He answered with a grunt.
Next went his coat. Then his waistcoat, unbuttoned with the same deft efficiency he’d shown when she’d interrupted his work at Number Five. Finally, he wore only the white linen shirt.
He grasped the hem. Lifted it over his head.
And her knees nearly buckled. Oh, dear heavens. Not like statuary. Not like she’d imagined. Not even close.
Great slabs of muscle swelled and rippled from neck to waist. His shoulders, which would be wide simply by virtue of massive bones, were surely doubled by hard, rounded—
“Augusta.”
—slopes of muscle, which bulged again along his biceps—
“It is your turn.”
—and forearms. She’d seen his lower arms already, of course. Liberally dusted with black hair. Rippling with strength every time he flexed his hands. His chest was the same. Black hair. Visible, shocking power. She wanted to touch him. So badly, her fingertips tingled.
“For God’s sake, woman. Do ye intend to keep your word or not?”
Her gaze flew up to his. His cheekbones were a bit ruddy, his eyes like molten glass. “My …?”
“The gloves. Your part of the bargain.”
Stomach sinking, she glanced at her hands, heat receding in favor of dread. For years, she’d fought to hide what they revealed. How desperate her life had been. How far she’d allowed the Widmore legacy to fall. Her father would have wept to see what she’d been reduced to, though she hoped he would understand. She’d had little choice. To protect Phoebe, she had done many things no gentlewoman with an ounce of pride would do.
Including sneaking into a gentleman’s club and making outrageous bargains with its owner.
Her eyes rose again, exploring his face. The sharp, rerouted blade of a nose. The onyx eyes and square, shadowed jaw. A deep crease between black brows signaled his aggravation.
She’d been more than fortunate to find Sebastian Reaver seated behind that oak desk, rather than some other man—Lord Glassington, for example. Honor of Sebastian’s sort was not bestowed with a title or a name. It was born. Then earned.
For her, it had been a miracle.
Swallowing, she nodded. “Very well.” A whisper was all she could squeeze past a tight throat.
Slowly, she tugged her fingers loose of worn leather. Unbuttoned the wrists. And slid the gloves free.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. She knew how her hands looked, of course. Red. Roughened. Callused. Some of her fingernails were cracked and torn, though they’d lengthened since she’d been in London.
He reached for her hands.
She stumbled back, hiding them behind her.
“Augusta.”
With a shake of her head, she forced herself to meet his eyes, raising her chin and straightening her posture. “You asked to see them. Now you have.”
She could not read his expression. Onyx had hardened until it appeared cold.
He stepped onto the dais, his head tilting subtly. “Our bargain was for the gloves. Do ye intend to renege?”
“I removed them.”
“I want them.”
Her chest tightened all the way to her throat. Her lower lip began to tremble, but she firmed it up. “I want your shirt.”
He nodded toward the settee. “It’s there. Take it.”
“Don’t be foolish. What will you wear beneath your other garments? How absurd to go about naked but for a cravat and waistcoat and—”
“Give me the gloves, Augusta.”
Her breathing hitched and shuddered. She gritted her teeth. Pictured her armor—layers of chain mail and steel plate. It wasn’t working. All she could see were his eyes, black and deep. Hard with resolve.
Although dread froze her inside, she knew she must give him what he demanded. She had promised. Perhaps she’d done things no gentlewoman would do. But she’d never shamed the Widmore name by breaking her word. It was a small thread with which to anchor her pride. It was all she had.
She extended the gloves to him.
He took them and captured her wrist in one swift motion. Tugging her toward the dressing table where a lamp burned, he caressed her bare arm up and down, gently turning her hand over and over. His thumb tested the calluses. Stroked the roughened knuckles. Soothed the skin she could never seem to soften.
“What have ye done to yourself, love?”
She could not bear it. Her forehead fell against his heavy, muscled biceps. She crushed a sob before it could emerge. Squeezed her eyes shut.
He pulled her fully against him. Wrapped her up tight in a furnace of heat and hard flesh. Whispered against her hair, “Tell me.”
She managed to contain the tears, but a small whimper escaped. “I don’t want to.”
“Aye.” His deep, quiet rumble vibrated through his chest into her cheek. Big hands stroked her nape and back. “Do it anyway.”
“I take in laundry.”
“Laundry? Ye have a living from your father. Is it not enough?”
“No. We have … we are … p-poor.”
He waited.
She listened to his heart thudding rhythmically through muscle and bone. The loud beat slowly synchronized with hers. Calming. Steadying. “When my father died, he set aside dowries for my sister and me. But my uncle inherited everything else. The house. The lands. The title. He is … dishonorable.”
Strong arms tightened and flexed. “Dishonorable in what way?”
How to explain without inviting pity? She’d lived through it, and even to her, the tale seemed pathetic. But he did not let her go, did not loosen his hold, and slowly, as his heat warmed her and his patience gave her room to remember, she told him the truth and hoped he might understand. He was, after all, an extraordinary man.
“My mother died the year Phoebe turned three. A fever. She was strong. Capable. I never thought she would go. But she did. Phoebe … needed me. And Father was … His grief was all he could manage.”
“So, you took command.” He said it as if there was no other conclusion.
She nodded against him, her hands sliding down to rest at the sides of his waist. “I had to. There was no one else. I managed the household. Comforted Phoebe. Our governess was useless. I dismissed her.”
“You were eleven.”
“A fact she never let me forget. Phoebe cried every time I left her alone with the woman. She spoke to me rudely and ignored my commands. I dismissed her without a reference.”
“Hmmph. I’d expect nothing less.”
“In any event, Father’s grief eased in time. He saw that I had done an admirable job managing things, so he encouraged me to continue with the household. But he did resume his ordinary duties—lease negotiations, collecting rents, and such. I enjoyed those tasks, as well, but truthfully, I was relieved. It is difficult for a thirteen-year-old girl to be taken seriously on estate matters.”
He grunted. His arms tightened again, his hands cupping her neck and lower back. Surrounding her. Protecting her.