Ignoring Reaver’s calls for him to stay, Shaw exited without another word.
Reaver spent the remainder of the night pacing his bedchamber and scouring Drayton’s report. It was precisely as Shaw had said. Phoebe Widmore had been impregnated and left to bear Glassington’s bastard. Augusta—following the pattern set since she was a girl—had done everything in her power to set things right, to protect Phoebe from the consequences.
Now, Reaver intended to protect them both. But first, he must persuade Augusta to allow it. A woman too proud to admit she took in laundry could grow a mite stubborn about submitting to his demand for marriage. Especially when she’d resisted being under a man’s thumb for so long.
No, he thought as he paced and pondered, she needed a husband. More specifically, she needed him. The fact that she would belong to him for the rest of her days was merely the price he would exact.
He found himself grinning on a surge of satisfaction. Aye. The rest of her days.
He did not sleep well that night—a few hours, perhaps, and those filled with restless, depraved visions of Augusta’s naked body and everything he planned to do to it.
Despite the lack of rest, he awakened the next morning with purpose, his blood thrumming as it had once done before a fight. He washed, shaved, and dressed, listening for sounds of Augusta from the other room.
Shrugging when he heard nothing, he went down to breakfast. She was seated at the morning room table, her hair neatly pinned, wearing a light-blue, long-sleeved gown and white shawl. She was pale but composed.
His heart kicked and ran hard at the sight of her. “Augusta.”
“Sebastian.” Her greeting was muted, her eyes cast down upon her eggs. She hadn’t taken a bite, merely scooted the yolk around her plate.
He wanted to gather her in his arms. Tell her he understood now, that he would keep her safe. Keep Phoebe safe, as well. Instead, he steeled himself for a fight.
Augusta was no delicate creature who would be grateful for manly intervention. She was bound to resist his proposal. He must apply pressure in the right places and to the right degree, as he would in any fight with a worthy opponent.
“We have a matter to discuss,” he began, taking his seat and pouring his coffee.
“Matter?”
“Glassington.”
Her fork scraped hard and stopped. She set it beside her plate then calmly lifted her gaze and a single brow. “Oh?”
“I know why you need the markers.”
She sniffed. “Of course you do. I have told you already—”
“I know about Phoebe. That she is carrying Glassington’s child.”
She stared at him, her breathing rhythmic but fast. “Where did you learn of this?”
“A Bow Street runner. I wanted to understand your connection to Glassington, so I sent a man back to Hampshire. His report came yesterday.” Deliberately, he took a sip of his coffee. It was rich and smooth. Augusta ensured it was always served as he preferred.
The woman had no idea how far he would go to keep her. But she would soon find out.
Her hands curled and clenched on the table. “And?”
He lowered his cup. “And I intend to bring him to heel.”
Lips parting, she blinked twice. “You do.”
“Mmm. For a price.”
“What price?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Well, start making sense!”
Slowly, he smiled. “I am. You just haven’t caught on yet.”
Her delicate jaw muscles flexed. “Explain, then.”
“I will force Glassington to marry Phoebe.” He took another drink of his coffee then leaned forward so she could not miss his next move. “If you marry me.”
~~*
Was he mad? Or was she? Augusta could not be certain. Presently, the floor was the ceiling, and the ceiling had turned to jam, formless and deep.
She was drowning.
And he wanted—no, demanded—to marry her. What could he be thinking?
“That is by far the most absurd thing you have ever suggested,” she retorted upon catching her breath. “Worse than taking tea at Gunter’s.”
He frowned. “Gunter’s was Frelling’s idea.”
“I knew it.”
“It is not absurd.”
“It is when we have better tea right here at—”
“I meant marriage.”
Her mouth tightened and her chin elevated. “You should not be marrying a disgraced spinster.”
“Why not? She is the one I want.”
She stiffened, her muscles contracting in an effort to resist him. “She is not an appropriate countess for Elijah Kilbrenner.”
Onyx eyes gleamed and narrowed. Long, blunt fingers carefully set his Wedgwood cup in its saucer. “She is the one I want,” he repeated. “All she must decide is whether the prize she seeks is worth the cost I will exact. The rest is my concern, not hers.”
She gritted her teeth, the two bites of bacon she’d eaten earlier resting uneasily in her stomach. “But you will bear the scorn. So will I.”
His eyes went hard and fierce. “No. You will never bear it. Do you understand?”
It was he who did not understand. Disgrace was a corrosive acid. It wore away at everything over time, even stone.
Yet, her objections were fruitless. She could see that Sebastian was set on his course for reasons she did not understand. In the end, was there really a choice? She would endure anything for Phoebe’s sake. And he offered her everything she wanted—including himself.
“Glassington plans to marry an heiress,” she said tartly. “How do you propose to handle that contingency, Mr. Reaver?”
His mouth curved into a half-smile, unexpected and shamefully arousing. “That is for me to fret about. You need only concern yourself with selecting which gown to wear at the wedding tomorrow.”
She blinked. “Tomorrow?”
“There ye go repeatin’ again.”
“W-we cannot be married tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“The banns.”
“Don’t need them. I have a license.”
“How? A license requires at least a week—”
“I purchased it three weeks ago.”
She had no response. He’d stunned her. Utterly stunned her.
“Aye, Gus. All that time. Oh, that’s one more stipulation, by the by. I can call ye Gus. And I can touch ye any way I please.”
He’d stolen her breath. Her heart raced as he held her eyes with his, black as Hades. “Have I any say in the terms of this bargain?”
He sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “Make your demands, Miss Widmore.”
She looked him up and down, taking his measure. She wanted so many things—at least one kiss every day. A chance to touch his naked chest whenever she desired. His promise that when she was drowning, she could find shelter in his arms. But she must focus upon what was important.
“First, I want a permanent home for Ash. Here. Or wherever we are.”
“Done. Next?”
“My cottage. When we marry, all that is mine becomes yours. I wish to retain ownership.”
“No.”