Shaw glanced down at his boots. His fists tightened and loosened. His lean jaw hardened. When he raised his eyes, they were blazing. “Tell her Phoebe should never marry that miserable pile of dung.”
Stunned by Shaw’s cold ferocity, Reaver studied the man with whom he’d built an empire. The man who had been his best friend since their docker days. Unlike Reaver, he never suffered black moods or untoward restlessness. His passions were limited to British ships, excellent tea, and the club. Reaver assumed Shaw had bedded many women, but they rarely discussed it. Shaw never boasted of his conquests or even mentioned them. And, above all, he was not sentimental. Moments earlier, Reaver would have sworn that to Shaw, no woman merited obsession.
Evidently, one woman had changed his mind.
“God, Shaw. The babe is not yours. Have you considered—”
“But she is mine. She is.”
“Have you asked her what she wants?”
“Have you?”
Reaver frowned. He hadn’t. He’d assumed Phoebe wanted Glassington to marry her and do right by the child.
“She is in love with me,” Shaw said, his voice stark.
Reaver did not bother to ask how Shaw felt. The raw emotion on his face was like looking in a mirror. “If she agrees to marry you, none of it will be easy. You understand that better than most. But it will be doubly hard for the child. Are you ready for what’s to come?”
“No man can gainsay me once Phoebe and I are wed. So long as I claim it, the child will be mine. Legally.”
“Shaw.”
His voice grew quiet. Deadly. “And she will be mine.”
“You’re not thinking clearly, man.”
“Do you suppose I do not know how we will be scorned?” His voice, now a lash, cut with precision. “I have spent my entire life being told my place. I have spent my life clawing for what I want, spiting them all.”
“I know. I fought at your side.”
“Yes. And sometimes you carried me.”
“You did the same.”
“Nothing means anything without her, Reaver. Bloody nothing.”
Reaver dropped his gaze to the frost beneath his feet. He huffed and shook his head, watching the vapor roil out and up. “Aye.” He took a deep breath. “What do you intend to do?”
“I will fight.”
“Does she wish to be won?”
“She will.”
Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, Reaver looked at his daft, besotted friend. “Very well. If you can persuade her, then I’ll help where I can.”
“Thank you, Reaver.”
“Aye. You’ll be cursing me for letting you pursue this madness when Augusta discovers your plan.”
“She cannot stop it.”
Reaver laughed loud and deep as he turned to mount his horse. Colonel Smoots shifted restlessly beneath him before settling. He was a good horse, big and sturdy.
“Ah, Shaw. Never took you for a fool. You haven’t any idea what’s coming your way. God help us both.”
~~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“And gifts, Mr. Kilbrenner. Do not neglect the gifts.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in an addendum to a letter reminding said gentleman of recommendations for maintenance of domestic tranquility.
Sometime after luncheon, a package arrived for Augusta. Inside, she found a bottle of rose milk hand cream, a jar of sweet almond oil, and a pair of supple, white kid gloves embroidered with an exquisitely detailed bouquet of pink flowers and golden leaves. Beneath the gloves lay a note. It read, To Gus. For the hands I love best. Yrs Always, S.
Slowly, she smiled and ran a finger over the rose milk’s label, over the glove’s silk embroidery. He loved her. He must. To love her red, worn, callused hands, he must love her very much indeed.
Heat and painful pleasure filled her until she thought it would surely spill out or cause her heart to burst. It felt like … joy. Too much. It was too much. She wished to see him. To touch and kiss.
Augusta clutched the gloves to her chest, nibbling her lip and formulating a plan in which she would visit him in his office and refuse to leave until he gave her what she wanted—himself.
“What did he give you?” Phoebe said from behind her. Blue eyes were hollow, as before, only now they were also reddened. She’d been weeping.
Augusta drifted toward her sister, extending the box so she could see.
Phoebe gave the items a glance and nodded. “I am glad he decided to include the oil.”
Her heart sinking a bit, Augusta wondered if she’d read too much into the gift. Perhaps it was simply a token and not the carefully planned, love-inspired gesture she’d assumed. “These were your suggestions?”
“Only the oil. I discovered a formulation for a lovely salve. When he mentioned the gift he planned, I thought you might like—oh!”
Augusta pulled her sister into a hug.
Phoebe chuckled her surprise. “What is this about?”
“Nothing. Just that … he loves me.”
“Of course he loves you, ninny. The man is positively mad with it.”
“I never thought …”
Phoebe pulled back to meet Augusta’s eyes. “You deserve the greatest happiness. I thank God you found Sebastian, even if the circumstances under which you met have been trying.”
Augusta tucked a stray curl behind Phoebe’s ear and examined the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Tell me what is wrong, Phee.”
Her brow crumpled. Her lower lip trembled. “I cannot.”
“Yes,” Augusta commanded. “You can. You must.”
“I have burdened you too long.”
“You were never a burden.”
Phoebe snorted, her mouth twisting. “Do not lie. I’ve never been anything else.”
“That is utter rubbish, and well you know it.”
The small, delicate chin firmed and tilted to a familiar angle. It reminded Augusta of herself. She now had an inkling of how Sebastian must feel when she grew stubborn. The man must truly love her, for it was most vexing.
“If this is about Glassington,” Augusta tried, “I have promised he will be made to keep his word. You mustn’t worry.”
The assurance only seemed to increase Phoebe’s misery. Her eyes sheened.
“Dash it all! Tell me what is wrong,” she snapped. “This very moment, Phee.”
Phoebe’s mouth opened—whether to explain or vex her further, Augusta did not know—but she was interrupted by Anne, who bustled into the entrance hall looking harried.
“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Kilbrenner. Have you seen Ash?”
Augusta frowned at the housekeeper. She did not like the frantic concern upon the woman’s face. “No. Have you looked in the stables?”
Anne swallowed visibly. “I have looked everywhere. I think—I think he’s been taken.”
Cold rushed through her.