It was true that Reaver’s had long been his sole focus. The club was his wife, his mistress, his child. Every thought and action, every moment of every day had been dedicated to making it into what it was—the finest gaming house in London. It was also true that, of late, Reaver had been … restless.
Shaw straightened away from the desk. “The club is as much a success as it will ever be. Time to find a new hill to climb.”
“I have the expansion to—”
“Frelling could manage the project in his sleep.” Shaw swept a disgusted glance across the ledger and papers piled in neat stacks on his desk. “And his waking hours could be spent on this lot.”
“Not if he prefers taking tea with his wife to tending his work. When did that begin, eh?”
Shaw raised a brow and shrugged. “He asked. I gave permission. The fact that you failed to notice his absence is evidence of your problem.”
“My only problem is employees who cannot keep sharp-tongued spinsters from infiltrating my office.”
“That sharp-tongued spinster is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in months.”
Reaver tossed his spectacles onto the open ledger and shoved away from his desk. Pacing to the window, he braced a hand on the casing and looked down upon the small square bounded by a cluster of brick houses. Beside him, a clock ticked away the time. Below him, the same old faces came and went, most leaving with more brandy and less blunt than when they’d arrived.
“Give it some thought. Take a mistress. God, even a wife, if you prefer a bit more permanence. Frelling would recommend the latter. As would your cousin.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell,” Reaver muttered. “A wife? I’ve enough females burying me in muck at present, thank you.”
“Lady Wallingham is not a female. She is a force of nature. A monsoon.”
True enough. The old woman had appointed herself his American grandmother’s representative here in England. She’d written him every week for the past ten—a campaign to bring him “up to scratch.” Recommendations had ranged from hiring a new tailor to purchasing a country estate to taking discreet lessons from a tutor specializing in “proper diction.” Her imperious, interfering nature made his nerves zing. Every word was like biting down on rusted iron.
A knock sounded. Frelling poked his head past the door. “A visitor for you.”
Reaver glowered. “There were no appointments this morning.”
Frelling adjusted his spectacles, shrugged and grinned. “She insists.”
She? A surge erupted in his belly, rising through his chest, unwanted and unwelcome. Too much like excitement. For a moment, he pictured her as she’d been two days earlier—skin flushed from being carried down the stairs, straw bonnet perfectly straight, brown ribbon neatly tied beneath her stubborn chin. Their hands had lingered on one another for a bare second. Nearly an embrace.
Bloody hell. An embrace? Perhaps Shaw had a point about acquiring a mistress. It had been six months since the last one. Too long, obviously.
“Tell her to leave. Then escort her outside.”
Frelling ignored his order. Instead, the man turned to speak to someone behind him. Then, the door swung open.
It was not the female he’d anticipated.
“Silly goose,” said the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen, brushing past his dazzled secretary and sweeping into his office in a cloud of white muslin and indigo velvet. Upon her raven hair perched a dark-blue bonnet with tiny white feathers. She blinked thick lashes over mesmerizing blue eyes. “I brought gifts. As promised.”
She glided first to his desk, depositing a flat, square package and a folded sheet of paper, before coming to grasp his hands in her tiny, delicate grip. “Come now.” She shook his hands in hers. “Bend down.”
Bloody hell again. This was the last thing he needed. He bent, lowering his cheek so she could reach it. She laid a kiss upon his jaw and gave him a brilliant smile.
“There, now. It is splendid to see you, Elijah.”
He sighed, straightening. “Reaver, Lady Tannenbrook. Sebastian Reaver.”
“And I have told you to call me Viola.”
“Too familiar.”
“We are cousins. Well, you and James are cousins, at any rate. I am certain he won’t mind.”
“I’ve seen how he looks at you. I prefer to keep my blood where it belongs. Speaking of which, where is your husband?”
Viola gave him a mischievous twinkle, a small scar near her eye drawing his attention. It only emphasized her perfection. “He and Mr. Duff are discussing the correct methods for repairing a chimney. I expect him momentarily.”
Again, Reaver found himself sighing. He glanced to Shaw, who nodded and left to retrieve the man.
James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook, tended to be unreasonable about his wife spending time alone with another man. Better to keep the duration short. Tannenbrook hadn’t the softness of a typical nob. He’d been a Scottish stonemason before unexpectedly inheriting an English title from a distant relation at age sixteen.
No, Tannenbrook was far from soft. He’d spent years restoring the estate of Shankwood Hall, the adjacent village, and all its surrounding lands to robust productivity, doing much of the work with his own hands. Concerned about what would happen to the estate and its dependents should he fail to produce a son, he had tracked down the sole remaining male of the Kilbrenner bloodline—Reaver, as it happened.
Reaver had little desire to reclaim his original name, and even less to be the man’s presumptive heir. But, then, James Kilbrenner’s tiny, exquisite wife had decided her husband’s happiness depended upon Reaver’s acceptance of his “familial duty,” and Reaver hadn’t known a peaceful week since.
“Oh, do stop frowning, Elijah. I haven’t come here to torment you.” She released his hands and twirled about, floating toward his desk. When she turned back, she was clutching a sheet of paper to her bosom. “I have come to solve your problem.”
“Why does everybody assume I have a problem?”
“I have made a list!”
“If I have a problem, my lady, it is people advising me about problems I don’t have.”
Ignoring his grumbling, she shook the page open and cleared her throat then began to read. “Lady Tannenbrook’s List of Prospective Brides for Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. You will adore this. I have spared you untold hours of dreadful chatter about favorite colors and silly questions about why you named your horse Colonel Smoots.”
He frowned. Why should anyone give a damn what he named his horse?
She held up a hand. “Trust me.” Then she lifted a finger. “Prospective Bride One: Miss Lydia Chipperfield. Oh, I like this one, Elijah. Twenty years old. Her father is a barrister who solved a small problem for the Prince Regent and was awarded a knighthood. Sir Emmett Chipperfield is his name. Charming gentleman. Her mother is dull as stagnant pond water, but not to worry. Lydia may share her mother’s beauty, but she inherited her father’s wit. A superb contender, if I do say so.”