Honestly, what had Phoebe ever found tempting in this man?
“How is she?” he asked, his eyes on his boots. “Miss Phoebe.”
She wanted to slap him across his worthless face, just for speaking her sister’s name. “How do you think, my lord?”
He didn’t answer. But, then, she hadn’t expected he would. His demeanor was much the same as it had been the day she’d arrived at his estate in Surrey—shamefaced and cowardly. Then, he’d been in his cups, and she had still believed him a gentleman. Young and foolish and in need of prodding, perhaps, but a gentleman. She’d soon discovered otherwise. The following day, she’d headed to London, a wretchedly miserable Phoebe in tow, and begun learning everything she could about Sebastian Reaver.
“I—I should take my leave, Miss Widmore, though it has been a pleasure—argh!”
She grasped his arm, pinching the flesh just above his elbow hard between her thumb and fingers. Being a washwoman might be humbling work, but there could be no doubt it made her hands strong. “You shall not escape, Glassington. Promises were made, and promises will be kept.”
He yanked his arm away and backed up until his shoulder struck a wall. “You intend to set Reaver upon me? Call in my markers?”
“Perhaps,” she said calmly. “Unless we can be assured of your cooperation.” Best to leave him with the impression she and Sebastian were a united threat, rather than a giant and his nuisance coming apart at the seams.
The man tugged at his coat and thrust his walking stick into the carpet. Then, he thrust his chin into the air, the pose that of a defiant child. “You may tell him I shall have his funds shortly.”
Several breaths passed before she could speak. “How?”
Again, the cravat wobbled. “I shall marry soon.”
No, her mind whispered then shouted. No!
“When I have her dowry in my possession, I shall contact Reaver and settle things properly.”
“Who is she, Glassington?” Augusta gritted. “Who have you deceived this time?”
“Tell Phoebe I shall send her something when I can. For the babe, you know.” He turned to walk away.
“Who?” Augusta growled, a thousand bees stinging her insides. “Tell me!”
But he continued on to the staircase, disappearing from view. She leaned against the wall in the darkness, her fist in her mouth.
Oh, God. He’d found his heiress.
The one solution that would render her leverage useless.
She closed her eyes. Buried her face in her hands.
For a long while, she could not move. But finally, she did, breathing and smoothing the sides of her hair. I will find a way, she told herself, just as I always have. Perhaps she could discover the heiress’s name. Visit her and explain what sort of worm Glassington was. Yes. That was it.
If she could find the name. And the woman. And make her listen to a disgraced spinster from Hampshire. In any case, she could not stand here, weak and despairing. She must … she must gather herself. Bind up her wounds. There was no one to carry her. There never had been.
Augusta turned toward the drawing room.
“Where have you been?” The low rumble came from the dark. It was deep, quiet, and cold.
She let silence settle between them before answering. “Here.”
“You were meeting Glassington.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
All of a sudden, the events of that evening gushed upward in a flood. They shot from the floor into her feet and from her feet into her legs and from her legs into her chest. The flood roiled and rushed out, pressuring her bones. It made her pant. It made her gasp.
The steel plate could not hold it.
“Take me home,” she whispered, her words splitting and rusty.
“Augusta—”
“Take me home,” she begged. “Please, Sebastian. Please.” She did not care that she sounded pitiful. She was going to break open, and she did not want to be in Lady Tannenbrook’s drawing room when it happened.
He did not say another word, simply grasping her arm and her waist, pressing her along the corridor to the stairs, then down to the foyer, where the Tannenbrook butler swiftly summoned the carriage. Outside, the storm that had been a mere threat was now a downpour of frigid sleet and frequent thunder.
She winced as the wind splashed the stuff into her face. Sebastian immediately surrounded her, taking the worst of it on his back and ushering her to the carriage door. He lifted her inside, where she huddled against the leather-lined wall and held her breath against the urge to let the flood free.
Not yet, she thought frantically. Not yet. Not until she was safe.
He climbed inside and tapped the ceiling with his fist. It felt like the storm had come inside with him, dark and looming and coldly furious.
Impossible to wait until she was safe. The flood was coming. She covered her face as the carriage jerked forward. Distantly, she heard her own rough breaths, the low, piteous whimpers as the flood split chainmail and steel and bone.
“Augusta. By God, woman. Don’t.”
She could not stop it.
He lifted her. Scooped her into his arms and onto his lap, gripping her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. “Please, love. Do not.”
There was no stopping it. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, her hands gripping his fine black coat. The flood was upon her, and nothing could stop it now.
~~*
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“We all have trials, my dear boy. Have I mentioned how many lady’s maids I have been forced to dismiss?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of reply to said gentleman’s complaints about the increased frequency of certain correspondence.
Sebastian Reaver had experienced many kinds of pain in his life. A broken nose—twice. Poundings and illnesses. Hunger and thirst. Thwarted lust and deep betrayals. His family’s deaths.
Nothing had been more agonizing than holding his strong, capable Augusta while she fell apart. Nothing. Ever.
She’d been unable to speak, her sobs infrequent and unwilling, her breathing as labored as if she’d gone forty minutes in a fight with Rude Mayhem. He’d carried her to her chamber, stripped her down to her shift, tucked her into bed, and sat waiting until she’d fallen asleep.
Now, he could not leave her. He leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, and watched her breathing. He didn’t know what to do. None of his plans had gone right that evening, and even now, his murderous hatred for Glassington ate at him like rats upon a tavern’s food scraps.
He rocked in place, attempting to endure her pain. Trying to avoid the taunting images of Glassington putting his hands upon her. Wanting a solution that would make Augusta Widmore his forever.
His goal had been to prove to her that he could give her everything Glassington could and more. That she needn’t pursue any other man, because he would gladly accept the loathsome role of presumptive heir if a title mattered that much to her. He would move them both to Derbyshire, buy her twenty thousand acres and a bloody palace, and speak with Shaw-like diction.