Then, she noticed the workmen murmuring to one another, shooting her curious glances as they made their way toward the lengthy kitchen hearth, which was being rebuilt.
“Mr. Frelling has a talent for hiring staff,” she observed. “Perhaps he could help you find more competent laborers, so your assistance in these tasks would not be necessary.”
“They’re all competent. I hired them myself.”
She lifted a brow in mock surprise. “Oh? How puzzling. One wonders why you should need to haul wood and brick, when there are capable craftsmen on the job.”
For several long moments, he glared at her. “I don’t need to. I like to. Cease your bothersome questions, woman.”
“What do you like about it?”
“By God, you are a nuisance.”
“Tell me.”
He released a loud sigh. “It helps settle my mind.”
“Is it the physical exertion or the organizing that does it?”
His eyes took on a considering glint, as though she’d surprised him. “Both.”
That explained the crates. Sebastian had an excess of energy and a need for order she recognized. She had a bit of both, herself. Though for her, laboring had not precisely been optional. Not since her father’s death, at any rate.
“Well, I enjoyed watching you work,” she confessed. “You are quite … skilled.”
A grunt served as his reply.
“Will you be home for supper?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then her bosom. Then back up to her eyes. “Aye.”
Somewhere in her middle, heat bloomed outward, tightening and tingling along its path. Slowly, she smiled before turning toward the rear entrance. As she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder.
He was watching her backside.
Her smile widened. “I shall see you there, Mr. Reaver,” she called.
“Aye,” he rasped. “That you will.”
~~*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“When conversing with a lady, beware of descending into long, brooding silences. A young woman tends to spin elaborate fancies that you are composing sonnets in her honor, when in truth, you are contemplating either how long you must wait to bed her (most likely) or how long you must wait to have your second port (slightly less likely). Such misunderstandings are best avoided.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter filled with cautions for a gentleman seeking a wife.
He’d managed one supper. One long, torturous supper with Augusta Widmore. He hadn’t returned to his house since.
Of course, the place scarcely resembled his house. There were carpets on the floors, draperies on the windows, chairs and tables and sofas everywhere he turned. All of it was rather pleasing, he supposed. He appreciated that most pieces were straight and sturdy, substantial enough to hold him without cracking. He’d sat at the dining table, comfortable in the wide, cushioned chair.
Until she’d entered. Then, he’d been deeply uncomfortable. Hard and ready in seconds. She’d worn a gown with faded green stripes. It had been washed numerous times. It was designed to wear with a fichu. She hadn’t worn a fichu.
And he’d scarcely been able to speak, let alone eat.
Now, days later, he was equally uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because his head was crammed near the ceiling of the coach. It was because Augusta sat across from him, wearing her worn, brown pelisse and a prim, pursed expression. By all rights, she should be the last woman to torture a man with lust.
But she did. God, how she did. He dreamt of removing her gown. Or not. Perhaps just lifting her skirts and taking her upon his desk or against a wall or on one of those substantial sofas. Several times should do it. Thereafter, he could go slowly. Strip her bare. Explore those sumptuous—
“It has been three days since we have spoken,” she said tartly. “Can you not muster a word of conversation?”
No. No, he couldn’t.
Nothing was working. Not his laboring. Not sparring with Duff, who hadn’t stopped complaining about his ribs for two days. Not even the measures he’d resorted to as a randy youth.
Reaver’s tension pounded so loudly inside him, his skin vibrated like a never-ending drum.
“Mrs. Bowman was quite pleasant when she came to take my measurements last week,” Augusta said, evidently deciding to carry on the conversation alone. “I was surprised to learn she hails from Rome, though she spent much of her youth in Toscana. Florence, to be precise. Ever since reading one of my father’s books about the region, I have desired to see it. Remarkable paintings and statuary. Architecture. We spoke at length about its wonders. Did you know the city has a rich history of cloth-making? Wool and silk, mainly. I had read about the moneylending, of course, but not about the textiles.”
He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was saying. He watched her lips—those wide, sensuous lips—and wondered how he was going to survive the next few hours without kissing them.
“Sebastian.”
Aye. He liked the way she spoke his name.
“Mr. Reaver!”
“What?”
“Have you nothing to say?” Gray eyes snapped with annoyance.
He tightened his jaw and forced himself to look elsewhere. Out the window would do. “We are here,” he said.
Her sigh was loud and telling.
As they entered the blue-draped shop, he noted the stiffness in her posture. Augusta appeared to relax when the dark-haired dressmaker with the lilting accent and wild gestures greeted her and drew her toward a small, curtained area. Reaver made to follow, but Mrs. Bowman held up an imperious finger.
“No, no, no, Mr. Reaver. Wait here.”
He glowered his displeasure.
“We shall return, and you may see the gowns one by one. Mary will fetch you tea. Mary!”
A harried blonde assistant scurried forward.
“Fetch Mr. Reaver tea.”
“I don’t want tea.”
Mrs. Bowman fluttered her fingers at the assistant, who exited through a curtained archway. Once again, she raised that imperious finger at Sebastian, pointing toward a settee a few feet away. “Wait,” she commanded.
Augusta, meanwhile, shot a prim smirk over her shoulder as the dressmaker ushered her past the curtain.
Bloody-minded females. He sat on the edge of the delicate silk settee, crossed his arms, and tried not to imagine Augusta being undressed piece by piece. The assistant delivered him tea, which he didn’t drink. She then offered him biscuits, which he didn’t eat.
He ran a hand down his face, wondering again how best to persuade Augusta to become his wife before madness set in. He’d queried Frelling a second time, hoping the man proved a more competent advisor in matters of wooing than he’d been initially.
“Perhaps an outing, Mr. Reaver,” his secretary had suggested.
“To where?”
“She’s lived in Hampshire her entire life. Show her some of what London has to offer. Even in winter, it is filled with delightful entertainments.”
“Such as?”
“Take her to a play. I understand Edmund Kean is excellent. Or perhaps a visit to the British Museum to see the marbles. Or a carriage ride to Berkeley Square. Gunter’s tea is really quite decent.”
“Tea.”
“Some people adore tea. Not you, of course, but Miss Widmore does seem to favor it.”