CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“When conversing with a lady, beware of descending into long, brooding silences. A young woman tends to spin elaborate fancies that you are composing sonnets in her honor, when in truth, you are contemplating either how long you must wait to bed her (most likely) or how long you must wait to have your second port (slightly less likely). Such misunderstandings are best avoided.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter filled with cautions for a gentleman seeking a wife.
He’d managed one supper. One long, torturous supper with Augusta Widmore. He hadn’t returned to his house since.
Of course, the place scarcely resembled his house. There were carpets on the floors, draperies on the windows, chairs and tables and sofas everywhere he turned. All of it was rather pleasing, he supposed. He appreciated that most pieces were straight and sturdy, substantial enough to hold him without cracking. He’d sat at the dining table, comfortable in the wide, cushioned chair.
Until she’d entered. Then, he’d been deeply uncomfortable. Hard and ready in seconds. She’d worn a gown with faded green stripes. It had been washed numerous times. It was designed to wear with a fichu. She hadn’t worn a fichu.
And he’d scarcely been able to speak, let alone eat.
Now, days later, he was equally uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because his head was crammed near the ceiling of the coach. It was because Augusta sat across from him, wearing her worn, brown pelisse and a prim, pursed expression. By all rights, she should be the last woman to torture a man with lust.
But she did. God, how she did. He dreamt of removing her gown. Or not. Perhaps just lifting her skirts and taking her upon his desk or against a wall or on one of those substantial sofas. Several times should do it. Thereafter, he could go slowly. Strip her bare. Explore those sumptuous—
“It has been three days since we have spoken,” she said tartly. “Can you not muster a word of conversation?”
No. No, he couldn’t.
Nothing was working. Not his laboring. Not sparring with Duff, who hadn’t stopped complaining about his ribs for two days. Not even the measures he’d resorted to as a randy youth.
Reaver’s tension pounded so loudly inside him, his skin vibrated like a never-ending drum.
“Mrs. Bowman was quite pleasant when she came to take my measurements last week,” Augusta said, evidently deciding to carry on the conversation alone. “I was surprised to learn she hails from Rome, though she spent much of her youth in Toscana. Florence, to be precise. Ever since reading one of my father’s books about the region, I have desired to see it. Remarkable paintings and statuary. Architecture. We spoke at length about its wonders. Did you know the city has a rich history of cloth-making? Wool and silk, mainly. I had read about the moneylending, of course, but not about the textiles.”
He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was saying. He watched her lips—those wide, sensuous lips—and wondered how he was going to survive the next few hours without kissing them.
“Sebastian.”
Aye. He liked the way she spoke his name.
“Mr. Reaver!”
“What?”
“Have you nothing to say?” Gray eyes snapped with annoyance.
He tightened his jaw and forced himself to look elsewhere. Out the window would do. “We are here,” he said.
Her sigh was loud and telling.
As they entered the blue-draped shop, he noted the stiffness in her posture. Augusta appeared to relax when the dark-haired dressmaker with the lilting accent and wild gestures greeted her and drew her toward a small, curtained area. Reaver made to follow, but Mrs. Bowman held up an imperious finger.
“No, no, no, Mr. Reaver. Wait here.”
He glowered his displeasure.
“We shall return, and you may see the gowns one by one. Mary will fetch you tea. Mary!”
A harried blonde assistant scurried forward.
“Fetch Mr. Reaver tea.”
“I don’t want tea.”
Mrs. Bowman fluttered her fingers at the assistant, who exited through a curtained archway. Once again, she raised that imperious finger at Sebastian, pointing toward a settee a few feet away. “Wait,” she commanded.
Augusta, meanwhile, shot a prim smirk over her shoulder as the dressmaker ushered her past the curtain.
Bloody-minded females. He sat on the edge of the delicate silk settee, crossed his arms, and tried not to imagine Augusta being undressed piece by piece. The assistant delivered him tea, which he didn’t drink. She then offered him biscuits, which he didn’t eat.
He ran a hand down his face, wondering again how best to persuade Augusta to become his wife before madness set in. He’d queried Frelling a second time, hoping the man proved a more competent advisor in matters of wooing than he’d been initially.
“Perhaps an outing, Mr. Reaver,” his secretary had suggested.
“To where?”
“She’s lived in Hampshire her entire life. Show her some of what London has to offer. Even in winter, it is filled with delightful entertainments.”
“Such as?”
“Take her to a play. I understand Edmund Kean is excellent. Or perhaps a visit to the British Museum to see the marbles. Or a carriage ride to Berkeley Square. Gunter’s tea is really quite decent.”
“Tea.”
“Some people adore tea. Not you, of course, but Miss Widmore does seem to favor it.”
“Hmmph.”
“The point is to tailor your entertainments to her preferences. Mrs. Frelling advises enhancing your acquaintance a bit.” When he’d looked baffled, Frelling had clarified, “Learn what she enjoys. Then, you may demonstrate how well you listen by offering—”
“Bloody hell, Frelling. I haven’t time for all that.”
“Urgency is understandable, sir. We all have felt similar—”
“Not like this.”
“Have you considered simply … asking her? To marry you, I mean.”
That was when Reaver had given up entirely on Frelling. The man was an excellent secretary. But his wooing advice fell woefully short.
Reaver’s agreement with Augusta expired in three weeks. He hadn’t time for lengthy outings and conversations about her favorite dessert. He needed a bloody a shortcut. Drayton had not yet replied with news about her connection to Glassington, and until he knew why she intended to blackmail the useless worm into marriage, he suspected no strategy would work, whether short or long.
Sighing, he rested against the back of the settee. Upon hearing a warning creak, he resumed his previous position. God, how he hated waiting. Over the years, he’d become good at it. But that did not make him loathe it any less.
“Thank you for your patience, Mr. Reaver,” said Mrs. Bowman as she swept aside the drapery to reveal a silk-garbed Augusta. “What do you think?”
He couldn’t think. She was beautiful. Gowned in silver, shimmery silk with some sort of sparkling overlay upon the skirt, she glowed. Simply glowed. Her eyes shone deeper. Her skin appeared luminous. Her breasts rounder. Her hands … gloved.
Mrs. Bowman continued, “The gown is silver satin. Six folds define the bodice and small puff sleeves. It also has spangles sewn onto an outer skirt of sheer silk gauze. White embroidery in a tiny dot pattern adds to the—”
“Remove the gloves,” he said, his voice down to a thread.
Augusta raised a russet brow. “I will not. These are French kid. Besides, gloves are part of the ensemble.”
He would have pressed his argument, but she turned on her heel and returned to the dressing area.
Over the following two hours, Reaver endured temptation after temptation. The ball gowns and evening frocks seemed designed to torture a man obsessed with her breasts—him, in other words. Even the green walking gown and blue pelisse and gold day dress were oddly alluring. Every frock fitted her lovingly, accentuating the length of her arms and the slenderness of her shoulders. All the colors—none of which were wash-worn brown, he noted—highlighted some feature. The wide curve of her lips. The rich red of her hair. The soft gray of her eyes.
God, he wanted her.
Right bloody now.
And he wanted to know why she always wore gloves, even with the simplest, long-sleeved white morning gown. The dressmaker herself had looked askance at that one. Reaver had noted the gloves she wore were her own, the leather thin and stained along the fingertips.
“This one is special, Mr. Reaver,” called Mrs. Bowman from behind the blue draperies. “I save the most exquisite for last, yes?” She swept aside the curtain.
Revealing a vision.
It was Augusta, with her russet hair gently curling out of its confines, gowned in silk the precise shade of ripe raspberries. Her skirt and bodice shimmered in the waning gray light. More spangles, he supposed. But all he could see was her face, her form, her hair, her eyes, her … everything. The radiant hue was so unexpected against her pale skin it was like seeing the sky go from blue to brilliant crimson in a blink. Stunning. She was stunning.
“Ah, I see you approve, Mr. Reaver. I have a bit more of this silk if you would like—”
“Leave us,” he ordered, watching Augusta’s eyes flare and fire, her lips part.
“There is the matter of the bill—”
“Send it to the club. Leave us.”
The dressmaker departed without another word, taking her assistants with her.
“Sebastian,” Augusta whispered into the silence, her bosom rising and falling at a rapid pace.
He shoved to his feet, ignoring the groan of the settee. “Remove your gloves, Augusta.”
They were white silk, extending past her elbows.
Her chin tilted to a proud angle. “We have already discussed this.”
“You refused.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“None of your concern.”
Now, he must know the reason. His curiosity fired hotter than Hades. “I wish to see your hands.”
She sniffed. “Don’t be silly. They are simply hands.”
“Then, show me.”
Gray eyes sparked with temper. “An uneven bargain, I daresay. You wish me to remove my gloves. What do you intend to remove, Mr. Reaver?”
Oh, now she’d done it. Like the opportunist he was, he closed the distance between them and moved in for the kill. “Anything you like, Miss Widmore. Name your price.”
*~*~*
Blast. She should have refused and demanded he leave her alone to don her faded gown and worn pelisse. Instead, after hours of feeling him burn her alive with his black gaze, after days of missing his rumbling voice and enormous hands, she had let her temper thwart her good sense.
She did not want him to see her hands, dash it all. But she did want to see him. So much that it might be worth her pride.
Breathless and overwarm, she examined the man from dark head to booted feet. She stood on a small dais, making the difference in their heights less exaggerated and giving her a better view. He wore a cravat. A waistcoat of fawn silk. A tailcoat of deep blue wool. Of late, his attire had grown increasingly fine, as though he’d decided if his house was to be furnished, he should dress accordingly.
Her gaze fell to his brown pantaloons. She supposed she might ask him to remove them. Surely he would decline such an outrageous proposal and abandon this foolish demand to see her hands. Pressing her lips together, she swallowed as she eyed the shadowy muscles of his thighs.
Probably best to keep his lower half out of the discussion. For now.
No, if she were honest, the part of him she most longed to see was the upper half. The shoulders. The chest. The belly. The arms. All bared to her.
“Your shirt,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes from said shoulders.
“My shirt?” His tone was either amusement or surprise. Perhaps both.
“Mmm. That is what I want. Your shirt.”
“Fancy them, don’t you? At least you’re askin’ rather than takin’ this time.”
Now that she’d suggested it, the desire to see him without a shirt had expanded out of all proportion. She tried to imagine what he would look like. Muscular and impossibly big. She’d seen renderings of statuary that might come close.
“Very well,” he rumbled. “Your gloves for my shirt.”
No, even statuary was not solid enough. Vital enough. Big enough.
“I’ll go first, eh?” He untied his cravat with impatient tugs, tossing it onto the settee. “Bloody thing was strangling me anyway.”
Her eyes were held prisoner by his hands, riveted by his every motion. Distantly, she replied, “Then why wear one?”
He answered with a grunt.
Next went his coat. Then his waistcoat, unbuttoned with the same deft efficiency he’d shown when she’d interrupted his work at Number Five. Finally, he wore only the white linen shirt.
He grasped the hem. Lifted it over his head.
And her knees nearly buckled. Oh, dear heavens. Not like statuary. Not like she’d imagined. Not even close.
Great slabs of muscle swelled and rippled from neck to waist. His shoulders, which would be wide simply by virtue of massive bones, were surely doubled by hard, rounded—
“Augusta.”
—slopes of muscle, which bulged again along his biceps—
“It is your turn.”
—and forearms. She’d seen his lower arms already, of course. Liberally dusted with black hair. Rippling with strength every time he flexed his hands. His chest was the same. Black hair. Visible, shocking power. She wanted to touch him. So badly, her fingertips tingled.
“For God’s sake, woman. Do ye intend to keep your word or not?”
Her gaze flew up to his. His cheekbones were a bit ruddy, his eyes like molten glass. “My …?”
“The gloves. Your part of the bargain.”
Stomach sinking, she glanced at her hands, heat receding in favor of dread. For years, she’d fought to hide what they revealed. How desperate her life had been. How far she’d allowed the Widmore legacy to fall. Her father would have wept to see what she’d been reduced to, though she hoped he would understand. She’d had little choice. To protect Phoebe, she had done many things no gentlewoman with an ounce of pride would do.
Including sneaking into a gentleman’s club and making outrageous bargains with its owner.
Her eyes rose again, exploring his face. The sharp, rerouted blade of a nose. The onyx eyes and square, shadowed jaw. A deep crease between black brows signaled his aggravation.
She’d been more than fortunate to find Sebastian Reaver seated behind that oak desk, rather than some other man—Lord Glassington, for example. Honor of Sebastian’s sort was not bestowed with a title or a name. It was born. Then earned.
For her, it had been a miracle.
Swallowing, she nodded. “Very well.” A whisper was all she could squeeze past a tight throat.
Slowly, she tugged her fingers loose of worn leather. Unbuttoned the wrists. And slid the gloves free.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. She knew how her hands looked, of course. Red. Roughened. Callused. Some of her fingernails were cracked and torn, though they’d lengthened since she’d been in London.
He reached for her hands.
She stumbled back, hiding them behind her.
“Augusta.”
With a shake of her head, she forced herself to meet his eyes, raising her chin and straightening her posture. “You asked to see them. Now you have.”
She could not read his expression. Onyx had hardened until it appeared cold.
He stepped onto the dais, his head tilting subtly. “Our bargain was for the gloves. Do ye intend to renege?”
“I removed them.”
“I want them.”
Her chest tightened all the way to her throat. Her lower lip began to tremble, but she firmed it up. “I want your shirt.”
He nodded toward the settee. “It’s there. Take it.”
“Don’t be foolish. What will you wear beneath your other garments? How absurd to go about naked but for a cravat and waistcoat and—”
“Give me the gloves, Augusta.”
Her breathing hitched and shuddered. She gritted her teeth. Pictured her armor—layers of chain mail and steel plate. It wasn’t working. All she could see were his eyes, black and deep. Hard with resolve.
Although dread froze her inside, she knew she must give him what he demanded. She had promised. Perhaps she’d done things no gentlewoman would do. But she’d never shamed the Widmore name by breaking her word. It was a small thread with which to anchor her pride. It was all she had.
She extended the gloves to him.
He took them and captured her wrist in one swift motion. Tugging her toward the dressing table where a lamp burned, he caressed her bare arm up and down, gently turning her hand over and over. His thumb tested the calluses. Stroked the roughened knuckles. Soothed the skin she could never seem to soften.
“What have ye done to yourself, love?”
She could not bear it. Her forehead fell against his heavy, muscled biceps. She crushed a sob before it could emerge. Squeezed her eyes shut.
He pulled her fully against him. Wrapped her up tight in a furnace of heat and hard flesh. Whispered against her hair, “Tell me.”
She managed to contain the tears, but a small whimper escaped. “I don’t want to.”
“Aye.” His deep, quiet rumble vibrated through his chest into her cheek. Big hands stroked her nape and back. “Do it anyway.”
“I take in laundry.”
“Laundry? Ye have a living from your father. Is it not enough?”
“No. We have … we are … p-poor.”
He waited.
She listened to his heart thudding rhythmically through muscle and bone. The loud beat slowly synchronized with hers. Calming. Steadying. “When my father died, he set aside dowries for my sister and me. But my uncle inherited everything else. The house. The lands. The title. He is … dishonorable.”
Strong arms tightened and flexed. “Dishonorable in what way?”
How to explain without inviting pity? She’d lived through it, and even to her, the tale seemed pathetic. But he did not let her go, did not loosen his hold, and slowly, as his heat warmed her and his patience gave her room to remember, she told him the truth and hoped he might understand. He was, after all, an extraordinary man.
“My mother died the year Phoebe turned three. A fever. She was strong. Capable. I never thought she would go. But she did. Phoebe … needed me. And Father was … His grief was all he could manage.”
“So, you took command.” He said it as if there was no other conclusion.
She nodded against him, her hands sliding down to rest at the sides of his waist. “I had to. There was no one else. I managed the household. Comforted Phoebe. Our governess was useless. I dismissed her.”
“You were eleven.”
“A fact she never let me forget. Phoebe cried every time I left her alone with the woman. She spoke to me rudely and ignored my commands. I dismissed her without a reference.”
“Hmmph. I’d expect nothing less.”
“In any event, Father’s grief eased in time. He saw that I had done an admirable job managing things, so he encouraged me to continue with the household. But he did resume his ordinary duties—lease negotiations, collecting rents, and such. I enjoyed those tasks, as well, but truthfully, I was relieved. It is difficult for a thirteen-year-old girl to be taken seriously on estate matters.”
He grunted. His arms tightened again, his hands cupping her neck and lower back. Surrounding her. Protecting her.
Her own arms encircled his ribs, her hands sliding to a stop beside the buckle at the back of his waistband. Of its own accord, her thumb stroked the smooth skin just above the wool.
“When he sickened,” she continued in a whisper, “I was so afraid, Sebastian. So afraid. But I could not let Phoebe see.”
She felt his lips in her hair. His chin resting upon her crown.
“Before he died, he set aside funds for us. Dowries, he said. He wished us to find good husbands. Phoebe, especially.” She smiled, recalling the conversation. “He said, ‘I expect you shall be either a duchess or Prime Minister within a year or two, Gus.’” She chuckled. “Gus. That’s what Phoebe called me when she was very small, before she’d mastered multiple syllables. Father liked it so well, he …” She swallowed against a sudden welling of grief. “In any case, he was not as concerned for me as he was for her. I was seventeen and had been managing the house for six years. Phoebe was nine and about to be an orphan.”
“You were an orphan, too.”
“I suppose I was. But I hadn’t time to dwell upon such things. My uncle took possession of the estate straight away. He was our guardian, at least until we married or reached our majority, and although he could not touch our dowries, he could create difficulties for us. Our home became his. We lived there by his leave. We relied upon him for our sustenance. To marry before we came of age would have required his consent.”
“He is dishonorable, you said. Explain.”
Her hands gripped his waistband, her knuckles digging into hard muscle. “His wife, Georgiana, became Lady Widmore, of course. To her, we were a burden. A reminder that the title had first belonged to our mother. Apparently, they did not get along, for I had never met her before she came to live at Binchley Manor. Her resentment was clear from the start. Bitterly so.”
“What did she do?”
“In the beginning? Petty things, really. She moved us from our chambers to a single room near the servants’ quarters. She insisted that we empty our own chamber pots and haul our own water and build our own fires.” Augusta smiled. “Our housekeeper, Mrs. Gandy, refused to allow it. Secretly, she assigned us two maids.” Her smile faded. “When Georgiana found out, she dismissed Mrs. Gandy. Such a kind woman to be treated in such a scurrilous manner.” Augusta sighed. “I wrote her a letter of reference. She obtained a position in Winchester within days. We still correspond from time to time.”
“What did your uncle have to say about all this?”
Augusta breathed deeply the scent of Sebastian’s skin—soap and air and man. The hair on his chest tickled her cheek. She wondered if he was chilled, whether she should release him so he could dress. Her hands refused. Her cheek assured her he had heat enough for both of them.
“Sir Phillip said if I did not care for my accommodations at Binchley, I could leave. Of course, he knew very well I had nowhere to go. No funds of my own. No way of earning a living except perhaps as a governess, which would have required leaving Phoebe behind. Other means of employment for a seventeen-year-old girl were … less palatable.”
Sebastian stiffened against her, his chest and arms flexing. “He knew yet did nothing, then.”
“Yes. In character, my uncle and my father were quite different. I believe, in the end, Father hoped we would be shown gentlemanly courtesy. But Sir Phillip sought only to please Georgiana, and she had taken a liking to our discomfort.”
He grunted. Well, perhaps it was more of a growl.
She sighed, bewilderingly calmed by the contact with his skin. Ordinarily, remembering the time after her father’s death sent her charging off to find a distraction—polishing the stairs, tending the garden, sewing a gown for Phoebe. But his solidness was akin to oak, thick and deeply rooted. It surrounded her. Sapped whatever poisons the memories held.
“In time, discomfort no longer satisfied her,” Augusta whispered. “Her cruelties … worsened. I quickly learned to hide the pain, for it seemed to fill her with a strange fire.” She closed her eyes, gripping him harder. “Phoebe was too young. She c-cowered. Begged. Which only made Georgiana … I don’t know how to describe it. Gleeful, I suppose. Triumphant.”
“God Almighty, love.”
“I knew I must protect Phoebe. Get her away from Georgiana. I could not simply marry and leave her there.”
“How long? How long did this go on?”
“Three years and five months. At first, I expected Georgiana to tire of her games and order us from our home. She did not. She enjoyed it and sought to keep Phoebe there.”
“You waited until you were one-and-twenty.”
She nodded. “Sir Phillip no longer had control of my dowry. I did. I could leave, and he could not compel me to return. But he remained Phoebe’s guardian. So I made a bargain.”
His chest rose and fell on a sigh. “You gave him Phoebe’s dowry.”
“Yes. In exchange for Phoebe. I had the better part of that bargain, I assure you.”
“What of your dowry?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Ah. Your cottage, eh?”
“I wished to own it. I wanted no man to have dominion over us again. Not even a landlord.”
“But your funds ran out.”
“Eventually, yes. We have a small amount from my investments, but I have used it exclusively to replenish Phoebe’s dowry.”
“So, you take in laundry.”
“Yes. And sewing. I also tutor a boy and girl from time to time.”
“And that is why your hands—”
“Resemble a scullery maid’s. They are not the hands of a lady, that much is certain.”
“Augusta.”
“Hmm?”
“I sent a man to Upton Downs.”
“My village? Why?”
“A strange woman was determined to invade my club; I would be daft not to discover more about her, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose.”
“Now, explain why none of your neighbors mentioned you took in laundry.”
“They don’t know.”
“How is that?”
“I taught a washwoman to read. In exchange, she serves as an intermediary, delivering the laundry and the funds. She also assists me occasionally. I was ill for several days once. She was most helpful. Her name is Ann, like your housekeeper, but without an E. Ann Bishop.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell, Augusta.”
“There is no need for vulgarity.”
“There damn well is. You should not be taking in laundry.”
“A lady does not labor. I know.” The shame of it thinned her voice to a thread.
She felt him kiss the crown of her head then slowly slide his arms from around her. She clung, unable to let him go. But he grasped her arms and set her away.
Being denied contact with his skin left her in cold desolation, like being thrust from fireside into a blizzard. The contrast was deeply unpleasant. Disorienting.
He took her hands in his, stroked them as he had before. “God, woman. I’ve never known anybody like ye.”
She swallowed, her eyes riveted upon their hands. His, dusky and massive. Hers, reddened and small. “I might say the same, Mr. Reaver.”
Tugging her closer to the dressing table, he pulled her in front of him. “Turn and look. Look how extraordinary you are.”
She looked. And saw a woman wearing a gown of dark, brilliant pink. The color should clash with her hair. It didn’t. It shimmered in the lamplight. Her hand brushed the flowers on the skirt. Embroidered silk. She’d never possessed anything so fine, even when her father had been alive.
“Do you see?” he demanded, his voice a rasp.
Her eyes lifted to meet his in the mirror. There, in the black, the intensity nearly drove her to her knees. “Sebastian.”
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Understand? No lady could match ye. By God, you are a thousand times their worth, Gus. A thousand times.”
She longed to kiss him. Hold him. Feel him against her. “I want to touch you,” she said.
His nostrils flared on a rough breath. “Then do it.”
Slowly, gently, she laid her hands upon his chest. Hard muscle and smooth skin and straight, springy hair. Her fingers pressed. Tested. Her palms smoothed. Stroked.
Hard, flat nipples fascinated her. Bellows breathing excited her. Drumming heartbeats invited her.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and found her way home again.
He cupped her head against him. “Never be ashamed of your hands, love. They are strong. Capable. Like your mother’s, eh?”
Tears sprang forth, not to be stopped. They spilled and washed between her cheek and his chest.
“Those hands have comforted your sister. Protected her. Built a life out of nothin’ but work and bloody-minded backbone. Hands like yours are most pleasin’ to a man like me.”
“They are not a lady’s hands,” she repeated, the echo ghostly and weak.
“Then I do not want a lady.”
Generations of Widmore pride lived in her blood and bones. And she had failed to sustain it, try as she might to disguise the truth from curious neighbors. Never before had a man’s opinion meant more to her than the shame of her poverty. But his did.
Sebastian Reaver was no gentleman. He cared nothing for one’s genteel status or, by contrast, signs that a noble family had fallen into ruin. He had no name to enhance, no legacy to maintain. He was a commoner. A tradesman. Indeed, should she ever marry, she could not do better than a husband like him.
The thought was a bolt of lightning, spearing through her from the middle outwards, bright and hot.
Husband.
Sebastian.
Yes. Oh, yes.
Dear heavens. Everything inside her clenched around the words. Husband. Sebastian. So brilliant and … right.
“Augusta. I should … take you home.”
She shook her head. Kissed his chest madly, over and over. His hair teased her nose. His scent and heat made her want more.
“Ah, God. Love, ye must stop.”
“Why?”
One strong arm anchored her lower back and forced her ribs and belly tighter against his hips and thighs. “Feel that?”
Her heart kicked and pounded. Good heavens. “Oh.”
“Aye.”
“Perhaps we could—”
“No.”
With dragging reluctance, she withdrew her arms and slipped from between him and the dressing table. “Very well,” she sighed, her fingers trailing against his ridged abdomen as she moved away.
His answer was to grunt and brace a hand on the dressing table as though needing to catch his breath.
She sniffed and went to the settee, using his cravat to dab her cheeks. At least, she pretended to. In reality, she gathered up the scent of him. Like a ninny in … love. Her mouth went dry. Her heart jumped, paused, then flew back into rhythm.
Love. Sebastian. Husband. Yes. Heavens, yes.
She needed to think. Contemplate how she might lure him into such an arrangement. Surely there was a way. More kisses, perhaps.
Later, she decided. Too many thoughts swarmed and spun. For now, she needed a distraction. She collected his garments, draping them neatly over her arm and presenting them to the glowering giant she … loved. Hmm. Yes. Love was precisely it. Perhaps adored. Desired, certainly.
He plucked up his shirt without a word.
“Take me home, then,” she said, attempting nonchalance.
Next was his cravat, tied carelessly. She reached to help him, but he brushed her hand away and snatched up his waistcoat.
“Promise me you will commission a taller carriage, Sebastian. The one you currently possess cannot be comfortable for you.”
As he shrugged into his tailcoat, tugging it into place across massive shoulders, he shot her a heated glare. “I haven’t been comfortable since the day I met ye, Augusta Widmore. A right nuisance, you are.”
This time, when he said it, she did not take offense. She blushed. And smiled, slow and breathless. Then, she began formulating a plan.
A plan to claim Sebastian Reaver as her own and give him a very comfortable life, indeed.
*~*~*