shaw never boasted of his conquests or even mentioned them. And, above all, he was not sentimental. Moments earlier, Reaver would have sworn that to Shaw, no woman merited obsession.
Evidently, one woman had changed his mind.
“God, Shaw. The babe is not yours. Have you considered—”
“But she is mine. She is.”
“Have you asked her what she wants?”
“Have you?”
Reaver frowned. He hadn’t. He’d assumed Phoebe wanted Glassington to marry her and do right by the child.
“She is in love with me,” Shaw said, his voice stark.
Reaver did not bother to ask how Shaw felt. The raw emotion on his face was like looking in a mirror. “If she agrees to marry you, none of it will be easy. You understand that better than most. But it will be doubly hard for the child. Are you ready for what’s to come?”
“No man can gainsay me once Phoebe and I are wed. So long as I claim it, the child will be mine. Legally.”
“Shaw.”
His voice grew quiet. Deadly. “And she will be mine.”
“You’re not thinking clearly, man.”
“Do you suppose I do not know how we will be scorned?” His voice, now a lash, cut with precision. “I have spent my entire life being told my place. I have spent my life clawing for what I want, spiting them all.”
“I know. I fought at your side.”
“Yes. And sometimes you carried me.”
“You did the same.”
“Nothing means anything without her, Reaver. Bloody nothing.”
Reaver dropped his gaze to the frost beneath his feet. He huffed and shook his head, watching the vapor roil out and up. “Aye.” He took a deep breath. “What do you intend to do?”
“I will fight.”
“Does she wish to be won?”
“She will.”
Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, Reaver looked at his daft, besotted friend. “Very well. If you can persuade her, then I’ll help where I can.”
“Thank you, Reaver.”
“Aye. You’ll be cursing me for letting you pursue this madness when Augusta discovers your plan.”
“She cannot stop it.”
Reaver laughed loud and deep as he turned to mount his horse. Colonel Smoots shifted restlessly beneath him before settling. He was a good horse, big and sturdy.
“Ah, Shaw. Never took you for a fool. You haven’t any idea what’s coming your way. God help us both.”
*~*~*