“I like my office.”
“I’ve little doubt.”
“What does that mean?”
Gray eyes took in his entire length. “Only that you appear to favor utility.”
“Utility is what matters.”
A russet brow rose. “Comfort also matters, Mr. Reaver. Comfort and pleasure. You can afford both function and form, you know.”
He bit down on a response. What would a highborn spinster know about it? She might not enjoy the wealth her father once provided, but she had inherited a tidy sum for her and her sister’s dowries. She also owned a small but sound cottage and reportedly lived upon the proceeds of investments her uncle had helped establish. He doubted she worried much about funds, apart from the occasional, unanticipated expense.
A trip to London in pursuit of a prospective husband, for example.
He frowned. Bloody Glassington. A useless, irresponsible earl who could purchase access to Augusta Widmore’s divine bosom and wide mouth with a name and title.
“Goodness, there is no need to glare daggers at me,” she said, her chin rising. “My suggestion to increase the height of your carriage is a practical one.”
“A taller coach would be more apt to topple.”
She clicked her tongue. “Then lower the bottom. You need a longer door anyway.”
“You know nothing of my needs.”
“Why are you being so unreasonable—”
“Because, as usual, you see everything as an opportunity to plague a man with your unwanted opinions.”
A tiny crinkle formed between her brows. Her head drew back until the crown of her bonnet bumped the slope of the carriage’s rear wall. “Very well, Mr. Reaver. If you find my opinions so odious, I shall endeavor to keep them to myself.”
With that, she withdrew from him. Moved her gaze back to the street. Tightened her mouth and her posture.
He wanted to howl. He wanted to kiss her. Claim her. Right there in his too-small carriage.
He wanted to beg her forgiveness for snarling at her like a starving dog.
Instead, he held his silence and forced himself to stop picturing her with Glassington.
By the time they pulled into the mews behind the club, he felt ready to hit someone. Preferably a certain young earl who owed him thousands of pounds.
Exiting the carriage took some maneuvering, as always, but he managed. Once he was out, he extended his hand to assist Miss Widmore.
She ignored him, using the door’s frame to brace herself as she stepped down onto the cobblestones.
Damn and blast. He had hurt her. She would not even raise the brim of her bonnet to look at him.
“Shaw tells me your sister is feeling much better today,” he attempted as an olive branch, waving toward the back door.
Her only reply was a nod before starting toward the entrance. “Good morning, Mr. Duff,” she greeted his sentry brightly. “The weather appears to have taken mercy upon you.”
The big man chuckled. “Aye, indeed, Miss Widmore. A bit of drizzle for a time, but quite fine since then.”
She smiled.
Duff smiled back.
“Open the bloody door, Duff.”
The man’s shaggy brows arched in startled fashion. “Aye, Mr. Reaver.”
She preceded Reaver into the darkened interior, her back stiff. “There was no call for such rudeness.”
He grunted. She was right, of course. And now he’d angered her further.
She navigated the dark passage to the service stairs as though she had a map and a torch. He supposed she knew the way well by now, having invaded his club twice.
“Third floor,” he instructed.
Again, she merely nodded, gathering a handful of her skirts and climbing the first flight of stairs at a brisk pace.
He followed close behind her, savoring every small whiff of her scent, every luscious swing of her hips.
“Dr. Young recommended plenty of rest and frequent meals,” he said, hoping her anger would lessen with a bit of reassuring conversation. “Shaw believes your sister should stay here for the remainder of her time in London. We have an excellent cook. French. Can make her anything she desires.”
Apparently, he was incompetent at both reassurances and conversation, because this time, she did not even nod.
As they reached the third floor, he ducked beneath a lintel and grasped her elbow.
She jerked to a halt and yanked her arm to be released.
Keeping his grip gentle, he nevertheless held her fast. “I’ll go first,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t be seen wandering about.”
In the low light, he could not see her expression, but when she spoke, he felt coated in frost. “By all means, Mr. Reaver. Take the lead.”
He slid his hand away slowly. Reluctantly. Then, he sidled past her, fighting the urge to press her against the wall and bury his nose in her neck again.
Given her state of mind, such an action would likely result in damage to his more vulnerable places. His eyes. His nose. Perhaps even his …
Aye, he thought. Probably a bad idea.
Instead, he forged ahead, examining the corridor for servants and guests. At the far end of the well-lit passage, one pair of gents laughed and linked arms drunkenly before turning toward the main staircase. A footman moved briskly to replace two tapers that had burned low.
Behind him, Augusta Widmore’s impatience pressed like hot fire irons into his shoulders. Or perhaps that was her annoyance.
When the corridor was empty, he waved her forward and led her to Phoebe Widmore’s door. Above her head, he reached out to knock, but she had already opened the thing.
Inside, her sister sat beside the fire, reading. The younger, paler, thinner, prettier version of Augusta leapt to her feet and dropped her book from her lap. “Augusta,” the girl cried, her lower lip quivering as she rushed into her sister’s waiting arms.
“There now, Phee.” She hugged her tightly before pulling back to stroke Phoebe’s hair and cup her cheek with a gloved hand. “You’ve a bit more color. How are you feeling?”
“Better. Dr. Young and Mrs. Frelling have been most kind. I’ve had three cups of chocolate already this morning.” The girl chuckled and sniffed.
“And Mr. Shaw?”
Phoebe’s cheeks pinkened. “He likes to have his way in most matters. He forbade me to leave without his knowledge.”
Augusta nodded and squeezed her sister’s shoulders. “A sensible course. We wouldn’t want your presence here to be discovered. Has he been kind?”
“I suppose.” A frown tugged at Phoebe’s brow. “He insists that I nap four times a day and eat six. I’ve told him nobody sleeps that much, and six meals are too many even for Mr. Duff.”
“Mmm. Mr. Shaw is a gentleman. I am certain he only wishes to ensure your good health.” She stroked Phoebe’s cheek again. “You must take better care of yourself, Phee. You should never have come here on your own. I told you I would find you better accommodations as soon as I was settled.”
“I could not wait.” Phoebe grasped Augusta’s hands. “Please say you have resisted becoming that man’s mistress in truth.”
Reaver cleared his throat.