Anything but a Gentleman (Rescued from Ruin #7)

“Not Lady Tannenbrook. I need …” Reaver released a breath and ran a hand over his head. “There is a woman I must … woo.”

Green eyes crinkled. A smile curved one side of his cousin’s mouth. “A woman. Bluidy hell, Reaver, why didna ye say so?” A deep laugh and a bruising slap of his shoulder made Reaver wonder if he’d made a mistake.

“This conversation stays between us, understand?” Reaver glared a warning. “No carrying tales to your wife. Next thing I know, she’ll be penning a list of instructions for my wedding night.”

Another deep laugh. “Aye, that she would. Very well, what do ye want to know?”

“How do I persuade a lady to marry me?”

“First, you must tell me who she is.”

Reaver frowned. “A spinster. From Hampshire.”

“More, Reaver. What has you contemplating marriage?”

Looking his cousin up and down, Reaver decided to be blunt. Tannenbrook had been a rough sort, once. “I want her until I cannot think of anything else.”

Tannenbrook snorted. “Is that all?”

“It’s a bloody lot.”

“Not enough for a lifetime. Not enough to father her bairns.”

Reaver released a breath and propped a hand on his hip. “She maddens me. I’ve never known a more determined woman. Or one with such courage. Daft, terrifying courage. I’ll not see her wed another, Tannenbrook. I’ll break him in ten pieces before—”

“Ah,” his cousin said in an annoying tone. “Another man. Who is it?”

“Bloody, bleeding nob.”

“You say she is a spinster?”

“Aye.”

Tannenbrook braced a hand against the brick wall. “Then, you must discover what she wants. If she desires marriage with this other fellow—”

“A thousand pieces.”

“—then it is not marriage she resists. If the title matters, you might tell her you’re my heir.”

“Presumptive heir. The moment you father a son, that nonsense ends.”

Tannenbrook cast him an odd glance, then shoved away from the wall. He moved to the pile of brick and began silently loading the wheelbarrow.

Reaver joined him. “How did you manage to persuade Lady Tannenbrook to marry you?”

His cousin smiled. “I didn’t. She persuaded me. Quite thoroughly, at that.”

Picturing the sprightly, beauteous Viola pursuing the overlarge, taciturn James Kilbrenner, he huffed out a chuckle.

Tannenbrook continued, “I did woo her a bit after we were married. Followed a friend’s advice at first, paid her compliments and such. If I were better with words, it might have worked. But all I had were these.” He held up his hands. “So, I made her a gift.” His grin was slow and secretive. “She liked it verra much.”

“Why would wooing be necessary after you were wed?” Reaver frowned. “She was yours already.”

His cousin laughed again, shaking his head. “You and I are much alike, Reaver. Can you not guess?”

Reaver grunted and stacked another pair of bricks. “I have warned Augusta I am a rough man.”

“Is that her name? Augusta?”

“Aye,” he rasped. “Augusta Widmore.” Merely saying it made his heart thud, full and heavy.

With a nod, Tannenbrook resumed loading. “A warning is not enough. You must be better, treat her better than you would anybody else. In return, if she is a woman of worth, she will love you more than anybody else.”

He thought of the instances when he’d spoken harshly and a crinkle of pain had flashed around her eyes. “What if I wound her feelings? She is a strong woman, but I can be … disagreeable.”

Tannenbrook stopped, dusted his hands together, and clapped Reaver’s shoulder. “Beg her forgiveness. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. An apology is a magical spell, man. Use it readily and often, for with females, such measures never lose their charm.”



~~*



Adam knocked on Phoebe Widmore’s door minutes before their three-o’clock visit. He’d also visited at ten and noon, and he would return again at six. Four times a day seemed sensible. He must monitor her eating and ensure she was napping properly.

“Yes, Mr. Shaw, you may enter,” she called from inside.

He opened the door and swiftly closed it behind him. “What the devil are you wearing?” he snapped.

Tightening the pink ribbon on her poke bonnet, she blinked at him from the settee in front of the fireplace. “Well, I don’t know what they call it in India, but here, we call it a gown.” She glanced mockingly down at her fawn wool bodice. “A walking gown, to be precise.” Then, she bent forward to tug on a pair of half-boots.

“You should be napping,” he said sternly. “Dr. Young’s recommendations have worked wonders, but—”

“Do you think so?” Periwinkle eyes sparkled up at him as a half-smile curled her pretty lips.

“Obviously.” He sniffed and straightened, his hands clasped behind his back. “The dark circles beneath your eyes are gone. There is color in your cheeks—a glow, I daresay. And your figure is …” He swallowed as he examined the graceful swell of her bosom. “Quite improved.”

She stood and began donning a pair of gloves. “Then, it is time I took in a bit of air, wouldn’t you say?”

“What? No. I would not say. You should stay here. Lie down. Have a nap.”

Glancing behind her on the settee cushion, she turned in a circle like a pup chasing its tail then halted and raised a finger when she spotted her reticule on a side table. She looped the strings over her wrist. “Don’t be silly. Even a hound is granted a walk now and then.”

He frowned. “A hound defecates on the carpets. I hardly see the similarities.”

She laughed. She was always doing that, her voice light and cheerful, her eyes soft and bright. Sometimes, he went out of his way to catch her at the beginning. It was like watching a sunrise—first slow, then spectacular.

Other times, like now, he amused her without trying, even though he was deadly serious. Only last evening, he’d chided her for failing to finish her soup. She had rolled her eyes at him and said if he liked it so well, then he should finish it. “As for me,” she’d continued with perfect cheek, “only chocolate will do.” Then, she’d sipped from her cup and smiled at him over the brim. In any other woman, he would have called it flirting. He’d wanted to shake her and demand an explanation for her casual attitude toward her illness. He felt the same now.

“Perhaps I did not soil your carpets, Mr. Shaw, but your statue must have needed a thorough cleaning.”

“Fortuna has seen worse.”

“Come,” she said, looping her arm through his and turning them both toward the door. “We shall go together. There must be a park or—”

He pulled her to a stop. “It is raining sideways,” he snapped. “The wind is liable to carry you away.”

Her smile faded. She released him, glanced at her toes then met his eyes with alarming resolve. “I am going. Come along, if you like. Or don’t. But I am going. I cannot spend another afternoon in this room.”

“Very well,” he said. “If you intend to be stubborn, at least let me summon Edith and Duff to accompany you.”

“I should like you to escort me.”

Elisa Braden's books