“Psst. Miss Widmore,” came Anne’s loud whisper through the paneled wood. “It appears Mr. Reaver has returned. Best hurry. Also, the mouse has run loose again. Goodness knows where he’s off to.”
Drat and blast. A thousand curses upon Anne or anyone else causing the man surrounding her to cease what he’d been doing.
Despite her fervent desires, he eased away, leaving her cool and weak. By the time her eyes popped open, he’d pivoted toward his bedchamber, moving stiffly and running a hand over his head.
She had trouble catching her breath.
Another knock. “Miss Widmore?”
“Yes, Anne,” she managed. “I shall be down shortly. Thank you.”
Now, he stood with one hand braced upon the washstand, as though he needed to balance himself.
“I—I should go,” she said. “I must prepare for the interviews today.”
“No.” His voice was deeper, rougher than normal.
She sucked in a breath. Was he intending to continue what he’d started? Heat bloomed and ached in anticipation.
“Frelling will be here in an hour. He’ll do the hiring.”
She stiffened. Went colder. Caught her breath. “We had agreed that I—”
“There was no agreement,” he growled. “As usual, you simply declared what you would do. Frelling helps staff the club. He’ll have it done by tomorrow.”
Behind her back, she clutched Mr. Reaver’s linen. Ash needed the shirt, but more desperately, he needed the position she would give him. She could give him nothing unless she had control over staffing Mr. Reaver’s empty house.
“As I am to live here for another six weeks, Mr. Reaver, I’m afraid I must insist—”
He turned flashing black eyes upon her. “I said no.”
Chin rising, she informed him, “I have managed a large household before, you know. Perhaps it has been a few years—”
“Eleven.”
She blinked. How did he know? Had he made inquiries about her? Oh, good heavens. What else had he discovered?
“I’ve little doubt you could do it, Miss Widmore. You’re the most managing woman I’ve ever met. But I suspect you’d rather spend the day with your sister. She is at the club, and she’s taken ill.”
“Why in heaven’s name is she at the club?” Her tone was sharp, but Augusta did not care a whit.
He glowered at her. “She took exception to our agreement. Arrived at the front door, demanding to speak with me. When Shaw realized she was ill, he installed her in a private suite and summoned a physician—”
“A physician?” In her mind, she shrieked the word. Fortunately, it emerged merely as a horrified whisper.
“Aye. Frelling’s father-in-law, Dr. Young. He examined her yesterday afternoon—”
She groaned and covered her face with her free hand.
“What the devil?” Mr. Reaver barked. “Do you not care that your sister was wastin’ away in that rubbish heap of a lodging house?”
Lowering her hand, she released a chuckle. Even to her ears, it sounded bitter. “Care, Mr. Reaver? I’ve sacrificed everything to see her safe and well. Becoming your mistress is the least of it.”
Calculation returned to his gaze. Calculation and awareness.
“I should like to see her,” she said, ignoring the fluttering in her middle.
He nodded. “I’ll take you.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Perfectly necessary, Miss Widmore.” His tone brooked no argument.
And yet, she could not resist. “I shall take a hack.”
He pushed away from the washstand, stalking toward her. Again. “You’ll go with me, and that is that. I’ll not have you sneaking into my club, causing all manner of nuisance.”
“If you regard a lady’s intrusion into that hallowed masculine sanctum as such a nuisance, what possessed you to invite my sister to stay there?”
“I didn’t. That was Shaw.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Mr. Shaw invited her?”
“More like insisted.”
“Hmm. Well, Mr. Shaw is a true gentleman. He would not turn away a lady in distress, let alone haul her bodily to the front door—”
“Ten minutes, Miss Widmore. That’s when we leave. If you don’t fancy bein’ carried like a valise, I suggest you be in the entrance hall by then.”
God, why did he have to say it like that? Low and rumbly and commanding. He made her want to defy him just to see what he would do.
But that would not be wise. She must cease indulging these volatile longings and focus upon the things that mattered. Phoebe. And, if she could help him, Ash.
In the end, she felt for the doorknob behind her back, twisted and backed into her chamber. “I shall be there,” she said, still clutching his shirt.
As usual, his glower, far from inspiring fear, made her insides go soft and quivery. “See that you are.”
~~*
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I cannot recommend traveling in winter. Or autumn. Or rain. Now that I think upon it, I cannot recommend traveling at all.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the reasons why only those who enjoy recklessness and discomfort take to England’s dreadful roads in inclement conditions.
Reaver leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and cursed the inventor of closed carriages. Automatically, his gaze found Miss Widmore’s bosom. It had become a comfort to him, a sight that brought pleasure even when his neck ached from trying to fit into a too-small space.
That thought led to contemplations about other tight fits. His hands clenched, and he stifled a groan.
She sat across from him, tucked snugly beside the window to leave him plenty of room. Her eyes were glued to the passing street. Her gloved hands were folded in her lap. Her brown pelisse was worn but clean.
God, how he wanted her. The need grew moment by moment. Unquenchable. Unstoppable.
Earlier, in his dressing room, he’d been near enough to absorb her scent. He’d never smelled anything as good. No perfume. No flowers or cloying spice. She smelled like wind on water. Like skin and soap. Not costly scented soap. Laundering soap. With just a hint of lemon.
He longed to devour her.
“I do hope you have practiced discretion, Mr. Reaver.”
Not as much as he should. Far more than he wished.
“My sister is a virtuous young lady. Her reputation must be protected.” Gray eyes turned to him. “You understand, do you not?”
“Shaw has instructed the staff to keep her presence secret.”
“And will they?”
“They’ll do as they are told or suffer the consequences.”
She swallowed and nodded, her gaze dropping briefly to his chin before resuming its fascination with the window.
His own gaze returned to her breasts. Hard nipples pressed against the confines of her corset and shift and bodice and wool. They wanted his attention.
By God, they had it.
“You cannot be comfortable,” she murmured.
No. No, he wasn’t. He ached and throbbed and bloody well pined for a taste of her.
“You should order a modified carriage with a higher top. No one should have to travel without sufficient room for one’s head.”
“Your concern warms my heart, Miss Widmore.”
Once again, she glanced his way. Eyed his sprawled legs and stooped posture. Sniffed. “I only point it out because you seem determined to live without comforts. An empty house. An ill-fitting coach. Even your office is, at best, serviceable.”