“Miss Widmore, are you quite well? You are dreadfully pale. Perhaps we should serve dinner. I was waiting until our final guest arrived, but I should not wish anyone to swoon … oh! There he is now.”
Light sharpened suddenly. Painfully. Her head tilted as she saw who hovered in the open doors, dark hair rakishly mussed, cravat perfectly pressed.
“Come, I shall introduce you. Though, I confess our acquaintance is tenuous. Elijah requested that I invite him. He seems pleasant enough, though.”
“We have met, my lady,” she replied, the softness of her voice belying her ascendant anger.
“Oh? How do you know Lord Glassington?”
Augusta clenched her jaw and eyed the worthless worm’s white breeches and shined boots, his silly walking stick and slender wrists.
“From Hampshire. We are old acquaintances, he and I.” Her voice was silken, her fury rising to swarm her with bitter heat.
It replaced all that had been left empty and cold.
At least there was that.
When he saw her and went white and sickly, she enjoyed a small degree of satisfaction, but it was not enough. Not nearly.
Her eyes went to Sebastian and saw him watching. Onyx burned and calculated. Made her wonder what he’d intended.
Was it this? This moment of heat and humiliation? Had he wanted to toss everything in her face at once?
The ladies he should be marrying.
The man she should be pursuing.
The truth about how little chance for happiness she’d had all along.
By heaven, she had been stupid. So dashed blind.
Lady Tannenbrook cleared her throat. “Oh. Perhaps we should simply go in to dinner, then. Yes. Perhaps we should. The evening can only improve with a fine meal and a bit of wine, hmm?”
Dinner unfolded as strangely as she come to expect. She was seated between Lady Wallingham and Lord Rutherford. The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham made loud pronouncements about the superiority of British wool to French. The turquoise-eyed marquess made wry observations about said lady’s attempts to steal the Duke of Blackmore’s French cook. Then he took a slow, leisurely sip of his tea—having eschewed wine—and sent his wife a burning glance over the cup’s rim. The lady’s freckled cheeks turned as red as the jam in their strawberry tarts.
For the most part, Augusta ignored the byplay. Instead, she ate what she could manage on a hard, churning stomach. And planned.
Sebastian might have intended to humiliate her, but he’d handed her a ripe opportunity. She was here with Glassington’s creditor, a fact Glassington could not have missed. Apart from possessing the markers herself, there could be no better implied threat. But to make the threat more explicit, she must speak with the weak-wristed wretch. It would require a bit of maneuvering, she thought as she sipped her wine and glared. She must catch him alone. After dinner, obviously. Perhaps in the corridor. Or when he prepared to depart.
Yes. She would speak with Glassington, make clear her intention to hold him to his promise. She might even embellish her influence over Sebastian, implying the man was besotted with her. She scoffed at the notion and set her wineglass on the table with a snap, earning her a lifted brow from Lord Rutherford.
“Wine cannot be that insulting, can it, Miss Widmore?”
“Insults, like beauty, are subject to perception, my lord. One may choose to be insulted. Or one may choose deflection.” Augusta smiled, slowly shifting her eyes from Glassington to Sebastian, who glowered at her with predatory potency. “If one deflects with sufficient force and care, the originator suffers the same wound tenfold.”
“I quite like you, Miss Widmore. You remind me of someone.”
“And who is that?”
“Myself.”
She chuckled, enjoying his wry wit and unflappable ease. She did not, however, remove her eyes from Sebastian. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“Well, it is certainly not an insult. I am not so foolish as to test your assertion. Or, for that matter, Reaver’s fists.”
This time, his comment drew her gaze. She collided with the man’s unusual, hooded eyes. “What do his fists have to do with—”
“Come now. You are an intelligent woman. You must be, to put me in mind of myself. No, a woman of your obvious brilliance must surely know when a man is obsessed with her.”
She swallowed. Scoffed. It sounded weak. “Obsessed. Don’t be silly.” She returned her gaze to Sebastian. He hadn’t looked away from her. Not for the entire dinner. Before that, really.
“Take it as you prefer. My wife would most likely offer advice now. Something lovely and straightforward. ‘If he knows your worth, he will prove himself by earning it,’ or some such wisdom. But I am a man, and thus, less inclined toward profundities in these matters.”
“What would be your advice, then?”
He finished his tea and dabbed his sensual lips with his napkin. She noted his hand was scarred along the palm, though the scar looked more like a brand, swirling and floral.
“You have your fish hooked, Miss Widmore. Well and truly. If you wish to land him, it shouldn’t require much effort. A simple yes would suffice, I’d wager.”
“Y-you don’t know him. He is not—”
“I know him quite well, as it happens. We were friends once.”
“Once? What caused your friendship to end?”
He dropped his gaze to where his fingers played with delicate china. “I was acting a fool. He had the audacity to point it out. Only later did I realize what he’d given me.” The man’s eyes found his wife. His smile faded, his stare increasing in intensity until Augusta wanted to squirm in her seat. “For that, I owe him a debt.” He blinked, and the intensity dissipated, cloaked behind a charming smile and studied nonchalance.
After dinner, everyone returned to the drawing room. Miss Chipperfield played the pianoforte. Lady Maria sang. Both were lovely—lovely, talented, proper ladies. And Augusta imagined at least five ways in which they, along with Miss Eversley, could be rendered dreadfully unmarriageable. A favorite was the fantasy in which all three fell into a giant vat of dye. Green. Or puce.
No man wanted a puce bride, surely.
Glassington sulked in the corner of the room between the fireplace and the windows. He chatted with Lady Maria’s mother and sent Augusta occasional nervous glances. Just as Miss Eversley took Miss Chipperfield’s place at the pianoforte, Augusta saw Glassington saunter over to Lord Tannenbrook, who nodded and shook the man’s hand. At his side, Lady Tannenbrook murmured what appeared to be the sort of pleasantries a hostess said to a departing guest.
This was Augusta’s chance. She’d lingered near the drawing room doors since Miss Chipperfield’s first tune. Now, she slipped out into the corridor, making her way into a darkened section just before the turn to the staircase.
He squeaked in a most unmanly fashion when she spoke his name.
“M-Miss Widmore. Didn’t see you there.” He tugged at his coat and tried to look calm. “Waiting for Mr. Reaver?”
She folded her arms and gave him a flat stare. “No need,” she said. “He waits for me.”
The worm swallowed, his cravat wobbling.