CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“During courtship, one’s appetites should be measured and restrained so as not to appear gluttonous. Coincidentally, such restriction often serves to stimulate a man’s appetite for matrimony.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter containing keen observations on the benefits of moderation.
Phoebe’s midnight incursion into Monsieur Leclerc’s kitchen was discovered just as she stuffed a buttered roll with honey and pepper into her mouth. Her eyes closed with satisfaction as the sweet, spicy combination burst upon her palate.
“Devil take it, Phoebe.”
Her eyes popped open. Lantern light flickered and swayed.
“What are you eating?”
She struggled to chew the large bite before answering Adam with a sheepish grin, “A roll?”
He came forward and placed the lantern on the table. Gently, he reached out and swiped a bead of honey from her chin. Then, he did the oddest thing—he licked the honey from his finger.
The sight flooded her body with heat. Unwarranted, unwanted, highly inadvisable heat.
“Mmm. Honey and … pepper?”
She swallowed. “I enjoy the juxtaposition.”
He glanced around the dark room. “And that is your fourth cup of chocolate.”
“I also enjoy chocolate.”
He sighed. Chuckled. Gave her a heady look through golden eyes. “That you do.”
“Dr. Young insists that I should satisfy my cravings.”
“Does he, indeed?”
Had Adam moved closer? She thought so. She could smell his arid scent, a combination of starch and something else. Dry and clean, perhaps even lemony. Her nose had been particularly sensitive of late. Some smells made her stomach churn. Others, like his, made her mouth water.
Of course, simply looking at Adam Shaw made her mouth water. She craved him more than honey and pepper and butter. More than hot, steaming chocolate. More than anything, ever.
And she could never have him. Because she must marry Glassington, who had to be blackmailed into accepting her as his wife. The misery was killing her.
She broke away from Adam’s seductive, gold-lit gaze and began tidying her mess. “What brings you to the kitchen at this hour?” she asked simply to have something to say.
“Reports of pilfered ingredients. Monsieur Leclerc asked me to look into the matter.”
“Pilfered?”
“Missing quantities of honey. Bread. Spices.” She felt him move against her back. His hands braced on the table beside hers, surrounding her in starch and lemon. Or perhaps sage. “Chocolate, in particular.”
His breath washed over her cheek. She closed her eyes, longing to sink back into his arms. “I do enjoy it very much.”
“Mmm.” He nuzzled her ear. “Have you considered ordering a pot before the staff retires for the evening?”
“A whole pot? That would be wasteful.”
“I don’t want you running about the club at night, Phoebe. Not all men are gentlemen.”
She wetted her lips. “I was careful.”
“Not careful enough. I spotted you from the second floor corridor.”
“That is only because you are always watching.”
His lips brushed her ear, washing her with his breath, damp and hot. “Yes. I cannot seem to help myself.”
She felt the same. Everything about this was wrong.
Yet desperately right.
“Phoebe,” he whispered, his hands moving to her waist.
It was too much. Too tempting and torturous, being with him like this. She slipped away. Rounded the table and breathed until it eased enough to be bearable.
A long silence later, he spoke, his voice cooled to a fine chill. “Tell me, if I were Lord Glassington, and I put my hands upon you, would you have pulled away?”
Her eyes flew to his, the room warping as firelight flickered and faded. She braced one hand on the table and the other upon her belly. She wondered if she might be sick. Bile choked her.
“Wh-What has Glassington to do with anything?” Her voice was a frayed thread.
“You tell me. All I know is that seeing him with another woman turned you the same the color you are now. Whiter than milk.”
She could not answer. Instead, she fisted the folds over her midsection.
“Why is that, Phoebe? What is he to you?”
Inside, something was devouring her. Gnawing away the last of the girl she’d always been. Good. Obedient. Kind.
The sort of girl who mistook Glassington’s frivolity for charm and fervent declarations for solemn vows. A girl who had wanted to please the one person who had loved her without question, without compromise. The one person who’d sacrificed everything so Phoebe could find ease and comfort—Augusta.
Phoebe had deceived herself for a time, of course. She’d been flattered by Glassington’s attentions, as any young woman would be, wooed by his name and title and handsome head of hair. But the truth was she’d never wanted him. Not really. And she’d certainly never loved him. Love was what Augusta had done—letting the storm batter her to bits so that Phoebe could be safe. So that Phoebe could be warm. So that Phoebe could marry and find happiness and have children and live a life of ease.
Loving someone meant standing in stinging rain and bellowing wind, knowing how much it hurt and doing it anyway. Because the one who needed shelter mattered more.
No, she’d never felt that for Glassington. She’d let him touch her. Kiss her. She’d let him put himself inside her, even though it had hurt. Even though she hadn’t wanted him there at all. She’d done it because he’d promised marriage, and that was Augusta’s dream for her.
She’d never loved him.
But she did love her child.
And, as she stood in Monsieur Leclerc’s kitchen gazing upon the man who had cared for her, worried for her, protected her, and created a shelter for her amidst terrible storms, she knew. She loved Adam, too. Her handsome “Indian chap,” as he’d called himself. She loved him. But she could not keep him.
“Lord Glassington is nothing to me,” she said now, grateful for the table’s bracing weight. “But he is important to Augusta.”
A cynical smile curved Adam’s lips. “He is an important man. A titled man.”
“Titled,” she whispered. “Yes.”
His gaze dropped to where his hands rested on the table, as dark as the wood. The corners of his mouth flattened. Tightened. “I could care for you, you know.”
So much lay in those few words. Everything. A life together, with all its hardships and endless beauty. Dark-skinned babes and mischievous gold eyes and late-night rounds of vingt-et-un. She could see their life.
And it tore her in half, one part sewn to her own dream, the other to Augusta’s. To her child’s.
She could not answer. Please, God, she thought. I cannot answer. Because she knew what the answer would be, and she could not bear to speak it.
“Say something.”
She could not. She could not. She could not.
But she must. He deserved better than her silence.
“Y-you have cared for me quite generously already, Mr. Shaw. I am most grateful.”
As the proud man before her froze over, her heart split and bled until she wanted to wail her anguish. To beg his forgiveness.
Instead, she was forced to watch the man she loved smile a small, bitter smile and bow a shallow, mocking bow. “A pleasure to be of service, miss.”
For a long while after he left, she could not move. Then, she began to shiver. And slide. Until she sat on stone, huddled and gasping, wondering if there would be anything left of her after this storm battered her to bits.
*~*~*
“There ye are, Mr. Reaver,” Rude Markham set two tankards on the table, one in front of Reaver and one in front of Augusta. Ale sloshed past the brim. “Ah, don’t mind that, miss. Here. Let me take care of it for ye.” He retrieved a cloth from the waist of his apron and wiped around the tankard’s base. “See? Pretty as can be.”
They sat in the big, bald man’s tavern, The Black Bull, drinking ale because bloody nothing that morning had gone to plan. Reaver glared at the man once known as Rude Mayhem—real name, Rudolph Markham—and signaled his desire for privacy with a blunt nod toward the bar.
Rude winked and grinned. Then laughed. “Ye should have seen ’im in those days, miss. Fists like battering rams with boulders strapped to ’em. Like to break a man’s skull with one—”
“Miss Widmore has no interest in stories about our fighting days, Rude.”
Augusta’s brows arched. “Oh, but I do. Please go on, Mr. Markham. Or should I call you Mr. Mayhem?” She rested her chin on the back of her hand and gave a slow blink. Either the woman was tippled on her first tankard or she was flirting with one of the ugliest men in London. He hoped to heaven it was the former.
Rude dragged a chair up beside her and sat. Reaver crossed his arms and glared harder, hoping to penetrate that dense, bald head. By God, the man had always been thick. Tough, but thick.
“He broke me nose once. Or were it twice? Eh, Reaver? Maybe it were three times. No matter. Down I went, not more’n two minutes, I reckon. Ye’d suppose from his size he’d be slow. Nah, not Reaver. Fast as a ferret, that one. Sly, too. Made ye think he was goin’ one way, then he’d wallop ye from another.” Rude attempted to demonstrate, his giant, round fists pumping before he waved dismissively and laughed, his belly shaking. “Never saw nothin’ like Reaver fightin’. Mean as a demon, eh? Clever demon. Now, me, on the other hand. I weren’t clever. I was big.” Another belly laugh before he comically hit himself in one cauliflower-shaped ear, his eyes crossing. “Could take a right bludgeoning. Wore out my share of those scrappers, ain’t that so, Reaver?”
“Aye. You could take a beating, Rude.”
The man sighed, looking a bit melancholy. Then, he shrugged, smiled, and stood, plucking up his chair and returning it to the adjacent table. “Those days are gone. I’m a proprietor now. Speakin’ of which, I’d best see to old Jones over there.” He nodded toward a stooped old man debating politics with a chair. “Sometimes the chair wins the argument,” he whispered, clicking his tongue in pity. “A sad sight, indeed.”
While Rude played intermediary, Reaver took a drink of his ale. That’s when he noticed Augusta, chin propped on her hand, staring at him with the oddest expression.
He frowned. “What?”
She smiled. “You were a fighter.”
“Aye.”
“I knew that, I suppose, in theory. I also knew you were a tavern owner. In theory.” She glanced around The Black Bull, inexplicably fascinated. “How long did you own this place?”
“Four years.” He raised his tankard. “The ale was better then.”
She grasped her own tankard in two hands and drank—far too quickly.
“Easy, love,” he murmured, pressing a finger down on the brim.
A proud chin elevated. “I think the ale is quite good.”
“Aye. That’s because ye haven’t had good ale. This one’s sour at the front and bitter at the back. Not the worst I’ve had, but not the best, either.”
“It’s strong.”
“Mmm.”
“I like strong.”
That last bit had been a purr. Now, her eyes were scouring his hands and arms. Lazily wandering to his shoulders. Settling on his mouth.
“Are you flirtin’, Miss Widmore?”
A slow blink. A lift of a russet brow. A prim smirk. “Perhaps.”
Good God. He’d assumed his carefully planned outing to be a steaming pile of wreckage after the miserable start they’d had. But perhaps it was going better than he’d thought.
The day had begun at breakfast, where he had informed Augusta they were going riding in Hyde Park.
She’d frowned, nibbled her toast with marmalade, and swallowed. “Must we?”
It had taken him a moment to respond. “You don’t want to?”
“In truth, I am not much of a rider. Haven’t been on a horse in ages. Before that, I was thrown four—no.” She’d raised her eyes to the ceiling, her lips moving as though counting dance steps. “Seven times. I was always too impatient and not well regarded by my mounts.”
“We’re going.”
“I don’t have a riding habit.”
He’d released a sigh of frustration as she’d taken another bite of her toast. “Very well. We’ll take the carriage.”
“To the park?”
“To Berkeley Square. Gunter’s. They have tea.”
She’d glanced pointedly at the teapot on the table.
“Bloody hell, Gus.”
“Well, I just don’t see why we should drive all the way to Berkeley Square—”
“Ye’re such a dashed nuisance.”
“—when we have perfectly lovely tea here. Besides, you have no liking for tea. If we bother to drive someplace in your ill-fitting carriage, at least it should have offerings you desire.”
She was the only offering he desired, but he could not say that. The day was for wooing. Wooing required patience. “Such as?” he’d grumbled.
“Well, what do you prefer to drink?”
“Ale.”
Her eyes had sparked over the rim of her teacup. She’d lit with an enormous grin. “Ale,” she’d breathed, as though he’d said something brilliant. “How perfect. Take me to a public house. Oh! Even better. Take me to where you began your life as a proprietor. Your tavern.”
He’d refused her request ten times. But on the eleventh, she’d brushed his hand with hers and said, “It would please me so, Sebastian.”
Now, here they sat, in The Black Bull with their second round of tankards. And Augusta Widmore was flirting. Or, perhaps not.
Her eyes were closed. She’d fallen asleep.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
He threw some coins on the table and gathered her up into his arms, taking care with her gown to preserve her modesty. Her arm looped around his neck, and her head fell against his shoulder, knocking her new, green bonnet askew. She sighed and snuggled closer.
God, she felt good.
He carried her outside to the carriage, maneuvering so only his ribs were crushed by the door frame.
“Bastian,” she whispered. Gray eyes blinked open as he laid her upon the seat.
He tried to retreat so he could enter the coach properly, but she clung to his neck.
Then, she kissed him. Directly on the mouth. Inelegantly but with purpose.
“Gus,” he murmured. “You must let go, now.”
“No.”
“My lower half would like to be inside, as well.”
She groaned and clung tighter. “Oh, that sounds heavenly, Bastian. Let’s do that next.”
He groaned, wondering if frequent blasphemy earned a man such divine torment. If she were not half-sotted, he might have her skirts up at this very moment.
But she was. So he gently untangled her arms, extracted himself from the coach door frame, then entered in his usual manner.
An hour later, after another cup of tea at the house, her head had cleared, and she insisted they continue their day of outings together. “You obviously had plans.” She plunked the cup down in its saucer, showing no signs of headache or weariness from her tippling. “What was next on your list?”
He narrowed his gaze upon her. She appeared well enough, her skin a bit flushed but otherwise … beautiful. Every day, she looked more beautiful to him. Her green gown was soft and perfectly fitted. Gray eyes shone brightly, as they had at breakfast.
“The British Museum,” he answered. “Elgin’s marbles.”
“Have you seen them yet?”
“No.”
She brightened further. “Splendid. We shall explore them together.”
Explore them, they did. Upon entering the hushed, green-walled room where the statuary was displayed, Reaver felt his stomach tighten into a knot. Augusta gasped, her eyes rounding in amazement.
Aye. They were amazing—amazingly naked. Bloody hell, the gigantic statues were riding, reclining, fighting. And they were all naked. Some lacked heads or arms or legs. But their manly parts were obvious enough, if one could call them that. Proportionate they were not.
Augusta wandered from statue to statue. One, a horse’s head, did not interest her in the slightest. Nooo. Augusta wished to examine the nude males in exacting detail, close enough to put her hands on them.
After an excruciating quarter-hour, he’d had more than he could stomach.
“We’re leavin’,” he growled.
“Oh, but we’ve only just arrived.”
“Now.”
She glanced up at him, her eyes lingering a moment on a headless man’s dainty man parts. “You don’t like them?”
“They’re naked.”
“Well, yes.”
“It’s time to go.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a prude, Mr. Reaver.”
He leaned down near her ear, surreptitiously gathering her scent into his lungs. Of late, it was sweeter, with a hint of lavender. “If ye’re to look upon a naked man, love, I’d prefer it were me.”
She blushed. Blinked. Breathed his name, “Bastian,” so prettily, he wanted to kiss her. Right there in front of the marbles with the disproportionately small—
“Now, then,” she said, clearing her throat delicately. “What is our next destination?”
For this, he had to think quickly. He’d had no “next” on his list, apart from the play, which did not start until later that evening. But he had cut their viewing of the marbles short, so he must think of something.
He recalled her mentioning Rome and Florence, something about wanting to visit someday. She had a liking for items of Italian art. Then, he remembered a minor baron who’d lost a fortune at Reaver’s the previous summer while waiting for a shipment of paintings to arrive from Rome and Paris.
“Portman Square,” Reaver answered, hoping the man was still in town.
As they discovered a short while later, the slim, neatly dressed baron was at home, though he paled considerably when he saw Reaver at his door. “M-Mr. Reaver! Mr. Shaw indicated I had another month—”
“You may consider your debt settled by forty percent if you allow my companion to view your collection.”
“Forty … that is … yes! I mean to say, yes, of course! Welcome!” The baron and his butler showed them inside the brick town house, which was unimpressive from the outside, but positively opulent inside.
Then, the man showed them to his library, where works by Caravaggio and Rembrandt fairly breathed from the walls. Even Reaver found them compelling, and he’d never been one for paintings. As they explored the gallery that spanned the length of the house, Augusta devoured each one with her eyes.
Reaver did likewise with her. She was giddy as a child, her delight causing her to clap lightly in excitement several times.
“Oh, Bastian,” she said, pausing before a particularly exquisite portrait of a young woman. “How he must have loved her.”
He edged closer, squinting. He’d forgotten his spectacles. “How do you know?”
With a gloved finger, she traced the woman’s cheek. “Here. You see? You can just make out the shadow of where her tears fell. And here.” She brushed the woman’s bodice. “The detail of her … well. Let us say it reflects a certain dedicated study on the painter’s part.”
From behind them, the baron cleared his throat. “Mr. Reaver? I do have a humble proposal, if it would please you and your companion.”
Reaver turned with a frown and saw the man holding a small, oval painting. “What is it?”
“This work is by the same artist that painted the portrait you were admiring. I can offer it to you, should you find its value worth another, say, ten percent.”
He was about to refuse when Augusta drifted forward, taking the painting in her hands and stroking the frame lovingly. “It is splendid, my lord.”
“It’s fruit,” Reaver replied.
“Pears. And an apple. A still-life. My, how lovely.”
As they took the carriage back to his house, Augusta could not take her eyes from the fruit painting, stroking the frame again and again. He frowned, remembering the high cost—fifty percent of a fortune was still a bloody fortune—but in the end, perhaps it was not such a bad bargain. She seemed rather pleased.
His plans once again deteriorated after they arrived home, however. Augusta had gone upstairs to change into her evening gown. He’d explained they were to attend the theater. Then, after donning a cravat and a black coat, he’d plucked the tickets from the small paper sleeve in which they’d been delivered.
“Seven December?” he said aloud, as though the small cards could speak and inform him that he had not purchased tickets for the wrong bloody evening. “Damn it all to hell.”
He tossed the useless scraps on his writing desk as he exited his chamber and raced down the stairs to find Big Annie. “Mrs. Higgins!”
She poked her head out of the morning room. “Yes, Mr. Reaver?”
“Fetch me The Times.”
She disappeared for several seconds before emerging with the paper in hand.
He donned his spectacles and scoured the pages for an advertisement. He knew he’d seen it earlier that morning, before Augusta had calmly refused to go riding then calmly challenged his plan to take her for tea.
There! There it was. The Haymarket Theatre Royal. An Italian opera. He looked at his watch. It opened in less than an hour. But it was the right day, by God.
“Mrs. Higgins, tell Miss Widmore we must leave in a half-hour.”
“Er—a half-hour, sir? She is only now exiting her bath.”
Ah, God. Why had the housekeeper put that image in his mind? The entire day had been a hellish test of his patience and restraint.
She took just under an hour. When she emerged, she was … breathtaking. Wearing the silver gown with the little, sparkly things on the skirt. Spangles, if he recalled. And her breasts were so round and creamy above the neckline.
He frowned. “You should have a shawl. Or a pelisse.”
“I cannot wear a pelisse with this gown, silly.”
Mrs. Higgins handed her a fur-trimmed cape.
“Better,” he growled.
They arrived at the theater twenty minutes past the opening scene. He’d called in yet another debt to obtain a box for the night. But as Augusta sat down beside him and leaned forward to view the crowd of singers bellowing foreign words on the stage below, he realized he would do it all again. Every day, if he could. He would take her anywhere, give her anything, to see her this happy.
“Oh, Bastian,” she said, squeezing the small opera glasses he’d purchased. “Have you ever seen anything so splendid?”
He ran his gaze over soft, white skin and dark, russet hair. He let his eyes roam across the swells of her breasts and the spangles of her skirt and the parting of her lips. Then, he spoke the truth in a whisper. “No, love. Nothing on earth can compare.”
*~*~*