CHAPTER FIVE
“Properly, a gentleman belongs to a club, Mr. Kilbrenner. If it happens the other way round, he is no gentleman at all.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining poorly understood concepts in terms even a ruffian might comprehend.
It looked nothing like she’d pictured, nothing at all like a gentleman’s club. Phoebe Widmore frowned up at the four-story brick building in a tiny square off St. James. It had a red door and long, symmetrical windows.
She would have imagined an elderly couple living there. Or a widow with multiple pugs and a penchant for lengthy anecdotes. She would not have guessed that this—this—was the infamous Reaver’s.
Behind her, the hack rattled away. There was no help for it. She could not bear for Augusta to sacrifice herself to that … man. Sebastian Reaver. By all accounts, he was a lowborn ruffian, wealthy and powerful though he might be. Of course, the only account she’d heard was Augusta’s, but still.
Straightening her spine to Widmore standards, Phoebe swallowed down her nausea and ascended the few short steps to the door. She knocked twice.
Did one knock upon the door of a gentleman’s club? She’d never asked.
The red door opened. Inside the shadowy interior, she saw only a white cravat and waistcoat. Then, she saw teeth. Those were white, too.
“May I help you, miss?”
Oh, good heavens. His voice was … delicious. Like chocolate, dark and rich and sinfully warm. By contrast, his accent was crisp and proper. Perfectly English. Perfectly refined.
“Well, now, it appears you’ve lost your way. What address were you seeking? Perhaps I can assist.”
Yes, like chocolate. If she’d been able to afford such a luxury, she would drink a cup every morning. Of late, everything else made her sick. But not that.
The door opened wider as he stepped into the light.
Her eyes flared. He was the color of chocolate, too. Well, perhaps tea or cinnamon. Dark and rich. Handsomer than any man she’d ever seen, with a slender nose and black hair. And his eyes. Good heavens. Thick-lashed and glowing, they were like bronze or amber.
A single black brow rose. “Miss?”
“I—is this … Reaver’s?”
A subtle grin curled his lips, drawing her attention. “Indeed it is.” He glanced toward the sky beyond her bonnet. “I’m afraid we do not permit ladies to enter.” Those eyes searched her face then swept the length of her walking dress. They lingered on her muddy hem. “However, as it is raining, perhaps I can arrange for a hack.”
Blinking away her peculiar fascination with his sculpted, lovely lips, she straightened further and moved a step closer. “I am here to speak with Mr. Reaver. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
A long pause. “Hmm. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Miss Widmore, would it?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“I thought so.” He sighed and tilted his head. “Mr. Reaver is not available.”
“Oh, but I must speak with him, Mr. …?”
“Shaw.”
“I must see him, Mr. Shaw.”
“Regretfully, I must decline your request.”
“You cannot.”
“And yet, I did.”
“He has”—she glanced around to ensure they were alone—“propositioned my sister in a most ungentlemanly fashion. I shan’t allow it.”
“Your sister. Miss Augusta Widmore.”
“Yes.”
“The same Augusta Widmore who entered this fine establishment this very morning dressed as a chambermaid.”
Her mouth tightened as she glimpsed the wicked humor in those amber eyes. “She is a good woman, Mr. Shaw. A spinster from Hampshire! Her aims were simply to—”
“Acquire Lord Glassington’s markers. Yes. I know.”
Her hands landed upon her hips. “And do you know that Mr. Reaver has demanded she live with him? At his house?”
At last, surprise lit Mr. Shaw’s handsome features. He blinked. Frowned. Tapped the edge of the door with a gloved finger. “That is … most unlikely. You misunderstood the situation.”
Out of patience, she charged forward, pushing past him. “Did I misunderstand the brutish Mr. Duff coming to collect my sister’s belongings? I think not.”
“Duff visited your residence?”
A statue of a woman stood a few feet away. She was draped in Greek fashion and held a cone-shaped basket filled with coins. Phoebe blinked. The entire space was a study in ostentation—ornate silk walls, gilt mirrors, gleaming wood.
“He accompanied my sister to help transport her trunk to Mr. Reaver’s house. I must …” Inside, her throat swelled in a familiar fashion. Oh, dear.
Her hand moved over her belly. Oh, no.
The scent of roasting meat and wine assaulted her in a fog of sick. Her stomach churned. Her gorge rose. She sensed Mr. Shaw behind her, heard him murmuring something about her pallor. Frantic, she covered her mouth and searched the foyer for some sort of receptacle. A vase or urn would do.
“Good God. Do not. Miss Widmore, just wait …”
She could not wait. It was coming. Suddenly and with great force. She staggered forward. Clutched at something cold and woman-shaped. A moment later, she filled the frigid woman’s cornucopia with something far less desirable than gold.
The next thing she knew, she was being wrapped up in heat and strength and a clean, arid scent. “Rest easy, now,” that sinful voice soothed. “I shall look after you. Cannot have the sister of Reaver’s new mistress perishing on my watch, now can I?”
*~*~*
He had lied to her. Augusta did not know why she’d thought him above deliberate deception, but she had been wrong.
“This is not your house,” she said tightly, glaring about the vast, empty drawing room. “When did you secure it? This morning? We had an agreement, Mr. Reaver.”
“What are you on about, woman?” His grumble was deep and low behind her.
She spun in place. “It is empty. All of it.”
A fierce glower creased his forehead. “You’ve seen the staircase and the drawing room. That’s hardly all of it.”
“If one’s drawing room is empty, one’s house is empty. Which begs the question of whether it is, in fact, one’s house.”
He grunted. “Ye’re daft. I haven’t had time to buy a cartload of bloody furniture. I’ve a club to run.”
“How long have you owned this place?”
He did not answer. Instead, those onyx eyes bored into her with ferocious irritation.
She tugged her gloves tighter and walked past him to the window—one of four in the cavernous, beautiful room. “This won’t do. You do not even have a proper housekeeper, let alone a butler. A maid-of-all-work for a house this size? Preposterous.”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion.”
“Oh, you needn’t ask. It is my gift to you.”
The town house was enormous, occupying one entire corner of Cavendish Square. Like its purported owner, it was rather simple and spare on the outside. Red brick. Stout, white quoins on the corners. Seven long windows spaced symmetrically across each of the four stories, and all topped with a fifth level sporting seven dormers.
No, the exterior was much like other houses she’d seen in fashionable Mayfair and Marylebone. But inside … ah, inside, it was lovely. Lovely and large and empty.
“I shall begin interviewing servants tomorrow. Have you a cook?”
“Don’t need one. I take my meals at the club.” He was nearer than she had expected. Quite close, actually. She could smell the wool of his coat.
A tiny shiver rippled over her skin. Ignoring the odd sensation, she continued crisply, “Well, I cannot do likewise.”
“I’ll send the Frenchman here to cook for you, if you’re so particular.”
Even closer now. She swallowed, feeling his heat along her back. A giant hand braced on the window casing above her head.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice a bit breathier than before. “I shall hire a cook.”
“Hmmph. A cook. A housekeeper. What next? A valet to shave my whiskers?”
She glanced up. Examined his square, powerful jaw. Slid her gaze across the prominent cheekbone to the sooty lashes and low-slung brows. Felt another strange flutter in her lower belly.
Flashing onyx eyes came down to meet hers. She returned her attention to the tidy, iron-fenced green outside the window. “You appear to be doing fine on your own,” she murmured.
She felt his eyes burning her cheek. Her throat. Her bosom. He could not possibly be contemplating … Surely he did not intend to …
No. Sebastian Reaver could well afford to keep the most beautiful women in the demimonde as his mistresses—actresses and opera singers and courtesans. The last woman he would wish to bed was a red-haired spinster whose only claims to feminine wiles were sound management skills and excellent posture. Which was why she must remember the true purpose of his outrageous proposition—to force her to withdraw her demand for Glassington’s markers and leave him in peace.
That was the only reason he currently stood so close. The only reason he hadn’t yet removed his gaze from her bodice.
Be sensible, Augusta, she chided. And stop tingling, for the love of heaven.
“Ye changed your gown,” he rumbled, low and resonant.
Her heart kicked at her bones. “The other was too tight.”
“Aye. That it was.”
“I could scarcely breathe.”
“Mmm. You’re breathin’ now, eh?”
“I made this gown myself. It fits me properly.”
“God, yes. It does.”
Behind them came the loud clomping of boots. “All finished, Mr. Reaver. Miss Widmore’s trunk is in the chamber next to yours. Shall I return to the club?”
“Aye, Duff. You can leave. Now.” His voice was part bark and part growl.
She took advantage of the intrusion to slip beneath his arm. As Mr. Duff departed, she crossed to the opposite end of the room and pretended her heart was not attempting to thrash itself past the barrier of her bosom. Casually, she bent forward to examine the white marble fireplace.
She thought Mr. Reaver might have groaned but quickly dismissed the notion. Perhaps the sound had been her stomach. She was famished.
“Are all your chimneys in such dreadful condition?” she asked.
“Nothin’ wrong with my chimneys.”
She straightened, turned, and raised a brow in his direction. “Oh, I beg to differ.”
His jaw clenched as he crossed massive arms over a massive chest. “I was a sweep for several years, Miss Widmore. I think I’d know the difference.”
“You—you were …”
“Aye.”
She frowned. “When?”
“Does it matter?”
“I wish to know.”
“Started when I was nine or ten. Small for my age.” His hard mouth quirked. “Things changed a bit later on.”
Yes, they certainly had. Nothing about him was small now. His fingers. His hands. His shoulders. Big, big, big.
“These hearths don’t see much use,” he continued, slowly stalking toward her. “Haven’t hosted too many balls here, ye see.”
Ignoring his mocking tone, she leapt upon the opening he’d left her. “Ah, yes, but disuse is precisely your problem, Mr. Reaver.”
“I don’t have a problem.”
She bent, pretending to listen to the wide-open fireplace, before clicking her tongue. “Perhaps your hearing is less acute than it was in your youth. Understandable. Age does take its toll.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My hearing, on the other hand, is excellent. Which is why I can hear the flapping of wings inside your chimney.”
“Wings?”
“Indeed. Birds, most likely. Or perhaps bats. If you had a proper staff, this would not be a problem.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “For the last bloody time, there is no bloody problem.”
She sniffed. “Vulgarity is unnecessary.”
“Light a fire. That will drive out whatever phantom animal you’ve conjured with your excellent hearing.”
“No!” She stopped to clear her throat. “I shall simply hire someone to take care of the matter. Think no more of it.”
“With what funds?”
“Yours, of course. This is your house, after all. Your chimneys.”
He grunted and shook his head.
“Naturally, I am assuming it is yours. You never did specify how long you’ve—”
“Three years.” His answer was a resentful growl.
“Three …” She blinked thrice. “And it remains empty?” How very strange. He’d owned the house for three years—presumably slept here occasionally—and never thought to buy a single settee or even a writing desk. Yes, it was strange. And a bit sad.
“It is not empty.”
She glanced around the large, empty room pointedly.
He hissed through gritted teeth and stomped toward her, grasped her elbow, and marched her the length of the room to the doors Mr. Duff had left ajar.
Scrambling to match his long strides, she sputtered, “Mr. Reaver, I must insist that you cease hauling me about like a reluctant valise.”
“Valises are not reluctant,” he parried as they navigated the corridor and returned to the staircase. “They go where they are taken and don’t bloody well argue every moment of the journey.”
“Precisely. I am not a valise, and therefore—oh!” At the base of the stairs, he spun her about and placed his large, warm hands upon her waist. She was a bit ticklish along her ribs, which explained why her midsection went buttery and her spine trilled like a pianoforte at his touch.
She was facing away from him, toward the rising stairs, so she could not judge his intention. But a moment later, she was being propelled—nay, carried—up the steps with a fair degree of urgency.
What would happen when they reached the top? She did not know. Strictly speaking, she was his mistress. And strictly speaking, mistresses permitted certain liberties in exchange for a man’s patronage. And even more strictly speaking, Augusta was almost entirely certain she had made a dreadful mistake in believing he would not take full advantage of their agreement. Almost entirely.
They reached the top. His hands slid away from her waist, but one of them settled on the lower half of her back.
“Mr. Reaver,” she began, glancing sidelong at his hard jaw. “I am ambulatory, I assure you.”
He didn’t answer. His hand pressed, and he set the same urgent pace as before, propelling her along a corridor toward the front of the house then guiding her through a door.
White-paneled and long, the chamber was cold but not empty. In fact, centered on the longest wall across from a small, lovely fireplace stood an elegant mahogany bed with fluted posts and a gold velvet coverlet. Near the twin windows sat a small, round table and two chairs.
“It—it is a bedchamber,” she said, feeling her throat tighten, her belly quake.
“Aye,” he rumbled behind her, slowly withdrawing his hand.
For some reason, she felt as though the floor had given way.
“It’s yours,” he said, striding to the chairs and table, waving one long arm at the upholstery and wood. “Not empty, is it?”
Her brows arched. Her eyes widened. Her heart shuddered in relief. At least, she assumed it was relief.
“No,” she agreed. “This room is not empty.”
“Right.” He gestured toward the bed. “That there is a bed, ye see?”
“Well, yes.”
He pointed at another door. “Through there is your trunk. You’ll find a dressing table, as well.”
She glanced at the white-paneled door and nodded. “It should be most … comfortable.”
“Go on, then.”
“Go?”
“Through the door.” He came toward her, glowering. “Or must I carry you like a bloody valise?”
She straightened. “That won’t be necessary.” Upon entering the dressing room, she saw that it was precisely as he’d described—her trunk and a dressing table.
He sauntered past her to another door and opened it wide.
Curious, she followed him and discovered the next chamber was his dressing room. This one contained an enormous, doorless wardrobe with the neatest assemblage of men’s shirts, pantaloons, breeches, trousers, coats, and waistcoats she’d ever seen. Some were hanging upon hooks. Some were folded and placed upon oak shelves. All were categorized and arranged in impeccable alignment and color groupings. An equally large chest of drawers occupied another wall. In the center of the room was a simple washstand that appeared to have been customized for a man of Mr. Reaver’s height.
“My dressing room,” he said needlessly. “Also not empty.”
Dear heaven, she had clearly struck a sore tooth with her observations about his failure to properly furnish his house.
He opened another door. Through it, all she could see was a bed.
A massive, heavy, giant-sized bed.
“Come, Miss Widmore.”
“Oh, I can see it from here. No need for me to—oh!”
He’d returned and grasped her elbow in only two strides. Then, she was transported once again at a pace faster than her natural gait through the door and toward the bed of a giant. His bed.
She swallowed as he halted and released her arm.
“A desk. A chair. A bed. Not empty, Miss Widmore.”
No, it was not. It was filled with a bed big enough to sleep five normal humans with room to spare.
Swallowing again, she clasped her hands at her waist and drifted closer, fingering the square mahogany posts. The design was simple—even a bit rustic—but solid as the earth. She quite liked it.
“As you can see, you were wrong about my house.”
Her lips curled with a secret smile. “So, if I understand correctly, you have furnished two bedchambers, one of which is yours.”
A long pause. “Aye.”
“And how many bedchambers are there? In total, I mean.”
Another pause. “Seven.”
“Hmm. Two out of seven.” She tapped a gloved finger along the post before turning to face him. “Well, I concede your house is not precisely empty, Mr. Reaver, but surely it could use a bit less emptiness.”
His expression was both thunderous and perplexed, as though he couldn’t decide whether to toss her out the window or bellow in wordless rage. Instead, he said nothing. His eyes flashed and burned across her mouth and bosom. Again, mouth and bosom. His head tilted at that subtle angle she was beginning to recognize as his alone.
“I—I shall procure appropriate furnishings after I have hired a staff.” Her voice quavered oddly, but he did not appear to notice.
Twice more, his eyes traced their torturous route between her mouth and bosom.
“We shall require a goodly number. Moving furniture takes many”—she swallowed as her gaze fell to where his fists clenched at his sides—“strong hands.”
At last, his eyes came up to meet hers. There, in the black, she saw something that frightened her. Something like her own need.
Then, he broke away. Turned away. Stalked away. “Do as you will,” he barked as he yanked open the dressing room door. “I’ll be at the club!”
*~*~*