“Depends. Honesty comes at a cost. Most men favor utility. Even those who fancy themselves gentlemen.”
She considered his point, considered her position and that of Phoebe. Recalled the fibs she had been forced to tell recently. Compared those small infractions to the disreputable behavior and broken promises of Lord Glassington. Yes, honesty was a laudable standard, but as she’d learned over the past few months, life was rarely so simple.
“Perhaps you are right.” She turned her eyes to the window, noting the gas lamps along Pall Mall were already lit. “Good heavens, how long were we in Mr. Beauchamp’s warehouse?”
“Six hours.”
“Oh, dear.” She chuckled and relaxed against the seat. “No wonder I am famished.”
He frowned, the shadows in the carriage drawing deep furrows along his brow. “We’ll stop at the club first. Have dinner. Then home.”
“Home?”
“My house.”
What was this queer pang that struck her heart the moment he’d said the word “home”? As though it was their home. His and hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry?” he demanded. “We could have returned tomorrow.”
She blinked, startled by his hard tone. “I had a task to finish.”
“Aye. But it did not have to be finished in one day, woman. Bloody hell. You never do anything by half measures.”
“Half measures take one precisely nowhere. My goal is to reach my destination, not mill about helplessly whilst pretending I shall arrive someday.”
His head tilted toward her. In the growing dark, onyx flashed and fired. “What is your destination worth, Augusta Widmore?”
The odd question came in a low rumble that made her bones quiver. She knew what he asked, but she could not answer truthfully without revealing too much. It is worth anything, she thought. Everything. Because, unless I reach it, my sister’s life will be a mire of regret and shame. I could bear anything but that.
No, she could not tell him the truth. So, she gave him another answer—honest, but far less than he’d wanted. “At the moment, Sebastian Reaver, reaching our destination will gain me a fine meal. I would give anything for a taste of something other than bread and cold tea.”
“Anything, eh?” He leaned closer until she could feel his heat, smell the scent of wool and man. “Have a care what you promise. A gentleman might hesitate to take advantage. But, I ain’t a gentleman, and well you know it.”
~~*
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Regarding courtship, some strategies are universal. Gifts. Flattery. A fine head of hair. Others must be tailored to the object of one’s affection, necessitating gentle conversation to learn her preferences. In your case, Mr. Kilbrenner, I would emphasize the hair.” — The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of advice on the subject of wooing.
“I want to keep her.”
Shaw’s brows arched at Reaver’s declaration. “As your mistress?”
“No.”
Abandoning his post by the window, Shaw strolled toward Reaver’s desk and sat on its edge, idly examining the painting Lady Tannenbrook had given him. “As your wife, then. Certain of that?”
“If I could have the deuced wedding this morning, I would.”
“Hmm. What does she say about it?”
Reaver released a frustrated gust. “Haven’t asked her. She is fixed on bloody Glassington. Apart from the title, I cannot guess why. The man is a reckless idiot.”
“Yes, I recall. Lively chap. Blustering sort of charm. Drunk as an emperor after his second brandy.” Shaw frowned. “Never saw a man suffer such steep losses so quickly. Remarkable.”
Clenching and releasing his hold on the arms of his chair, Reaver struggled to remain calm. “I’ll break every bone in that sod’s body before I let him touch her.”
Shaw’s eyes crinkled on an annoying grin. “Well, you are preternaturally talented in that regard. And it has been an age since I’ve seen you make a man cry out for his mother. Damned entertaining.”
Reaver grunted an acknowledgment. Aye, he’d once been a bruiser. And Shaw had run the wagers, flashing his grin and feigning a servile nature to invite deeper play. In those days, they’d been two dockers with empty pockets and ravenous ambition. They’d clawed for something better than hauling crates and rope, doing whatever it took to gain ground—from breaking other men’s jaws to dicing in the lower hells and taverns. Frequent wins had drawn accusations of rooking, but their success had come more from calculation than weighted dice.
They both had a head for numbers, he and Shaw. It was how they’d earned enough to buy their first tavern. It was how they’d built Reaver’s. It was how Reaver knew the long odds of a woman like Augusta Widmore pursuing a worthless fop like Glassington for any reason other than desperation. But desperation about what, precisely? He needed answers.
Shaw crossed his arms. “A pummeling would be amusing. However, if your aim is to entice Miss Widmore into marriage, you may wish to apply your hands to more productive endeavors.”
“Such as?”
Shaw chuckled. “If I must explain, perhaps matters have deteriorated more than I thought.”
“Bastard.”
“Hmm. No, merely a half-blood.”
Reaver glared. “I don’t like that term. Now, tell me what I should do.”
Shaw’s brows arched. “To woo Miss Widmore? Bloody hell, Reaver, how should I know?”
“Women seem to favor you.”
“Women favor blunt. The man to whom it’s attached is an afterthought.”
“Not her. She’s … different.”
“Then why is she after Glassington, if not for the title? Merely another form of blunt, truth be told.”
“I don’t know,” Reaver said, his gut churning. “Drayton is running their connection to ground, but he’s been delayed.” Reaver glanced at the window where rain pelted the glass. “Storms, likely.”
“They haven’t let up,” agreed Shaw before pushing to his feet and tugging the lapels of his coat. “Must return to the floor. When I left, Sir Barnabus Malby was declaring his admiration for the brooch pinned to Lady Brannigan’s bodice last evening. Lord Brannigan was not amused. My sense was that Malby would be lying prone on the hazard table within a quarter-hour. I should summon Duff. Malby is rather … portly.”
Reaver nodded and waved him off.
At the door, Shaw turned, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps she is different, as you say, and not the sort to favor deep pockets. But it mightn’t go amiss to show her the advantages of being Mrs. Sebastian Reaver.”
“She’s a respectable lady, Shaw. I cannot do those things until after we are married. It’s bloody maddening.”
Laughing, Shaw replied, “Not those things, man. Take her places she wishes to go. Buy her things she wishes to have. Spoil her a bit. Turning a country spinster’s head should be easy for a man of your means.”
“You were right,” Reaver growled.
“I was? What about?”
“Your advice regarding females is useless. I’ll ask Frelling.”