He leaned across the desk, hands splayed on its tidy surface, shoulders dwarfing the thing. “Magistrates might have something to say about that. Trespassing is a crime.”
“Involving the law would only prove another headache for you. Much simpler to come to terms.” She inched backward, measuring the length of his arms and the distance between them. Her back brushed the wall. “There must be something you want. I could do a bit of work for you, perhaps. I’ve grown quite skilled at acquiring information. That is one of your more lucrative commodities, if I am not mistaken.”
He shook his head, his fingers flexing on the wood. “Why do ye not plague Glassington with your incessant intrusions? He’s to be your husband. He should be the one to suffer.”
She winced then stiffened. “You are a rude man.”
“If it bothers ye, then leave.”
“Without the markers, my attempts to persuade Lord Glassington carry little weight. I am here because it is the only remedy left to me.” She raised her chin. “Make a demand, Mr. Reaver. If it is within my power to deliver, I shall do it. I trust you to keep your word and deliver the markers in exchange.”
Black eyes narrowed. He straightened. Crossed his arms and gave her a long, sweeping look from mobcap to muddy half-boots. His expression grew thoughtful. Calculating.
“Very well, then.”
Her heart soared. She blinked. He was relenting. Dear heaven, finally—finally—she had a chance of repairing this wretchedly broken situation.
“Here are my terms: I will grant you the temporary use of Glassington’s markers for purposes of leg-shackling the nob.”
She swallowed, scarcely daring to hope.
“In exchange, you will become my mistress.”
Air abandoned her. The light brightened, dimmed, swam.
A dark smile curved one corner of his mouth. “You will deliver your part of the bargain first, of course.” His gaze dropped to her bodice then came back to spear her through. “Six weeks should suffice.”
Her thoughts clambered, spun, and slipped like carriage wheels in October mud. First, she imagined she’d misheard him, an idea she quickly dismissed. No. She’d told him to make a demand, and devil that he was, he’d made an outrageous one, likely intended to shock her sensibilities. In that, he had succeeded.
Next, she scrambled for alternatives. Unfortunately, she had little to offer the man. It had always been her plan’s great flaw. Her skills were limited, her wealth nonexistent. Her bloodline was old and distinguished, but that would be meaningless to someone like Mr. Reaver. And she gravely doubted offering to mend his shirts or write his correspondence would lure him away from his scandalous proposal. In short, she’d hoped to rely upon his sympathy for her plight. Clearly, he had none.
Last, she contemplated the bargain he had offered—truly considered it. He obviously assumed she would decline, probably hoping she would storm out of his office and never return. After all, if she were seeking to marry Glassington herself, becoming Sebastian Reaver’s mistress would negate her purpose. Any lord in Glassington’s position would refuse a sullied woman regardless of her leverage, for all he had left was his dubious gentlemanly honor. But, as she was not seeking to marry Glassington herself, Mr. Reaver’s assumption was in error. And that was to her advantage.
Indeed, she was so deeply on the shelf, she might as well be covered in mold. Who would mind if she carried on a brief, discreet liaison—even one with the proprietor of a notorious gaming club? Once Phoebe was safely wed to Glassington, Augusta’s affairs would cease to matter in the slightest. She could return to Hampshire, enjoy a sisterly visit from time to time, and consign these weeks in London to a dim, hazy corner of her memory.
The more she thought about it, the better the bargain seemed.
She examined Mr. Reaver more closely. This time, she did not allow his impossible height to distract her. Shoulders? Wide. Waist? Trim. Hands? Huge. So were his arms and thighs. Come to that, every inch of him was thick and heavily muscled, from neck to ankles. The man’s power was visceral.
She swallowed and caught her breath as she forced herself to meet calculating onyx. Pressing her lips together as a curl of heat wrapped around her spine, she gave her gloves another tug and straightened her posture.
“We have a bargain, then.” She was glad her voice remained steady, for nothing inside her did likewise.
Several heartbeats passed while his smile disappeared and his gaze cooled into a glare. Evidently, he was displeased she had recognized his gambit.
A displeased Sebastian Reaver was an intimidating sight, indeed.
She struggled for a deep breath. Her bodice refused her. Shallow would have to do.
“I shall be your mistress,” she continued, refusing to shrink beneath the force of his withering stare. “After six weeks, you shall deliver me Lord Glassington’s markers.” She sidestepped his desk, came forward, and extended her hand. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Reaver. I accept your terms.”
~~*
Reaver glanced down at the small, gloved hand then returned to the dove-gray eyes of Miss Augusta Widmore.
She had agreed. To the most insulting demand he could devise. Bloody, bleeding hell. Did the chit have no sense of self-preservation? Was she witless? Mad?
“It is customary to shake hands when sealing a bargain.”
No. Neither witless nor mad. The intelligence in those eyes was no illusion. She might be a bit blurry this close, but even he could see it. She expected him to back down. Perhaps she even counted on it.
Aye. That was it. He merely needed to push her harder.
“That is not how I seal anything with a mistress.” He kept his voice low and suggestive, but he suspected he hadn’t done it right—her reaction was a prim smirk.
“I am not your mistress until we finalize our bargain. Mmm. Quite the paradox, I agree. Let us shake hands so it cannot continue to befuddle us with its contradictions.”
Thought she was clever, did she? Rubbish. This drab little country spinster who’d likely mistaken Glassington’s drunken groping for a marriage proposal was no match for him. He would send her scurrying for Hampshire with her cheeks burning and her handkerchief clutched to her bosom.
The thought drew his eyes there, where she was strangely flattened. Different than before.
“You assume my terms are final,” he said, inching closer and lowering his head. “They are not.”
She withdrew her hand before it brushed his belly, folding it neatly at her waist. “Oh? I should think ‘mistress’ covers a good deal of territory.”
“My needs are very … specific.”
“Ah, I see. You wish to add details to our arrangement.”
“Aye. Details.”
“Such as?”
This was not going as he’d anticipated. She appeared more amused than apprehensive. “Your gowns, for a start.”
“My gowns.”
“They are ugly. Dull.”