Her own arms encircled his ribs, her hands sliding to a stop beside the buckle at the back of his waistband. Of its own accord, her thumb stroked the smooth skin just above the wool.
“When he sickened,” she continued in a whisper, “I was so afraid, Sebastian. So afraid. But I could not let Phoebe see.”
She felt his lips in her hair. His chin resting upon her crown.
“Before he died, he set aside funds for us. Dowries, he said. He wished us to find good husbands. Phoebe, especially.” She smiled, recalling the conversation. “He said, ‘I expect you shall be either a duchess or Prime Minister within a year or two, Gus.’” She chuckled. “Gus. That’s what Phoebe called me when she was very small, before she’d mastered multiple syllables. Father liked it so well, he …” She swallowed against a sudden welling of grief. “In any case, he was not as concerned for me as he was for her. I was seventeen and had been managing the house for six years. Phoebe was nine and about to be an orphan.”
“You were an orphan, too.”
“I suppose I was. But I hadn’t time to dwell upon such things. My uncle took possession of the estate straight away. He was our guardian, at least until we married or reached our majority, and although he could not touch our dowries, he could create difficulties for us. Our home became his. We lived there by his leave. We relied upon him for our sustenance. To marry before we came of age would have required his consent.”
“He is dishonorable, you said. Explain.”
Her hands gripped his waistband, her knuckles digging into hard muscle. “His wife, Georgiana, became Lady Widmore, of course. To her, we were a burden. A reminder that the title had first belonged to our mother. Apparently, they did not get along, for I had never met her before she came to live at Binchley Manor. Her resentment was clear from the start. Bitterly so.”
“What did she do?”
“In the beginning? Petty things, really. She moved us from our chambers to a single room near the servants’ quarters. She insisted that we empty our own chamber pots and haul our own water and build our own fires.” Augusta smiled. “Our housekeeper, Mrs. Gandy, refused to allow it. Secretly, she assigned us two maids.” Her smile faded. “When Georgiana found out, she dismissed Mrs. Gandy. Such a kind woman to be treated in such a scurrilous manner.” Augusta sighed. “I wrote her a letter of reference. She obtained a position in Winchester within days. We still correspond from time to time.”
“What did your uncle have to say about all this?”
Augusta breathed deeply the scent of Sebastian’s skin—soap and air and man. The hair on his chest tickled her cheek. She wondered if he was chilled, whether she should release him so he could dress. Her hands refused. Her cheek assured her he had heat enough for both of them.
“Sir Phillip said if I did not care for my accommodations at Binchley, I could leave. Of course, he knew very well I had nowhere to go. No funds of my own. No way of earning a living except perhaps as a governess, which would have required leaving Phoebe behind. Other means of employment for a seventeen-year-old girl were … less palatable.”
Sebastian stiffened against her, his chest and arms flexing. “He knew yet did nothing, then.”
“Yes. In character, my uncle and my father were quite different. I believe, in the end, Father hoped we would be shown gentlemanly courtesy. But Sir Phillip sought only to please Georgiana, and she had taken a liking to our discomfort.”
He grunted. Well, perhaps it was more of a growl.
She sighed, bewilderingly calmed by the contact with his skin. Ordinarily, remembering the time after her father’s death sent her charging off to find a distraction—polishing the stairs, tending the garden, sewing a gown for Phoebe. But his solidness was akin to oak, thick and deeply rooted. It surrounded her. Sapped whatever poisons the memories held.
“In time, discomfort no longer satisfied her,” Augusta whispered. “Her cruelties … worsened. I quickly learned to hide the pain, for it seemed to fill her with a strange fire.” She closed her eyes, gripping him harder. “Phoebe was too young. She c-cowered. Begged. Which only made Georgiana … I don’t know how to describe it. Gleeful, I suppose. Triumphant.”
“God Almighty, love.”
“I knew I must protect Phoebe. Get her away from Georgiana. I could not simply marry and leave her there.”
“How long? How long did this go on?”
“Three years and five months. At first, I expected Georgiana to tire of her games and order us from our home. She did not. She enjoyed it and sought to keep Phoebe there.”
“You waited until you were one-and-twenty.”
She nodded. “Sir Phillip no longer had control of my dowry. I did. I could leave, and he could not compel me to return. But he remained Phoebe’s guardian. So I made a bargain.”
His chest rose and fell on a sigh. “You gave him Phoebe’s dowry.”
“Yes. In exchange for Phoebe. I had the better part of that bargain, I assure you.”
“What of your dowry?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Ah. Your cottage, eh?”
“I wished to own it. I wanted no man to have dominion over us again. Not even a landlord.”
“But your funds ran out.”
“Eventually, yes. We have a small amount from my investments, but I have used it exclusively to replenish Phoebe’s dowry.”
“So, you take in laundry.”
“Yes. And sewing. I also tutor a boy and girl from time to time.”
“And that is why your hands—”
“Resemble a scullery maid’s. They are not the hands of a lady, that much is certain.”
“Augusta.”
“Hmm?”
“I sent a man to Upton Downs.”
“My village? Why?”
“A strange woman was determined to invade my club; I would be daft not to discover more about her, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose.”
“Now, explain why none of your neighbors mentioned you took in laundry.”
“They don’t know.”
“How is that?”
“I taught a washwoman to read. In exchange, she serves as an intermediary, delivering the laundry and the funds. She also assists me occasionally. I was ill for several days once. She was most helpful. Her name is Ann, like your housekeeper, but without an E. Ann Bishop.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell, Augusta.”
“There is no need for vulgarity.”
“There damn well is. You should not be taking in laundry.”
“A lady does not labor. I know.” The shame of it thinned her voice to a thread.
She felt him kiss the crown of her head then slowly slide his arms from around her. She clung, unable to let him go. But he grasped her arms and set her away.
Being denied contact with his skin left her in cold desolation, like being thrust from fireside into a blizzard. The contrast was deeply unpleasant. Disorienting.
He took her hands in his, stroked them as he had before. “God, woman. I’ve never known anybody like ye.”
She swallowed, her eyes riveted upon their hands. His, dusky and massive. Hers, reddened and small. “I might say the same, Mr. Reaver.”