CHAPTER SEVEN
“To train one’s servants adequately is an unenviable task rife with peril. Much like training children. Or intractable males of unusual stature.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter exploring the challenges of household staffing.
Anne was a maid-of-all-work and a very large woman. Wiry little Ash hadn’t a prayer.
“Leave off, I said! Ouch! That’s me arm ye’re twistin’, ye great cow!”
Splashing was followed by a thud and a clatter of metal buckets.
“Hold still, mouse, or I’ll be grabbing more than your arms.”
Augusta grinned as she sipped her tea at the kitchen table. Behind the screen she’d placed for the sake of Ash’s dubious modesty, more splashing preceded a gasp and sputter.
“Argh! I’ve soap in me eyes! How it burns. I’ve gone blind!”
“I haven’t used any soap yet,” grumbled Anne. “Now stop thrashing about before I fetch my spoon.”
“S-so’s you can pluck out me eyes?”
A snort. “No, mouse. So I can paddle your backside. Sit still.”
Anne was far more patient than Augusta had been. She glanced down at her own skirts, still damp from her attempts to tame the boy’s theatrics. She wanted to laugh but didn’t want to encourage him.
He needed a bath more than any child she’d ever seen. Who could guess what sort of vermin plagued him? Fleas, indeed. His unreasoning resistance had begun the moment she’d removed his cap. But she could hardly expect Mr. Reaver to keep Ash employed in his household if the boy was both filthy and infested.
She hoped to have at least ten servants hired by the time Mr. Reaver returned, though she hadn’t the foggiest sense of when that might be. He’d spent the previous night at his club. She knew because she’d spent the previous night lying awake in her astonishingly plush bed. Listening. Wondering. Remembering. Around three, she’d finally fallen asleep.
Taking another sip of tea, she brushed at a stray curl and sighed. Being his mistress was a more anxious occupation than she’d imagined.
A loud squawk from Anne echoed through the kitchen. Then came the ripping of cloth. Next, a pink, naked, dripping boy streaked from behind the screen and disappeared into the scullery.
Anne emerged, sopping wet and holding a torn, filthy shirt in her hand. Upon her broad features was an expression of fury.
“Oh, now, Anne. He is just a boy—”
“I am not angry with him, Miss Widmore.” The maid’s voice shook, as did her hand. “You must see his back.”
Cold dread sickened her stomach. She set down her cup and stood. “What is it?”
Anne stripped off her dripping mobcap and tossed it upon the table. Beneath, her hair was the color of almonds. “You must see for yourself.”
Augusta immediately headed for the scullery, intent upon doing just that. She didn’t see him at first. Then she heard a small sigh from inside a barrel.
“Ash,” she said, forcing her voice to remain firm. “Come out of there now. I’ve no time for this nonsense.”
“Don’t want to,” the barrel said.
“And I don’t want to ask Mr. Duff to load that barrel onto the next cart headed for market. But I will.”
“Ye’re a hard woman, Miss Widmore.”
“I am what I must be, to do what I must do.”
The barrel sniffed. “She tore me shirt.”
“Yes, well. If you hadn’t thrashed about like a feral cat, your shirt would be intact, would it not?”
Silence fell.
“Come now, Ash. Out with you. I have many tasks to attend.”
A slick, brown head slowly bobbed above the barrel’s rim. Then, a pair of dark eyes with droplet lashes. Small nose. Square chin.
Good heavens, the boy was handsome without all the grime.
“Come along,” she said crisply. “You’ve had your fun.”
On his narrow chest remained streaks of dirt. He pushed himself free of the barrel, climbing out and standing white, shivering, and dreadfully thin. His smallclothes remained, a disgrace to cloth and thread.
“Very good. Now, back into the bath, if you please. A bit of soap will do you good.”
“But—”
She held up a hand. “Not another word, boy.” Her hand swept toward the kitchen. “Go.”
Much to her surprise, he obeyed, his shoulders hunched as he trudged past her to the kitchen doorway.
She turned to view his back.
And had to cover her mouth to keep from shouting. Or weeping. Or retching.
The flesh was mottled and scarred, stained black and red and sickening yellow with bruises new and old. One mark, in particular, caught her eye.
It was shaped like a boot.
Ash disappeared into the kitchen. She heard Anne murmuring to him. The sound of water pouring.
She closed her eyes and bit down on her fist. Good God, she could still see it. The ribs protruding against his skin. He was a small boy, half-starved. Beaten.
Viciously, repeatedly beaten.
A sob built in her chest. She swallowed it down. Breathed until it squeezed back into place.
The last thing he needed was her pity.
Or the blast of molten fury gathering in her belly, scalding until all she felt was fire.
No, a boy who had suffered such treatment needed to feel safe. He needed her to be the Augusta he’d come to rely upon. Fortunately, she’d had a great deal of practice holding steady for Phoebe.
She opened her eyes and dropped her hand. Pictured wearing a shirt of chainmail and a suit of armor. Imagined a sword at her hip and an impenetrable helm upon her head.
There, now. Better.
In the distance, she heard Ash’s complaints about the soap followed by Anne’s reply that if he’d bother to wash more than once a year, the scrubbing would not be such a chore.
He would need a shirt, Augusta thought. Breeches, too. But for now, she would fetch him a shirt to wear once he was clean.
There were no other boys in the house, of course, and neither she nor Anne possessed anything suitable for him to wear. Only one other male lived here. Mr. Reaver might be a giant, but one of his shirts should suffice while she sent Anne to find new garments closer to Ash’s size.
Decision made, she strode through the kitchen, pausing briefly to don her gloves. In her mind, they were gauntlets.
She was glad to hear Anne’s pleasant humming and Ash’s silence. Glad she did not have to look upon his back again so soon.
Minutes later, she searched a neat stack of linen shirts in Mr. Reaver’s dressing room. They were all the same—finely stitched and voluminous. She shook one out and held it up to her own body before turning to the looking glass.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. On her, the hem would reach well past her knees. The neck would gape and expose her breasts.
An image of her wearing his shirt and nothing else flashed through her mind. For the briefest moment, she imagined how he might regard her in such a state, how those onyx eyes might singe and smolder before he …
“No need to pilfer my shirts, Miss Widmore.” The wry, rumbling comment came from her left. “I intend to take you for a dress fitting soon enough.”
He stood in the doorway to his bedchamber, one substantial shoulder braced against the frame, arms crossed, the toe of one boot propped casually beside the other. He looked as though he’d been there for hours. Watching her.
She swallowed and concentrated on folding his shirt. The glow in her belly and the sensations along her spine were simply surprise. That was all.
“I was not stealing from you, Mr. Reaver. I was borrowing. There is a vast difference.”
“Vast. Like Glassington’s markers, eh?”
Braving his hard, black gaze, she raised her chin. “Indeed.”
“What do you want it for?”
She cleared her throat. “Something to wear after bathing.” It was not a lie … precisely.
For a long while, Mr. Reaver fell silent. His eyes burned and dropped to her bosom just the way she’d imagined. And she wasn’t even wearing the thing. No, she was clutching it to her chest like a shield.
“Forever wearin’ gloves, Miss Widmore.” His voice had gone smoky. “Never seen you without them. Makes a man wonder why.”
Her chin rose. “I prefer it.”
A cynical smile curved his mouth as his eyes returned to hers. “A lady has soft hands, eh? No labor to mar her noble skin.”
He’d deliberately thickened his accent, dropping the H’s and flattening certain vowels until his speech resembled Ash’s.
She might have explained how erroneous his conclusions were, but what would be the point? His disdain for all things—and people—aristocratic was obvious. Besides, at the moment, she had more important matters to attend—namely, delivering his shirt to Ash while avoiding discovery by its owner. Then, she would begin interviewing servants. Ash could not hide in a household staff of two. The boy must remain well clear of Mr. Reaver’s notice, at least for now.
“Think whatever you prefer, Mr. Reaver.”
“I shall,” he grumbled.
“I am certain of it.”
“You’re a right nuisance.”
“Well, if my presence disturbs you, perhaps you should leave.”
“This is my dressing room.” He shoved away from the doorframe and came toward her, a great, black-eyed giant wearing a blue coat and no cravat. “And that is my shirt.”
Increasingly breathless, she tucked the folded linen behind her back and retreated a step. “I shall return it undamaged, I assure you.”
“It’s not the damage that disturbs me.”
He came around the washstand, dark and towering and scented by rain.
The door to her own dressing room touched her back. She felt for the knob. “What does, then? Perhaps I can set you at ease.”
He closed the space between them, leaving a mere breath. Now, she felt him like an electric storm, this massive man exuding power and heat.
His hand propped above her head. His breath brushed her cheek. “When it comes to you, Miss Augusta Widmore, nothing eases me.”
This close, the rumble of his voice shimmered against her skin. She met his eyes and sank deep, hooked and tethered inside. Darkness should be cold, she thought. But his wasn’t. It was meltingly hot, like caverns filled with the earth’s steam.
“I should like to see you wear my shirt.”
She was glad of the door, for she wasn’t certain she could stand without its support. “It would gape open,” she whispered. “It would be … indecent.”
“Aye. Indecent.”
Her head spun with the strangest sensation. It felt like falling. “M-Mr. Reaver.”
A blunt finger came up to stroke her cheek. “I like this.”
“What?”
“Your color. Like a rose bloomin’.”
“It is only because of your … provocations.”
Was his mouth closer? She thought it was.
“I think you like my provocations, Miss Widmore.”
He wasn’t wrong. Everything inside her hummed like a plucked string.
“Perhaps I do,” she confessed.
His jaw flexed into stone. Nose flaring, he crowded against her. Dropped his head beside hers. Breathed into the flesh of her neck.
She closed her eyes and felt his heat. The hardness of his chest easing into her. Flattening her and thrilling her, tight and sweet.
Wool and rain and man. Heat and muscle and weight. It was overwhelming. And not enough.
Warm lips slid against her skin. A raspy jaw caressed her. The contrast made her crave more. More soft. More rough. More him.
The gentle rap on the door brought them both to stillness. She did not wish to open her eyes. She wished to know what came next. Would he kiss her lips? Would he grip her waist? Would he lift her skirts?
“Psst. Miss Widmore,” came Anne’s loud whisper through the paneled wood. “It appears Mr. Reaver has returned. Best hurry. Also, the mouse has run loose again. Goodness knows where he’s off to.”
Drat and blast. A thousand curses upon Anne or anyone else causing the man surrounding her to cease what he’d been doing.
Despite her fervent desires, he eased away, leaving her cool and weak. By the time her eyes popped open, he’d pivoted toward his bedchamber, moving stiffly and running a hand over his head.
She had trouble catching her breath.
Another knock. “Miss Widmore?”
“Yes, Anne,” she managed. “I shall be down shortly. Thank you.”
Now, he stood with one hand braced upon the washstand, as though he needed to balance himself.
“I—I should go,” she said. “I must prepare for the interviews today.”
“No.” His voice was deeper, rougher than normal.
She sucked in a breath. Was he intending to continue what he’d started? Heat bloomed and ached in anticipation.
“Frelling will be here in an hour. He’ll do the hiring.”
She stiffened. Went colder. Caught her breath. “We had agreed that I—”
“There was no agreement,” he growled. “As usual, you simply declared what you would do. Frelling helps staff the club. He’ll have it done by tomorrow.”
Behind her back, she clutched Mr. Reaver’s linen. Ash needed the shirt, but more desperately, he needed the position she would give him. She could give him nothing unless she had control over staffing Mr. Reaver’s empty house.
“As I am to live here for another six weeks, Mr. Reaver, I’m afraid I must insist—”
He turned flashing black eyes upon her. “I said no.”
Chin rising, she informed him, “I have managed a large household before, you know. Perhaps it has been a few years—”
“Eleven.”
She blinked. How did he know? Had he made inquiries about her? Oh, good heavens. What else had he discovered?
“I’ve little doubt you could do it, Miss Widmore. You’re the most managing woman I’ve ever met. But I suspect you’d rather spend the day with your sister. She is at the club, and she’s taken ill.”
“Why in heaven’s name is she at the club?” Her tone was sharp, but Augusta did not care a whit.
He glowered at her. “She took exception to our agreement. Arrived at the front door, demanding to speak with me. When Shaw realized she was ill, he installed her in a private suite and summoned a physician—”
“A physician?” In her mind, she shrieked the word. Fortunately, it emerged merely as a horrified whisper.
“Aye. Frelling’s father-in-law, Dr. Young. He examined her yesterday afternoon—”
She groaned and covered her face with her free hand.
“What the devil?” Mr. Reaver barked. “Do you not care that your sister was wastin’ away in that rubbish heap of a lodging house?”
Lowering her hand, she released a chuckle. Even to her ears, it sounded bitter. “Care, Mr. Reaver? I’ve sacrificed everything to see her safe and well. Becoming your mistress is the least of it.”
Calculation returned to his gaze. Calculation and awareness.
“I should like to see her,” she said, ignoring the fluttering in her middle.
He nodded. “I’ll take you.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Perfectly necessary, Miss Widmore.” His tone brooked no argument.
And yet, she could not resist. “I shall take a hack.”
He pushed away from the washstand, stalking toward her. Again. “You’ll go with me, and that is that. I’ll not have you sneaking into my club, causing all manner of nuisance.”
“If you regard a lady’s intrusion into that hallowed masculine sanctum as such a nuisance, what possessed you to invite my sister to stay there?”
“I didn’t. That was Shaw.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Mr. Shaw invited her?”
“More like insisted.”
“Hmm. Well, Mr. Shaw is a true gentleman. He would not turn away a lady in distress, let alone haul her bodily to the front door—”
“Ten minutes, Miss Widmore. That’s when we leave. If you don’t fancy bein’ carried like a valise, I suggest you be in the entrance hall by then.”
God, why did he have to say it like that? Low and rumbly and commanding. He made her want to defy him just to see what he would do.
But that would not be wise. She must cease indulging these volatile longings and focus upon the things that mattered. Phoebe. And, if she could help him, Ash.
In the end, she felt for the doorknob behind her back, twisted and backed into her chamber. “I shall be there,” she said, still clutching his shirt.
As usual, his glower, far from inspiring fear, made her insides go soft and quivery. “See that you are.”
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