She glared and gritted her teeth. “Why not?”
“Because ye wish to keep the cottage so ye’ll have a place to run, should ye decide to leave.” His voice grew quieter, his eyes deadly serious. “I’ll not abide leavin’, Gus. Ye’ll stay and fight. And I vow the fight shall be fair. I will listen and we’ll make another bargain, you and I. We’ll make as many bargains as it takes. But ye won’t be leavin’. Understand?”
Hating how he dug beneath her roots to expose everything hidden, she dropped her gaze and nodded.
“Good. Other terms?”
“A new coach. Taller. One that fits you properly.”
He smiled, slow and sensual. “Done. Anything else?”
“Lady Tannenbrook is most anxious for you to visit Shankwood Hall. I would like your promise that you will do so.”
“When?”
She blinked. “Whenever it suits. Next year, perhaps?”
“Agreed. On one condition. You must come along. You shall be my wife, after all.”
True. She would be his wife. Starting tomorrow. Good heavens. “Very well,” she answered. “I have one last demand.”
“Ye’re a right nuisance, woman.”
“I want to know how Elijah Kilbrenner became Sebastian Reaver. I want to know why you lied to me.”
Blunt fingers drummed along the rim of his cup as he gave her a look of hard calculation. “That is quite a long tale, Gus. And not a particularly pleasant one. Are ye certain ye wish to hear it?”
“Yes.” She must. She needed to understand him, because at the moment, he seemed wholly unpredictable.
“Aye, then. I shall tell you. After we marry.” He raised a finger as she began to object. “That’s the bargain, Gus.”
“Very well. We have an agreement.” She stood and moved around the small table to extend her hand. “I trust you will keep your word, Mr. Reaver, as I will mine.”
He glanced down between them and shook his head. “That is not how I seal a bargain with a wife.”
Swallowing against a dry throat, she answered, “I am not yet your wife.”
His gaze crashed into hers. “Soon enough.” With that, he grasped her hand and pulled her forward between his knees. Then, his hands went to her waist. “Kiss me. Show me you mean to keep your promises.”
“I always keep my promises.”
“Then, it shouldn’t be hard to kiss the man you intend to take as your husband.”
No, it wasn’t hard at all. She wanted it with everything inside her. That was the problem. He made her weak.
“Do it, Gus,” he murmured with strange intensity.
Slowly, she took his jaw between her hands. She stroked the smooth-shaved chin with its deep cleft. She traced the defined lips and re-routed nose.
“Are you certain?” she whispered, her eyes searching his.
His fingers dug into her waist. Pulled her closer. Held her tighter. “Aye.”
She lowered her head and gently brushed his lips with her own. The feel of his lips always surprised her—firm and soft. Curved to fit hers. The first time she’d felt them, she’d wondered how two mouths could match so perfectly. Now, he surprised her by letting her take the lead. She breathed against him. Nibbled and stroked. Then, she grew bolder. Flushed. Warm. She flickered her tongue against him. Back and forth. Back and forth. He opened for her and she slid inside.
Her hands moved to the back of his head, spearing through thick, black hair. Still short, but longer. Enough to let her grab hold and take more of his mouth. She did. Oh, how she did. And that wasn’t all. She pressed her aching breasts against him, stroked her needy tongue along his, breathed his scent deep inside herself.
And craved more.
He pulled away. Grasped her wrists and moved her backward. But he was gasping. Heaving breaths worked in his chest. Red streaked his cheekbones. “Ye should go, Augusta.”
She didn’t want to. She wanted to kiss him again.
“Please, love. I need …” He cursed and closed his eyes. “I will wait until you are my wife. I will wait.”
Slowly, she grinned, feeling oddly victorious. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear, “Soon enough, eh, Reaver?”
~~*
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“No longer required? My dear Mr. Kilbrenner, marriage is a landscape far more perilous than courtship and far less forgiving of a man’s foibles. You need me now more than ever, I assure you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s precipitous and inadvisable rejection of sound advice.
From the portico of St. Marylebone Church, Phoebe watched her sister climb into Mr. Reaver’s black carriage, aided by her new husband’s enormous hands. They were oddly beautiful together, Augusta slim, elegant, and glowing in her shimmery silver gown and dainty, veiled hat. Sebastian a dark, mythical giant wearing a black wool coat, white cravat, and an expression of smoldering intensity.
Phoebe struggled to breathe past the ache in her chest. The air was cold and damp, the streets wet from the night’s storm. She clutched her nosegay of red roses and tucked her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
Augusta had done this for her. Once more, Phoebe had forced her sister to stand as shelter. Her one consolation was that, although it seemed impossible, Augusta appeared to regard marriage to Sebastian Reaver as more of a prize than a punishment.
She loved him. If Phoebe had doubted Augusta’s assurances during their conversation early that morning, she’d been left with little question upon seeing her sister enter the church and walk toward Reaver. Augusta had been lit from within. Her eyes had shone and melted like silver in a blacksmith’s fire, liquid and soft.
Equally, Reaver’s feelings had been on full display. His face had been hard, his jaw flexing, but his gaze had made Phoebe’s heart twist. He’d stared at Augusta throughout the ceremony, black eyes obsessively roaming her features as though witnessing something both wondrous and rare.
He would take excellent care of Augusta, she hadn’t a doubt. And, as Augusta had explained, he intended to help Phoebe, as well.
“Sebastian will use Glassington’s markers,” she’d said after waking Phoebe in the early dawn to inundate her with a series of shocking revelations. First, she’d revealed that Reaver knew about everything—the babe, Phoebe’s foolishness, Augusta’s efforts to bring Glassington to the altar. He even knew about Sir Phillip and Georgiana, and about how much Phoebe and Augusta had struggled to disguise their impoverished state.