Clearing her throat, she continued their conversation as they reached the service staircase and started toward the second floor. “Does Anne also work here?”
“In spring, mostly, when the season is on. That’s when the club is busiest. We have a wager goin’, she and I. She says she travels farther in a day than me on account of Mr. Reaver’s house bein’ quite large. I think stairs should count for more, since I’m climbin’ so much.”
Augusta found Edith’s casual manner toward her unusual. What had Mr. Reaver said about Augusta’s role? He could not have specified she was to be his mistress, or the girl’s behavior would be quite different. Less forthcoming and likely less friendly.
Often, servants exhibited greater concern for propriety than their employers.
“Here we are, Miss Widmore,” Edith said, cheerfully leading the way into the antechamber of Mr. Reaver’s office. “Might wish to knock before you enter.” She chuckled and shook her shoulders in a mock shudder. “That’s a mistake you only make once. Good luck!”
Augusta thanked her and followed her advice.
“Come.” The rumble sounded like a bear from inside a cave.
She drew a deep breath before entering.
He stood behind his desk, his back to her, thumbing through an account book. She was reminded of the previous occasions she’d been inside his office. It looked the same—green walls, oak shelves flanking the single window, a set of drawers behind a massive oak desk, and … not much else. A couple of wooden chairs. A lamp or two. Everything was deliberately unadorned, no draperies or paintings or even a carpet upon the plank floors.
Her eyes fell upon the shelf to the right of the window. The single exception stood out like a ruby on a barren dune. It was an ormolu clock, filigreed and gilded. She’d wondered since her first visit why he’d kept the frilly thing.
“Sit,” he said without turning. “I’ll be a moment.”
She remained standing, examining his shoulders. His thighs. His hair. He’d cut it too short. She’d prefer to see it at a proper length, imagining how thick and straight it would be. How a lock of black might settle across his forehead. How she might brush it gently aside before their lips met …
Good heavens. Perhaps she should resume ruminating upon his clock.
“Still vexed with me, eh?”
Her eyes flew back to him. Onyx flashed behind silver-rimmed spectacles.
“Vexed?” she queried, a bit breathless.
He frowned, his fiercely masculine features made more so in contrast with the small, round rims perched on his long, sharp nose. “For what I said. Earlier.”
“Could you be more specific? You say many rude things.”
Snapping the account book closed, he opened a drawer and shoved it inside. Then, he removed his spectacles and tossed them on his desk. “You wanted to buy furniture.”
From his tone, she could not discern whether his statement was an observation or an accusation. So, she opted for a neutral “Hmm.”
“I shall take you.”
She blinked. Glanced behind her at the closed door. Then at his desk. Then at him. “T-take me?”
“Aye. To buy furniture. We’ll say you’re my adviser.”
“Adviser.”
“Aye. About decorating and such.”
“Decorating.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Well, start making sense, and perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary!”
He raked a hand across the top of his head. “Bloody, bleeding hell, you’re a nuisance.”
“And you are a boorish beast. Yet, somehow, I manage to control the urge to insult you repeatedly in every conversation. What a fascinating contrast.”
Releasing a frustrated breath, he came around his desk, covering the distance between them in several paces. “There is a man who builds furniture. He has a warehouse. I shall take you there today.”
“Does this man owe you money, perhaps?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Hmmph. I shall take that as a yes.”
His scowl turned darker. “A nuisance and a prude. Quite the charmer, you are. Must have dazzled all the gents in Hampshire.”
The sting of his comment thrust hard and deep, but she took care not to let it show. “You might be surprised,” she lied calmly. “I, however, find nothing surprising about you.”
“Is that so?”
As he inched closer, she raised her chin. “Indeed. You hold these men’s markers as trophies. It gives you power over them, and you relish it. Just as you do with me.”
“Think you know everything, do you? Think I’m so predictable?”
She felt a tug beneath her chin. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Removing your bonnet.”
She swatted at his hands, but he tugged her hat away and held it aloft, leaving her swatting at air. “Give that back!”
He tossed it across the room. It landed neatly in the center of his desk. “Go and get it.”
What in blazes? He’d widened his stance, placing himself between her and the stolen bonnet like a cricket fielder.
“You are mad.”
“Aye. But not predictable, eh?”
“Mad is not better, you gigantic dunderpate!”
Black eyes glittered with … excitement? “Take down your hair.”
“I will not.” She ran a hand above her ear, tidying what she could.
“I wish to see it.”
“With the greatest respect, Mr. Reaver, your wishes mean less to me than the deposits made in the privy this morning.”
His head tilted and his mouth curved in a wicked half-smile. “A fine parry, Miss Widmore. Come now. You’re my mistress. Mistresses do these sorts of things to please their patrons.”
Tingles bubbled over her skin as though she’d bathed in champagne. Gritting her teeth against the sensation, she strove to ignore his inexplicable hold upon her senses.
“At the moment, pleasing you is the opposite of my aim. Apart from which, we both know I am not truly your mistress.”
Glittering onyx sharpened. “How do we know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly. You spent last night here. You’ve told your staff I am your employee, not your paramour. And, while you have a disturbing tendency to haul me about like a valise, you haven’t so much as kissed me. I predict you shall never do so, because you do not want me for that purpose. You’re merely trying to force me to back down by making outrageous demands. Well, I shall not back down. I mean to have Lord Glassington’s markers.”
His jaw hardened and flickered. “So you can drag him to the altar.”
“My purpose is of no consequence to you. Now, step aside, if you please. I should like to retrieve my hat.”
“Come and take it,” he rumbled softly.
Her eyes narrowed upon him. Without warning, she feinted left and darted right. Perhaps she should have done the opposite, because in a blink, a steely arm snagged her waist, seizing her firmly against him. She squirmed against outlandish muscles, her hands pressing his chest, her hips grinding and arching into his thighs.
A warm, massive hand gripped her nape, tilting her head back so she could not avoid his gaze. The sight struck her hard and low.
Onyx had gone molten. One muscle—impossibly long and thick—had gone hard as stone against her belly.
Oh, dear heaven.