Closing her eyes, she recalled the sensations. The feel of him pressing into her, the burning slide of his mouth, the black furnace of his eyes. She covered her cheeks with her hands, reeling with residual heat.
Once again, she was forced to collect herself and focus upon something other than hard muscles and strong arms and gentle hands. She shook her head, took another deep breath, and began gathering her hair into a coil, pinning as she went. By the time she donned her bonnet, she felt more in command.
That was when curiosity burrowed down and took hold. She glanced at the door. Surely it had only been ten minutes since he’d exited, which left her five to discover more about the man whose every heated stare made her forget herself—forget everything but him, in fact.
Slowly, she let her fingertips drift over the dark oak surface of his desk. Inside a wooden tray occupying one corner, a stack of papers was weighted down with a small painting.
She plucked it up and turned it over. How lovely, she thought, smiling again. A little village painted in gray and green. In the corner, it was signed with a simple, flourished A. She wondered if it was, perhaps, some club member’s attempt to settle a debt. Examining the walls of Sebastian’s office, she thought it would look rather well. Perhaps she would suggest he hang it here.
Setting the painting aside, she hesitated only briefly before sifting through his correspondence. Her brow crinkled in confusion when she spotted a peculiar note titled Lady Tannenbrook’s List of Prospective Brides for Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. The feminine, looping hand obviously belonged to a woman. She supposed some helpful sister or friend might compose such a list, but why would Sebastian Reaver have it? She didn’t recognize any of the names, but then, she hadn’t had a London season in … well, ever. And, for Phoebe’s sake, she’d paid far more attention to eligible gentlemen than ladies over the past several years.
Shrugging, she set the list aside and picked up the next letter. It was likewise addressed to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. This one was not from Lady Tannenbrook, but from Lady Wallingham. Even Augusta knew who the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham was. Powerful in ways that remained mysterious to a spinster from Hampshire, Lady Wallingham was widely recognized as one of the most influential women in England. “Formidable” was the word most often used to describe her. And “dragon,” of course, although the latter was seldom spoken in the lady’s presence.
Augusta scanned the letter, chuckling and gasping by turns. The woman was instructing Mr. Kilbrenner in the art of gentlemanly conduct. She’d suggested such measures as joining “a reputable club, rather than that glorified hell in which you take unseemly delight,” and hiring “a tutor to redress your unfortunate lapses in diction. The letter ‘g’ at the end of a word is not optional, Mr. Kilbrenner. It is past time you learned civilized pronunciation and ceased imitating a Cumberland halfwit.”
By the time Sebastian returned, she’d read two more letters and grown increasingly intrigued by the mysterious Mr. Kilbrenner. Two ladies of high standing had taken an intense interest in matters ranging from where his boots were made, to whom he should invite for dinner, to which debutante would make him an “excellent wife.” Such a gentleman must be rather unusual to garner such notice.
And yet, no man could claim Augusta’s attention quite like Sebastian Reaver. As he stalked through the office door, tall and commanding, wearing a dark-green coat and—of all things—a cravat, she smiled despite his dark scowl.
“Sebastian,” she breathed like a perfect ninny.
His nose flared and his eyes darted between her lips and bosom. Long strides halted a moment before resuming. “Time to go,” he barked. “The day is wearing on. You will wish to see Beauchamp’s wares while we have sufficient light.”
She swallowed, her smile fading. Why had she expected his manner to change? So, he’d kissed her. Passionately, yes. Pleasurably, to be sure. But for him, it must have been little more than a maneuver to gain the upper hand in their battle, for he gave no indication it had affected him as deeply as it had her.
She would simply have to tuck away the harsh, sour pain of disappointment and continue as though nothing had occurred. Going soft every time he came near? Weak and ridiculous and distracting from her purpose, she chided. Mentally, she doubled her imaginary armor, layering chain mail and steel plate.
Tugging her gloves tighter upon her hands, she nodded and allowed him to escort her out into the corridor, down the service stairs, and out the back door, where his coach waited. All the while, they did not speak, although she could feel his eyes upon her from time to time.
She greeted Mr. Duff as they exited, and he attempted to help her up into the carriage. But Sebastian intervened, pushing the large sentry aside and clasping her waist from behind.
“Oh!” she gasped as he lifted her. “M-Mr. Reaver, really. A steadying hand is entirely sufficient—”
He climbed in behind her, his arm circling her waist then turning them both and plopping her down on the seat beside him. “Sebastian,” he corrected, low and clipped, before tapping the ceiling and leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.
She scooted closer to the window to give him room. “If you prefer, you may return me to your house.”
“Why would I do that?”
She sniffed. “I assumed, given your boorish behavior, that you have tired of my company.”
“You assumed wrong.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Mr. Reaver, that I will not tolerate such treatment.”
“Look at me.”
For a long while, she refused, training her eyes upon the passing shops of Pall Mall.
“Augusta.”
Hearing her name in his low rumble was nearly her undoing. She squeezed her eyes closed then turned and looked.
Flashing onyx was stunningly near. “I’m a rough sort.”
Heart kicking, she replied, “Is that an apology?”
“I won’t apologize for kissing you. I do not regret it.”
“That is not the behavior to which I am referring.”
“Good.” His voice went lower, his eyes hotter. “Would an apology please you?”
She swallowed and struggled for breath. Armor plate was no barrier to Sebastian Reaver when he looked at her that way. “Perhaps.”
“Then, I beg your forgiveness for being rough.”
“And boorish.”
He smiled slowly. “That, too.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands, loosely clasped between his knees. They were long-fingered and powerful. For all his talk of roughness, he had never hurt her. Not a single time. “Very well,” she said softly. “You are forgiven, Mr. Reaver.”
“Sebastian.”
She inclined her head and gave him a small, sidelong grin. “Sebastian.”