“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.”