“Oh, Bastian,” she said, squeezing the small opera glasses he’d purchased. “Have you ever seen anything so splendid?”
He ran his gaze over soft, white skin and dark, russet hair. He let his eyes roam across the swells of her breasts and the spangles of her skirt and the parting of her lips. Then, he spoke the truth in a whisper. “No, love. Nothing on earth can compare.”
~~*
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“One might sooner ask Sir Barnabus Malby for instruction in fastidiousness than a stonemason or a secretary for instruction in wooing. When you take the advice of novices, dear boy, you must expect undesirable results.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of admonishment for seeking guidance elsewhere when a vastly superior resource stood readily at hand.
If yesterday had been blissful perfection, today appeared destined to be quite the opposite. Augusta glanced to where her pink ball gown lay upon her bed, wondering how to extricate herself from what would surely be an evening of misery.
She sighed, remembering the previous day’s outings. Sebastian had surprised her again and again, beginning with his presence at breakfast. He’d looked so handsome in his dark-gray coat and white cravat that she’d been speechless for long minutes. Then, in his rumbling voice, he’d suggested riding in the park. Of all the outings he might have proposed, it was perhaps hundredth on a list of one-hundred-and-two Augusta-approved activities. She hated riding, probably because she’d never been very good at it.
Then, he’d suggest a trip to Gunter’s, which seemed rather odd to her, as though his secretary had devised his itinerary. Nothing about Sebastian’s first two proposals had struck Augusta as particularly suited to Sebastian.
But then … oh, yes. Then, he’d mentioned ale. She had recalled that he’d owned a tavern before he’d owned the club. And her perfect day had begun.
It had been glorious. First, seeing yet another business built by Sebastian thrilled her. He was a man of extraordinary will and drive and intelligence, and both The Black Bull and Reaver’s were proof. Then, when Mr. Markham had described Sebastian’s success as a pugilist, her heart had melted even further. He’d accused her once of doing nothing by half measures. In that, they were quite the same.
Everything he did, he did to the furthest extent of his capability. Yet he was no braggart, no toplofty peacock crowing about his wealth and prowess. He was a rough man. And she wanted him for her own.
As their perfect day had worn on, he’d hooked her heart deeper and deeper until she’d wanted to beg him to marry her. His raspy rumble telling her the only naked form he wished for her to see was his. The calculating intensity with which he’d watched her as they’d viewed exquisite works of old masters. His big knuckle brushing a tear from her cheek at the finale of Don Giovanni. His strong, weighty arm around her shoulders as she’d drifted into slumber on the drive home.
Every element had been perfect. Magical. She’d floated high and flown higher.
Then, today, she’d been forced back to earth.
She sighed, hugging her middle before entering her dressing room and sitting at the dressing table. Her skin was pale. She reached up to recoil her hair, tidying the more rebellious curls as she went.
They’d argued. Terribly. The recollection sat like cold rocks in her belly, jagged and aching.
Sebastian had arrived home from the club around three, his expression dark and driven. “We’re attending a dinner this evening,” he’d informed her. “Wear the pink gown.”
Alarm had trilled along her spine. “Dinner? Where? With whom?”
“Acquaintances. Lord and Lady Tannenbrook.”
She’d refused.
He’d frowned, coming toward her with a towering posture. “I have accepted Lady Tannenbrook’s invitation. She will be expecting—”
“I cannot go.”
“Why?”
“They know about me, Sebastian. They came here, day before yesterday, along with Lady Wallingham. I do not know the nature of your relation, but I’m afraid—”
He’d spat a curse, pacing away then coming back, eyes blazing. “What did they say?”
“That they were here to see me. Lady Wallingham was quite rude at first, though her civility improved in time.”
He’d looked furious, releasing a gust of frustration before scraping a hand through his hair. “There’s no help for it, Augusta. We must go. It is important.”
“I don’t see why. They’ve already made my acquaintance. They appear to know a great deal about my family and circumstances—”
“Bloody hell.”
“—and I would imagine my behavior further persuaded them of my disgrace.”
“You’ve done nothing disgraceful,” he’d growled, his mood blacker by the moment. “Dress for dinner, Gus. All will come right, you’ll see.”
“I don’t want to go,” she’d said tightly, the dread settling heavy in her limbs.
He’d drawn close. “Do ye want Glassington’s markers?”
The threat had sickened her. He hadn’t attempted such coercion since they’d kissed. So deeply had she come to trust him, she’d even contemplated revealing the truth about Glassington and Phoebe, wondering if he still believed she pursued the earl for herself. She longed to share her burden with a man whose wide shoulders could help her carry the weight. She’d assumed Sebastian’s affections for her had grown as hers had for him, but perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps she’d been fooling herself, weaving fanciful stories about the honor of a rough man.
“You know I do,” she’d whispered.
Her answer had not appeared to please him. Quite the contrary. The muscles in his jaw had flexed, his nostrils flaring. “Then go and dress. We leave at five.”
So, she had agreed to an evening of humiliation because, as usual, it was what she must do. And now, as she donned her new corset and stockings, petticoats and pink gown, gloves and sparkling silver combs, she tried to imagine each piece as her armor, closing her eyes tightly and picturing it over and over. Chain mail. Steel plate. Gauntlets. Helm. She repeated the process until her wounds were buried inside and her face was calm.
This night was for Phoebe and Phoebe’s child. Whatever else happened between Augusta and Sebastian, one thing remained the same—she needed the leverage against Glassington. And, as Sebastian had implied, only he could grant it.
She went downstairs where he waited, dressed in crisp black and white, wearing a scowl as dark as his eyes. Her heart fluttered as though it wished to take flight, but she stifled it. She mustn’t let the thing take control again. The sudden descent broke it too easily.
Inside the coach, she tightened her cloak around her shoulders and stared out the window at billowing iron clouds. It appeared their reprieve from the storms had ended. A loud crack and slow rumble sounded in the distance. A drop slid along the window.
“Gus.”
“Augusta, if you please,” she corrected quietly. “Only my father called me Gus. And he is gone.”