She would have to sell her cottage. She could not return to Upton Downs and face her neighbors, sneering at the haughty Augusta Widmore, who had become a Londoner’s mistress. A fallen woman.
The problem was, she wasn’t fallen. She laughed, the sound a sad echo in the circle of arms and wood. Sebastian had been too honorable to deflower her, or at least she supposed so. He’d avoided her company and, she assumed, temptation.
Which brought her back to her first truth. She turned her head and laid her cheek upon her hand. She loved him. She wanted to be his wife. Would the Widmore name matter to him, soiled as it was? No. Not to a man with such disdain for titles and inherited privilege.
Ironically, she’d spent years pursuing a title—for Phoebe. She’d planned everything from her sister’s gowns to her pianoforte lessons to the list of house parties they should attend, all with a singular purpose. When Glassington had come along, Augusta had rejoiced. At last, Phoebe’s future would be secure.
She’d been a fool. A dashed fool.
Her focus for weeks had been repairing Phoebe’s mistake. And now, she must repair her own, for she’d damaged the Widmore name and made matters with Glassington that much more difficult.
Again, she thought of Sebastian.
If Augusta married him, she would be a Widmore no longer. Instead, she would be Mrs. Reaver.
She smiled. Mrs. Reaver. Married to a lowborn ruffian whose touch made her tingle and sigh. Whose every glance made her burn.
Yes, her pride had taken a mighty beating today. But the answer to her biggest question remained the same: Claim Sebastian Reaver.
Now, if only she could persuade him that claiming her was his answer, too.
~~*
Reaver arrived home late, exhausted from his work on the expansion. He needed a bath. A shave. A change of clothes.
Still, subtle tension throbbed beneath his skin, all because of one woman. He would see her again. He’d planned an outing for the next day. He’d been reduced to following Frelling’s advice, and who could say whether it would work, but he had to try.
He must persuade her to be his.
As he handed his hat to the butler and requested a bath and a tray from Big Annie—whom he now must call Mrs. Higgins—he reviewed his plans. He had incorporated various bits from the advice he’d received.
First, he would take her for a morning ride in Hyde Park, then for a drive to Gunter’s, where they would have tea. Next, he would take her to the museum to see the marbles. And finally, after returning home to let her change into one of the gowns that made him lose his mind, he would take her to a play.
Entering his bedchamber, he sighed and stretched his back, feeling the ache from a long day. He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it across the bed. Next went his waistcoat and cravat. As the pile grew, he smiled, remembering Augusta’s reaction when he’d accepted her terms of surrender.
Her eyes had gone dark and soft, lips parting, cheeks flushing. She’d been a vision, and he’d been a willing captive.
Then, she had shown him her hands. Reddened and dry. Callused and rough along the palms and fingertips. God, he’d wanted to crush someone’s throat. Her uncle. His bitch of a wife. But all he could do was hold Augusta, or Gus, as her father had called her. He liked the name. Solid. Strong. He also liked her full name, which was long and lush, suggestive of sultry heat in late summer.
Augusta was all of that and more. He could not wait any longer. Tomorrow, he would woo her. The following evening, he would strip away Glassington’s hold. After hearing about her struggles to raise and protect her sister, witnessing her shame upon confessing to taking in laundry, of all things, he suspected the man’s title was, indeed, the prize she sought. Only pride could have driven her to such an end. Augusta had pride in abundance.
He carried his stack of clothing into the dressing room, intending to shave before he bathed. Just then, he heard Augusta’s voice through the adjoining door. She laughed. Said something stern.
He frowned. Threw his shirt back on. Moved closer to the door.
Now, her voice was soft with affection.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
Who was in Augusta’s chamber? It could not be Glassington. Could it? The man’s estate was in Surrey, not far from London. It was a few hours’ ride, perhaps. Less if a man were determined and lustful.
He pounded on the door, rattling the wood in its hinges. “Augusta!”
She yelped. “Sebastian?” A long silence. “Wh-What are you doing home?”
Whispering. Rustling. Shifting feet.
“I thought you were staying at the club.” More rustling. “You missed supper.”
More whispering.
That was it. He didn’t think. He twisted the knob and charged into the room.
She stood at the foot of her bed in a white dressing gown.
And her hair was … down. So bloody beautiful, like wine and silk and fire combined.
“Sebastian! You might have waited for an invitation.” Her cheeks were flushed, her bare hands clutching a shawl to her bosom. And her eyes were frantic.
“Where is he?” he growled, stalking forward, searching first the dressing room then her bedchamber. “Tell me, Augusta.”
“I don’t know what you mean. There is nobody here. Except me, of course. Perhaps you heard the birds in the chimney. Bound to be a few left, despite our best efforts.”
He moved toward the bed. She stepped in front of him, chin high. He grasped her waist, lifted, and set her aside, ignoring her yelp. Dropping to a crouch, he examined the space beneath the bed. Nothing but shadows and dust.
On his feet once again, he prowled from corner to corner until one thing caught his eye—the long chair at the foot of her bed. The one with a rolled end. The one he’d bought for her because she’d loved it and left it behind. There, on the blue velvet, lay a dented pillow and discarded wool blanket.
Only one reason made sense when she had a perfectly comfortable bed to lie upon. Someone else had been sleeping there.
Bloody, bleeding hell. Had he been a fool? He’d spent his nights at the club to guard against lust pushing him too far. Had she been sneaking Glassington into her chamber? From the corner of his eye, he saw a ripple in the window draperies.
He started toward it, red fury flooding his veins. Small, callused hands grasped his arm. Her feet slid when he did not slow. She leapt in front of him, hands pressing his chest as she scrambled backward. “Sebastian,” she panted. “Be reasonable, now.”
Again, he lifted her and set her aside. Then, he yanked the draperies back.
And frowned. Looked down. Much farther down than he’d expected.
A childish growl sounded moments before a puny, dark-eyed boy struck his thigh, kicked his boot, and began pummeling away at his hip.
“Bloody hell, Gus. Why are you hiding a feral boy in your chamber?”
The boy’s blows were nothing, as he was nothing but skin and bone and fight. But when he sank his feral little teeth into Reaver’s thigh, Reaver had no choice. He grasped the puny arms and lifted, enduring kick after kick before shaking the scrapper like a wild pup and sitting him firmly in a chair.