“Hmmph.”
“The point is to tailor your entertainments to her preferences. Mrs. Frelling advises enhancing your acquaintance a bit.” When he’d looked baffled, Frelling had clarified, “Learn what she enjoys. Then, you may demonstrate how well you listen by offering—”
“Bloody hell, Frelling. I haven’t time for all that.”
“Urgency is understandable, sir. We all have felt similar—”
“Not like this.”
“Have you considered simply … asking her? To marry you, I mean.”
That was when Reaver had given up entirely on Frelling. The man was an excellent secretary. But his wooing advice fell woefully short.
Reaver’s agreement with Augusta expired in three weeks. He hadn’t time for lengthy outings and conversations about her favorite dessert. He needed a bloody a shortcut. Drayton had not yet replied with news about her connection to Glassington, and until he knew why she intended to blackmail the useless worm into marriage, he suspected no strategy would work, whether short or long.
Sighing, he rested against the back of the settee. Upon hearing a warning creak, he resumed his previous position. God, how he hated waiting. Over the years, he’d become good at it. But that did not make him loathe it any less.
“Thank you for your patience, Mr. Reaver,” said Mrs. Bowman as she swept aside the drapery to reveal a silk-garbed Augusta. “What do you think?”
He couldn’t think. She was beautiful. Gowned in silver, shimmery silk with some sort of sparkling overlay upon the skirt, she glowed. Simply glowed. Her eyes shone deeper. Her skin appeared luminous. Her breasts rounder. Her hands … gloved.
Mrs. Bowman continued, “The gown is silver satin. Six folds define the bodice and small puff sleeves. It also has spangles sewn onto an outer skirt of sheer silk gauze. White embroidery in a tiny dot pattern adds to the—”
“Remove the gloves,” he said, his voice down to a thread.
Augusta raised a russet brow. “I will not. These are French kid. Besides, gloves are part of the ensemble.”
He would have pressed his argument, but she turned on her heel and returned to the dressing area.
Over the following two hours, Reaver endured temptation after temptation. The ball gowns and evening frocks seemed designed to torture a man obsessed with her breasts—him, in other words. Even the green walking gown and blue pelisse and gold day dress were oddly alluring. Every frock fitted her lovingly, accentuating the length of her arms and the slenderness of her shoulders. All the colors—none of which were wash-worn brown, he noted—highlighted some feature. The wide curve of her lips. The rich red of her hair. The soft gray of her eyes.
God, he wanted her.
Right bloody now.
And he wanted to know why she always wore gloves, even with the simplest, long-sleeved white morning gown. The dressmaker herself had looked askance at that one. Reaver had noted the gloves she wore were her own, the leather thin and stained along the fingertips.
“This one is special, Mr. Reaver,” called Mrs. Bowman from behind the blue draperies. “I save the most exquisite for last, yes?” She swept aside the curtain.
Revealing a vision.
It was Augusta, with her russet hair gently curling out of its confines, gowned in silk the precise shade of ripe raspberries. Her skirt and bodice shimmered in the waning gray light. More spangles, he supposed. But all he could see was her face, her form, her hair, her eyes, her … everything. The radiant hue was so unexpected against her pale skin it was like seeing the sky go from blue to brilliant crimson in a blink. Stunning. She was stunning.
“Ah, I see you approve, Mr. Reaver. I have a bit more of this silk if you would like—”
“Leave us,” he ordered, watching Augusta’s eyes flare and fire, her lips part.
“There is the matter of the bill—”
“Send it to the club. Leave us.”
The dressmaker departed without another word, taking her assistants with her.
“Sebastian,” Augusta whispered into the silence, her bosom rising and falling at a rapid pace.
He shoved to his feet, ignoring the groan of the settee. “Remove your gloves, Augusta.”
They were white silk, extending past her elbows.
Her chin tilted to a proud angle. “We have already discussed this.”
“You refused.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“None of your concern.”
Now, he must know the reason. His curiosity fired hotter than Hades. “I wish to see your hands.”
She sniffed. “Don’t be silly. They are simply hands.”
“Then, show me.”
Gray eyes sparked with temper. “An uneven bargain, I daresay. You wish me to remove my gloves. What do you intend to remove, Mr. Reaver?”
Oh, now she’d done it. Like the opportunist he was, he closed the distance between them and moved in for the kill. “Anything you like, Miss Widmore. Name your price.”
~~*
Blast. She should have refused and demanded he leave her alone to don her faded gown and worn pelisse. Instead, after hours of feeling him burn her alive with his black gaze, after days of missing his rumbling voice and enormous hands, she had let her temper thwart her good sense.
She did not want him to see her hands, dash it all. But she did want to see him. So much that it might be worth her pride.
Breathless and overwarm, she examined the man from dark head to booted feet. She stood on a small dais, making the difference in their heights less exaggerated and giving her a better view. He wore a cravat. A waistcoat of fawn silk. A tailcoat of deep blue wool. Of late, his attire had grown increasingly fine, as though he’d decided if his house was to be furnished, he should dress accordingly.
Her gaze fell to his brown pantaloons. She supposed she might ask him to remove them. Surely he would decline such an outrageous proposal and abandon this foolish demand to see her hands. Pressing her lips together, she swallowed as she eyed the shadowy muscles of his thighs.
Probably best to keep his lower half out of the discussion. For now.
No, if she were honest, the part of him she most longed to see was the upper half. The shoulders. The chest. The belly. The arms. All bared to her.
“Your shirt,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes from said shoulders.
“My shirt?” His tone was either amusement or surprise. Perhaps both.
“Mmm. That is what I want. Your shirt.”
“Fancy them, don’t you? At least you’re askin’ rather than takin’ this time.”
Now that she’d suggested it, the desire to see him without a shirt had expanded out of all proportion. She tried to imagine what he would look like. Muscular and impossibly big. She’d seen renderings of statuary that might come close.
“Very well,” he rumbled. “Your gloves for my shirt.”
No, even statuary was not solid enough. Vital enough. Big enough.
“I’ll go first, eh?” He untied his cravat with impatient tugs, tossing it onto the settee. “Bloody thing was strangling me anyway.”
Her eyes were held prisoner by his hands, riveted by his every motion. Distantly, she replied, “Then why wear one?”