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!”
~~*
CHAPTER SIX
“Whilst I appreciate both the brevity and directness of your response, your phrasing should be revised to read, ‘Please stop, for the love of God, your ladyship.’ When addressing a lady, it is wise to give her due courtesy.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in an addendum to a previous letter on the subject of gentlemanly behavior.