Anything but a Gentleman

by Elisa Braden

  Again, he lifted her and set her aside. Then, he yanked the draperies back.

  And frowned. Looked down. Much farther down than he’d expected.

  A childish growl sounded moments before a puny, dark-eyed boy struck his thigh, kicked his boot, and began pummeling away at his hip.

  “Bloody hell, Gus. Why are you hiding a feral boy in your chamber?”

  The boy’s blows were nothing, as he was nothing but skin and bone and fight. But when he sank his feral little teeth into Reaver’s thigh, Reaver had no choice. He grasped the puny arms and lifted, enduring kick after kick before shaking the scrapper like a wild pup and sitting him firmly in a chair.

  “Stay,” he ordered, using his size and voice to ensure compliance.

  Augusta moved between them, one hand on the boy’s head and one on Reaver’s chest. “He won’t hurt me,” she said.

  Reaver frowned. “Didn’t think he would. Boy is no bigger than a—”

  “I was speaking to Ash.”

  He eyed the boy who glared daggers at him from thick-lashed eyes. “Ash. That your name, boy?”

  “Far as you’re concerned, my name is death, Reaver. You ever ’urt Miss Widmore, I’ll pluck your eyes out your ’ead, see if I don’t.”

  Reaver’s brows rose along with his estimation of the boy’s worth. Vicious and loyal. Just his sort. “Who is he, Gus?”

  She sighed. “A pickpocket. I hired him to distract Mr. Duff. You mustn’t be angry with him, Sebastian. I brought him here.”

  He wasn’t angry. Far from it. He was elated. Had he found Glassington in her chamber instead, Augusta might never have forgiven him for spilling the man’s blood.

  “Why here?” he asked.

  Her hand fell away, but her gaze remained fixed upon his. “Ash, I should like a nice cup of tea. Run along and tell Mrs. Higgins. One cup. You may deliver it.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ til—”

  “Go,” she said firmly, smoothing the boy’s hair. “Or I’ll insist you bathe daily rather than weekly.”

  The boy fumed a moment, glaring daggers at Reaver. “Aye, then. I’ll fetch your tea.” He scooted off the chair and stomped to the door, shoulders back, arms bowed at his sides. At the last, he turned and pointed in Reaver’s direction. “Miss Widmore best be smilin’ when I return, Reaver. Quick with a blade, I am.” His eyes went to Reaver’s crotch. “Easy reach, that.”

  “Oh, dear heavens. Ash! Go.”

  He did, slamming the door for emphasis.

  Reaver chuckled. “Where the devil did you find him?”

  She sighed. “Cheapside. Near the lodging house. I spotted him taking Mrs. Renley’s reticule.”

  “So, you brought him here.”

  “To work. He is a good boy, Sebastian. He simply needs legitimate employment.”

  “Here.”

  Her eyes sparked with temper. “Yes. Here. What else was I to do? I could not leave him to be …” She bit down on the rest.

  Which made him curious. “To be what?”

  “Beaten.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Her delicate jaw flexed. “Yes, well. That is why you mustn’t cast him out.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve no such intention.” Frowning, he recalled her odd behavior upon seeing his house for the first time. “You orchestrated everything for that boy, didn’t you? Your objection to the empty house. Your insistence on hiring a full staff. Your ludicrous assertion about birds in my chimneys.”

  She blinked and raised a brow. “Don’t be silly. It was always about you. A man needs a proper home with proper furniture.” She sniffed. “Perhaps my observations about the birds were a trifle exaggerated, and yes, those were aimed at ensuring the boy found a role here.”

  He snorted. “A trifle. There were never any bloody birds.”

  “I wanted to give you something for all the trouble I’d caused. A place of comfort. Sanctuary. Once I was gone, I wanted you to feel your life was better for having helped me.”

  His bones squeezed his heart. He didn’t know what to say. He believed her, of course. It was entirely in Augusta’s nature to seek balanced scales. But it killed him to hear her say, “Once I was gone.” She could not be gone. He could not watch her leave.

  Particularly to marry Glassington. Or any other man.

  Her hands landed on her hips. “I do not deserve such glowering, Sebastian Reaver. Had I not stolen into your office, you would be bored senseless. Admit it.”

  He stepped closer. “Oh, I admit it.”

  “Yes, well. It is true.”

  “Aye.”

  “And—and your home is much more comfortable than before.”

  “Less empty, eh? Ye’ve done fine work, Augusta Widmore.” He played with the curls draped over her shoulder, gently stroking them between his fingers.

  Her eyes softened and darkened, her throat rippling on a swallow. “Thank you.”

  The kiss happened so quickly, he could not be certain who moved first. One moment their mouths were separate. The next, they were fused. Grinding together with desperate hunger. His tongue tasted her. His arm crushed her against him. His hand squeezed a hard-tipped breast, his palm circling until she groaned.

  Then, he felt her need. Small hands speared and tugged at his hair. One long thigh rose up alongside his. Soft lips ate at his. Her hand cupped his jaw. His lips fell to her throat. His fingers grasped her nipple through soft, papery linen.

  He squeezed. She keened. Gasped. Ground herself hard against his thigh.

  Bloody hell, he could come from that sound alone.

  The rattle of a teacup echoed from the corridor. Next came a loud, tuneless whistle and overly emphatic footsteps. “Gor, this tea is like to scald me,” the boy exclaimed. Several seconds passed before the knob twisted and the door opened.

  By that time, Reaver had released Augusta, cupping her cheek and stroking her swollen lips with his thumb before heading for the dressing room. Behind him, he heard Ash deposit the cup on the table with a rattling thunk.

  “Ash,” Augusta said, her voice a bit breathless. “By chance, did you see …?”

  “I didn’t see nothin’.”

  The boy’s assurance appeared to satisfy her. Until he elaborated.

  “Ye keep kissin’ Reaver like that, though, ye best make him marry ye, that’s all I got to say.”

  Reaver grinned as he closed the adjoining door.

  Aye. He was beginning to like that boy more and more.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “During courtship, one’s appetites should be measured and restrained so as not to appear gluttonous. Coincidentally, such restriction often serves to stimulate a man’s appetite for matrimony.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter containing keen observations on the benefits of moderation.

  Phoebe’s midnight incursion into Monsieur Leclerc’s kitchen was discovered just as she stuffed a buttered roll with honey and pepper into her mouth. Her eyes closed with satisfaction as the sweet, spicy combination burst upon her palate.

  “Devil take it, Phoebe.”

  Her eyes popped open. Lantern light flickered and swayed.

  “What are you eating?”

  She struggled to chew the large bite before answering Adam with a sheepish grin, “A roll?”

  He came forward and placed the lantern on the table. Gently, he reached out and swiped a bead of honey from her chin. Then, he did the oddest thing—he licked the honey from his finger.

  The sight flooded her body with heat. Unwarranted, unwanted, highly inadvisable heat.

  “Mmm. Honey and … pepper?”

  She swallowed. “I enjoy the juxtaposition.”

  He glanced around the dark room. “And that is your fourth cup of chocolate.”

  “I also enjoy chocolate.”

  He sighed. Chuckled. Gave her a heady look through golden eyes. “That you do.”

  “Dr. Young insists that I should
satisfy my cravings.”

  “Does he, indeed?”

  Had Adam moved closer? She thought so. She could smell his arid scent, a combination of starch and something else. Dry and clean, perhaps even lemony. Her nose had been particularly sensitive of late. Some smells made her stomach churn. Others, like his, made her mouth water.

  Of course, simply looking at Adam Shaw made her mouth water. She craved him more than honey and pepper and butter. More than hot, steaming chocolate. More than anything, ever.

  And she could never have him. Because she must marry Glassington, who had to be blackmailed into accepting her as his wife. The misery was killing her.

  She broke away from Adam’s seductive, gold-lit gaze and began tidying her mess. “What brings you to the kitchen at this hour?” she asked simply to have something to say.

  “Reports of pilfered ingredients. Monsieur Leclerc asked me to look into the matter.”

  “Pilfered?”

  “Missing quantities of honey. Bread. Spices.” She felt him move against her back. His hands braced on the table beside hers, surrounding her in starch and lemon. Or perhaps sage. “Chocolate, in particular.”

  His breath washed over her cheek. She closed her eyes, longing to sink back into his arms. “I do enjoy it very much.”

  “Mmm.” He nuzzled her ear. “Have you considered ordering a pot before the staff retires for the evening?”

  “A whole pot? That would be wasteful.”

  “I don’t want you running about the club at night, Phoebe. Not all men are gentlemen.”

  She wetted her lips. “I was careful.”

  “Not careful enough. I spotted you from the second floor corridor.”

  “That is only because you are always watching.”

  His lips brushed her ear, washing her with his breath, damp and hot. “Yes. I cannot seem to help myself.”

  She felt the same. Everything about this was wrong.

  Yet desperately right.

  “Phoebe,” he whispered, his hands moving to her waist.

  It was too much. Too tempting and torturous, being with him like this. She slipped away. Rounded the table and breathed until it eased enough to be bearable.

  A long silence later, he spoke, his voice cooled to a fine chill. “Tell me, if I were Lord Glassington, and I put my hands upon you, would you have pulled away?”

  Her eyes flew to his, the room warping as firelight flickered and faded. She braced one hand on the table and the other upon her belly. She wondered if she might be sick. Bile choked her.

  “Wh-What has Glassington to do with anything?” Her voice was a frayed thread.

  “You tell me. All I know is that seeing him with another woman turned you the same the color you are now. Whiter than milk.”

  She could not answer. Instead, she fisted the folds over her midsection.

  “Why is that, Phoebe? What is he to you?”

  Inside, something was devouring her. Gnawing away the last of the girl she’d always been. Good. Obedient. Kind.

  The sort of girl who mistook Glassington’s frivolity for charm and fervent declarations for solemn vows. A girl who had wanted to please the one person who had loved her without question, without compromise. The one person who’d sacrificed everything so Phoebe could find ease and comfort—Augusta.

  Phoebe had deceived herself for a time, of course. She’d been flattered by Glassington’s attentions, as any young woman would be, wooed by his name and title and handsome head of hair. But the truth was she’d never wanted him. Not really. And she’d certainly never loved him. Love was what Augusta had done—letting the storm batter her to bits so that Phoebe could be safe. So that Phoebe could be warm. So that Phoebe could marry and find happiness and have children and live a life of ease.

  Loving someone meant standing in stinging rain and bellowing wind, knowing how much it hurt and doing it anyway. Because the one who needed shelter mattered more.

  No, she’d never felt that for Glassington. She’d let him touch her. Kiss her. She’d let him put himself inside her, even though it had hurt. Even though she hadn’t wanted him there at all. She’d done it because he’d promised marriage, and that was Augusta’s dream for her.

  She’d never loved him.

  But she did love her child.

  And, as she stood in Monsieur Leclerc’s kitchen gazing upon the man who had cared for her, worried for her, protected her, and created a shelter for her amidst terrible storms, she knew. She loved Adam, too. Her handsome “Indian chap,” as he’d called himself. She loved him. But she could not keep him.

  “Lord Glassington is nothing to me,” she said now, grateful for the table’s bracing weight. “But he is important to Augusta.”

  A cynical smile curved Adam’s lips. “He is an important man. A titled man.”

  “Titled,” she whispered. “Yes.”

  His gaze dropped to where his hands rested on the table, as dark as the wood. The corners of his mouth flattened. Tightened. “I could care for you, you know.”

  So much lay in those few words. Everything. A life together, with all its hardships and endless beauty. Dark-skinned babes and mischievous gold eyes and late-night rounds of vingt-et-un. She could see their life.

  And it tore her in half, one part sewn to her own dream, the other to Augusta’s. To her child’s.

  She could not answer. Please, God, she thought. I cannot answer. Because she knew what the answer would be, and she could not bear to speak it.

  “Say something.”

  She could not. She could not. She could not.

  But she must. He deserved better than her silence.

  “Y-you have cared for me quite generously already, Mr. Shaw. I am most grateful.”

  As the proud man before her froze over, her heart split and bled until she wanted to wail her anguish. To beg his forgiveness.

  Instead, she was forced to watch the man she loved smile a small, bitter smile and bow a shallow, mocking bow. “A pleasure to be of service, miss.”

  For a long while after he left, she could not move. Then, she began to shiver. And slide. Until she sat on stone, huddled and gasping, wondering if there would be anything left of her after this storm battered her to bits.

  *~*~*

  “There ye are, Mr. Reaver,” Rude Markham set two tankards on the table, one in front of Reaver and one in front of Augusta. Ale sloshed past the brim. “Ah, don’t mind that, miss. Here. Let me take care of it for ye.” He retrieved a cloth from the waist of his apron and wiped around the tankard’s base. “See? Pretty as can be.”

  They sat in the big, bald man’s tavern, The Black Bull, drinking ale because bloody nothing that morning had gone to plan. Reaver glared at the man once known as Rude Mayhem—real name, Rudolph Markham—and signaled his desire for privacy with a blunt nod toward the bar.

  Rude winked and grinned. Then laughed. “Ye should have seen ’im in those days, miss. Fists like battering rams with boulders strapped to ’em. Like to break a man’s skull with one—”

  “Miss Widmore has no interest in stories about our fighting days, Rude.”

  Augusta’s brows arched. “Oh, but I do. Please go on, Mr. Markham. Or should I call you Mr. Mayhem?” She rested her chin on the back of her hand and gave a slow blink. Either the woman was tippled on her first tankard or she was flirting with one of the ugliest men in London. He hoped to heaven it was the former.

  Rude dragged a chair up beside her and sat. Reaver crossed his arms and glared harder, hoping to penetrate that dense, bald head. By God, the man had always been thick. Tough, but thick.

  “He broke me nose once. Or were it twice? Eh, Reaver? Maybe it were three times. No matter. Down I went, not more’n two minutes, I reckon. Ye’d suppose from his size he’d be slow. Nah, not Reaver. Fast as a ferret, that one. Sly, too. Made ye think he was goin’ one way, then he’d wallop ye from another.” Rude attempted to demonstrate, his giant, round fists pumping before he waved dismissively and laughed, his belly shaking
. “Never saw nothin’ like Reaver fightin’. Mean as a demon, eh? Clever demon. Now, me, on the other hand. I weren’t clever. I was big.” Another belly laugh before he comically hit himself in one cauliflower-shaped ear, his eyes crossing. “Could take a right bludgeoning. Wore out my share of those scrappers, ain’t that so, Reaver?”

  “Aye. You could take a beating, Rude.”

  The man sighed, looking a bit melancholy. Then, he shrugged, smiled, and stood, plucking up his chair and returning it to the adjacent table. “Those days are gone. I’m a proprietor now. Speakin’ of which, I’d best see to old Jones over there.” He nodded toward a stooped old man debating politics with a chair. “Sometimes the chair wins the argument,” he whispered, clicking his tongue in pity. “A sad sight, indeed.”

  While Rude played intermediary, Reaver took a drink of his ale. That’s when he noticed Augusta, chin propped on her hand, staring at him with the oddest expression.

  He frowned. “What?”

  She smiled. “You were a fighter.”

  “Aye.”

  “I knew that, I suppose, in theory. I also knew you were a tavern owner. In theory.” She glanced around The Black Bull, inexplicably fascinated. “How long did you own this place?”

  “Four years.” He raised his tankard. “The ale was better then.”

  She grasped her own tankard in two hands and drank—far too quickly.

  “Easy, love,” he murmured, pressing a finger down on the brim.

  A proud chin elevated. “I think the ale is quite good.”

  “Aye. That’s because ye haven’t had good ale. This one’s sour at the front and bitter at the back. Not the worst I’ve had, but not the best, either.”

  “It’s strong.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I like strong.”

  That last bit had been a purr. Now, her eyes were scouring his hands and arms. Lazily wandering to his shoulders. Settling on his mouth.

  “Are you flirtin’, Miss Widmore?”

  A slow blink. A lift of a russet brow. A prim smirk. “Perhaps.”

  Good God. He’d assumed his carefully planned outing to be a steaming pile of wreckage after the miserable start they’d had. But perhaps it was going better than he’d thought.