“Silly goose. I am over the moon for you and Elijah. And do call me Viola.” Blue eyes had twinkled. “I have an inkling we shall be the greatest of friends.”
Lady Wallingham’s congratulations had contained more grandeur and less affection, but Augusta sensed she was pleased at the match. “Now, my dear, your real task begins.”
“Real task, my lady?”
“Taming this gamester into something resembling a gentleman. You may begin by correcting his speech. Good heavens, one shudders to think of language better suited to the docks echoing through the House of Lords like an ill-tuned pianoforte.”
Augusta had merely smiled and met Sebastian’s dark, burning gaze across the room. “Hmm. I rather like his speech, my lady. I fear if someone were to insist he change it, I should be very cross, indeed.”
The lady had harrumphed and changed the subject to her grandson, who had already begun speaking, and whose diction was demonstrative of his superior breeding. Quite unlike Lord and Lady Rutherford’s son, of course, who was months older, yet already showing signs of his father’s dissolute ways.
To this, Lord Rutherford had replied, “Yes, he is both profligate and indiscriminate with the wooing of females. Still, a boy must begin early if he wishes to master a subject, mustn’t he?”
Lady Rutherford had given her husband a fond smile. “It is the eyes. Who can resist?”
Now, Augusta sighed, watching through the window as Lord and Lady Rutherford’s carriage left Cavendish Square. They were the last of the guests. Phoebe had moved her belongings from the club into a guest chamber on the third floor shortly before the wedding. Augusta hadn’t wanted to risk her sister’s reputation any further than necessary.
Presently, Phoebe wandered into the drawing room, looking pale and weary. “It was a lovely wedding, Augusta.” Her smile was sweet, though her eyes were sad. “I am so pleased for you.”
Augusta went to her, a frown tugging at her brow. “Are you fretting about Glassington, Phee? There is no need. Sebastian will—”
“I know. I am exhausted, that is all. Someone awakened me at dawn to attend a wedding, you know.”
Augusta chuckled. “You never did favor an early rise. Remember when you claimed the owls told you that, to be safe, you must sleep past eight?”
“Early is a dreadful time to be awake. Owls know this better than anyone.”
All of a sudden, Augusta was overwhelmed with the need to hold her sister. She gathered Phoebe in for a hug—long and tight, just like when they’d been girls. “I love you, Phee,” she whispered. “Everything is going to be fine, now. Do you hear? You will be safe. Your child will be safe. I promise you.”
Phoebe was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was thin and wobbly. “No, Augusta. I promise. You have loved me so well, that I … I let your sacrifices go on too long. Attend your happiness, darling sister. Your time as my Night Guardian is ended. Now it is my turn to keep watch. For myself. For my child.”
Startled by her declarations, Augusta pulled back. Phoebe’s cheeks were damp, but her blue eyes were solemn. Steady. She meant it.
What foolishness.
“I shall always watch over you,” Augusta said fiercely. “That is what love means. I cannot simply stop.” She brushed at Phoebe’s cheek. Then, she touched her forehead to her sister’s and whispered, “So long as I live, you will have a safe place. Your child, who is my blood, will have a safe place. Whatever comes, Phee.”
“I love you, Gus.” Phoebe grasped her hand and kissed it. “Always.” Then she pulled away and left the room.
It took a long while for Augusta to gather herself and give the knot in her chest time to loosen. By then, she’d begun to wonder in earnest where Sebastian had gone. She went in search of him, first asking Mrs. Higgins—who appeared to have her hands full with a chattering Ash—then Teedle. The elderly butler smiled. “Ah, of course, Mrs. Kilbrenner. He is in his study.”
Surprise bolted through her. Surprise and displeasure. “His study?”
“Indeed, madam. I believe he was searching for a quiet room in which to read his correspondence, and it was suggested he locate his study.”
She gritted her teeth. “Suggested by whom?”
“Lady Wallingham, I believe.”
Drat and blast. She had wished to be present when he saw his study for the first time. Well, perhaps he hadn’t seen the library yet.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor and strode to the door at the end, in the quiet rear of the house. She found him sitting on the edge of his desk, spectacles perched on his nose, reading a letter.
His head turned swiftly when she slammed the door.
“Bloody hell, Sebastian! You could not have waited? I had planned to reveal this as a wedding gift. Now my surprise is ruined.”
Onyx eyes sparked with something deep and hot. “Are you vexed with me, Gus?”
“Yes. Vexed. Quite earnestly vexed.” Her hands landed upon her hips. “What are you reading?”
He glanced down briefly then removed his spectacles. “A letter.”
“I can see it is a letter,” she snapped. “What is so important that you disappeared during your wedding breakfast and spoiled my surprise?”
“I’ve word from my solicitor. He’s begun research on a task that will prove highly disagreeable to a certain baronet.”
She frowned. “Who?”
“Who do you suppose?”
Anger and panic filled her. “Not Sir Phillip.”
“Aye.”
“No!” She rushed toward him, reaching for the letter, but he held it out of reach. “You mustn’t! Sebastian.” She jumped, her fingers brushing only the corner, then struck his shoulder in frustration. “Phoebe is not yet one-and-twenty. He is still her legal guardian until January. If he suspects I have broken our agreement—”
“He will suspect nothing. He will do nothing.”
She fisted the edges of Sebastian’s coat, drawing him closer. “How do you know?” she gritted. “You do not.”
“He will suffer for what he did to you, Gus.” Sebastian’s voice was dark and deep, rumbling through her bones. “Badly.”
“Curse you, Bastian! I cannot risk it!”
“Trust me.”
“That is no answer, you giant, surprise-spoiling, presumptuous man!”
“Do you want the letter?” he taunted.
“Yes. Give it to me.”
His grin was slow and mad. “Come and take it, love.”
That was when she realized how near his mouth was to hers. How quick were her breaths, how hard were her nipples.
Good heavens. She was aroused. From the fight. What was wrong with her?
“You are a devil,” she panted, yanking him closer, pulling him down.
“And you are a nuisance,” he rumbled, crushing her against him, tossing the letter to the floor, and cupping her nape with his newly freed hand. “God, how ye plague me, woman.”
~~*
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You will note the first part of the word is ‘gentle.’ The second part is ‘man.’ Though it has been my observation that wives do occasionally favor the latter over the former.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter discussing the complexities of wifely preferences.