Anything but a Gentleman

by Elisa Braden

  Glassington’s was incredulity. His mouth worked like a fish’s. “But, the child is mine.”

  “No,” said Shaw. “The child is mine.”

  The earl appeared dumbfounded. His eyes darted between Phoebe and Shaw and Phoebe’s abdomen. Then, slowly, his expression grew darker. Resentful. As though he’d suddenly realized how weak his position had become. “I can make things difficult for you, Shaw. I shall press my suit legally—”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” Shaw replied crisply, as though he was revoking a club member’s credit. “If you attempt to intervene, I shall call in your markers. All of them.”

  Glassington went white as the snow blanketing the countryside behind him. “All … at once?”

  Shaw grinned, his teeth gleaming. “Indeed. I do believe that should leave you with approximately … hmm, let me think. These sums are rather large. Ah, yes. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. In fact, even your entailed property would only serve to pay interest on the remainder after you’ve sold everything else. So, you see, you will not be pressing a suit or making a claim or causing the slightest jot of difficulty for Phoebe or myself or anyone else.” Shaw’s voice lowered, and the ruthless man who had helped build an empire emerged. “You will disappear from view, Glassington. And, over time, you will pay your markers diligently, knowing those funds will be put to good use for my wife and my child.”

  For a moment, Glassington looked like he might protest.

  Shaw waved a finger casually toward Reaver. “Best get on, now, my lord. Reaver is a bit unpredictable, and he has no liking for you. His wife’s influence, I suspect.”

  The earl shot Reaver a nervous glance before turning and stumbling back to his coach, his once-pristine boots slipping in the mud. As the coach carried the worthless nob away, Reaver felt Augusta sigh.

  He glanced down at his wife and found her beaming. “I knew,” she breathed before turning her smile upon him and nearly knocking him on his backside with the beauty of it. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were the answer.”

  “To what?”

  “Our Glassington problem. But, really, to everything. You’re my answer to everything, Bastian.”

  He grinned back, bending down to give her a lingering kiss. “As usual, Gus, you were right all along.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Tell her she is right. The more frequent the application, the happier you will be.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of advice for husbands who wish to please their wives and, in turn, please themselves.

  July 25, 1820

  Derbyshire

  “You see, Bastian? I was right all along.”

  Sebastian glanced away from the coach’s window to give her a dark glower. “About?”

  “The carriage. You are far more comfortable. Admit it.”

  “It looks ridiculous.”

  “Mark my words, everyone will soon be driving a carriage like this. Why, just think how easy it is to enter.”

  “Because it is too low.”

  Augusta clicked her tongue and stroked the embroidery on her French kid gloves. “The front windows add so much more light and let us see the road.”

  He glanced at the green hills beyond the window. “Like an old, fat hound with its belly scrapin’ dirt.”

  She sniffed. “Well, I think it is quite smart. The coachmakers—”

  “Charged too much and took too long.”

  “Perhaps we should stop to eat. Hunger puts you in a foul temper.”

  “Aye. Hunger of all sorts.”

  She struggled against a smile. Her courses had come the day they’d left London for Shankwood Hall. Bastian had been looking forward to the long journey until then, anticipating making love to her in his new carriage. Now, three days on, he seemed to view the carriage as a prison with plush seats, a tall ceiling, and an inaccessible wife.

  Torment, in other words.

  She’d offered to pleasure him in other ways, but he’d complained about the windows. Now, she was down to distraction. Earlier, she’d tried conversing about Adam and Phoebe, whose daughter had been born in spring. Clara Shaw. A sweet little babe with her mother’s red hair and big, blue eyes. Augusta and Bastian had recently visited them at their new country house. Adam had apparently decided a palace suited his little princess.

  As Augusta had chatted away about their visit, Bastian had merely grunted his responses.

  Now, she tried a different tack—a challenge. “You know, you have failed to keep one of your promises.”

  He frowned at her. “How so?”

  “Well, you promised if I married you, that Ash would always have a place with us.”

  “And he does.”

  “You promised to purchase a new coach and to visit Shankwood.”

  He glanced around and lifted a brow. “Aye.”

  “And you said you would explain how Elijah Kilbrenner became Sebastian Reaver.”

  Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You want to hear it now?”

  “Yes. I should like that very much. Thank you.”

  For a long while, she wasn’t certain he would answer. He stared out the window, his jaw hard while the carriage rolled along the surprisingly smooth road. Then, as though the tale were being reeled up like an anchor from beneath the sea, he said quietly, “I was Elijah Kilbrenner the night my father carried me out of our burning cottage. He went back to save my mother and sister. The roof collapsed. Nothin’ I could do but scream.”

  She scooted closer until her thigh touched his. “How old were you?”

  “Younger than Ash. Six, maybe.”

  “Was there no one to care for you? Family?”

  “A grandmother. I knew of her from letters my father had shared. But she lives in America—Boston. There was no one, really. For a time, the villagers took me in. The rector and his wife. A kindly shopkeeper. I was a bit … odd after the fire.”

  “Odd how?”

  “I didn’t speak for a few years.”

  Augusta’s throat tightened, but she ruthlessly crushed the urge to cry. Bastian was a proud man, and much like Ash, he would not appreciate her weeping over him.

  “Anyhow, there was a fellow who passed through the village a few times a year, sellin’ trinkets. Little bits of jewelry and such. He was a drunkard, you see, but a good sort. Always spinnin’ tales. One day, I had a notion to go with him, see some of these places he’d been tellin’ me about. I hid in his wagon, and off we went. By the time he realized he had a stowaway, we were in Scotland.” Bastian’s hand moved to her knee, stroking absently, as though he needed the connection. “He called himself Colonel Smoots.” He snorted. “Neither a Colonel nor a Smoots, but he could spin a tale, that much is certain.”

  “What happened? Did he return you to your village?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t wish to return. He tried a few times, but I always found him again.”

  “He was … kind to you?”

  “Aye. A good sort.” His thumb rubbed her knee with little circles. “Did a lot of thievin’, though. Never could stay in any place too long, lest he be caught.” He shrugged. “Still, he taught me a fair bit.”

  “A-about thievery?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, good heavens.”

  He chuckled, deep and low. “One night, he sent me in through a window. Fine house with a library. Told me, ‘Now don’t be greedy, boy. Small things. Small things for small hands.’” His hand squeezed her knee, wrapping entirely around her leg through the folds of her gown. “But I saw a big thing. Gold and shiny. A clock. I took it.”

  She blinked. The clock in his office. The one he would not allow her to move or replace, even though it suited him not at all.

  “I tore out of there faster than a scalded cat. Not fast enough, though. A footman took a shot.”

  Her hands clenched into fists. “A shot?”

  “Aye. He missed. It was dark. I wa
s fast. A pistol doesn’t have much range.”

  She took a slow, deep breath.

  “But his employer. Oh, now, he was sharper. Came round through another door and caught me good.”

  She swallowed. “Good how?”

  “A proper kick to the belly. Man’s boot does some damage at full speed like that. The clock went flyin’. I went flyin’. He got me a few more times before Smoots arrived. Before that, though, he kept shoutin’. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard reiver. Man was mad.” Bastian glanced down to where his hand circled her leg. He stroked her gently, those long fingers so much bigger and stronger than they’d been when that man had hurt him. “Smoots put him down. I don’t know how. Woke up outside Glasgow. Smoots had saved the clock and me. But the footman got him with the second shot. Took a while for him to die. A few days.”

  “Oh, God, Bastian.” She couldn’t bear it. She climbed into his lap and squeezed his neck until she could breathe again.

  His arms closed tight around her. He rocked her a bit, stroking her hair. “Didn’t mean to upset ye, Gus.”

  “I don’t like to think of you being hurt.”

  “Well, you did ask how I went from bein’ Elijah Kilbrenner to Sebastian Reaver. That’s how.”

  “Bastard Reiver. You made a name out of it.”

  “Aye.”

  “And your horse.”

  “Named for the colonel.”

  “And the clock.”

  “Still with me. I keep what’s mine.”

  “I am yours.”

  “Aye, love. That you are.”

  “You must keep me forever.”

  He kissed her. Deep and long and with all the fire she’d come to adore from her rough man. When he stopped, she breathed against him. Stroked his hard jaw.

  “Are you ready to be Elijah Kilbrenner again? We should arrive any time now.”

  He chuckled. “Ye’re very good at distractions, Gus.”

  She grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”

  “Elijah Kilbrenner is the heir. A bloody nob.”

  “For now,” she said, kissing the cleft of his chin. “I have wondered if perhaps Viola and James did not give up a bit too quickly. My mother conceived seven years after delivering me.”

  He fell quiet, his hands roaming her back and nape and waist. His fingers sifted through the curls at her temple. “I should like to have a babe with you, Augusta.”

  “Yes, I do get that sense. Perhaps it is all the marital congress.”

  “Bloody hell, woman. I am trying to tell ye—”

  “That you wish me to bear your great, giant brood.” She sighed dramatically. “Well, I suppose I might concede, but we must make a bargain first.”

  “This again.”

  “Yes. You will say it. Go on.”

  “It is the finest study a man has ever had.”

  “Very good. Now, the second part.”

  “And the library has a great many books.”

  She raised a brow at him. “You can do better.”

  “Daft woman. Ye’re a right nuisance.”

  “If you put a bit of effort into it, I might just find something clever to do with that rose milk hand cream this evening.”

  His head fell to her shoulder. “God Almighty, Gus. You’re killin’ me.”

  “Yes, yes. Tell me about your library, Bastian.”

  “It is finer than other men’s libraries furnished by other men’s wives.”

  “See? That’s better.”

  “It’s ridiculous. You know how much I love the rooms ye made for me.”

  She smiled and stroked his hair. It was getting long. She’d have to trim it again soon. “But you spoiled my surprise, and I have not yet recovered from the disappointment.”

  He laughed, the sound a rumble moving from his body into hers. “Will you ever recover?”

  “Someday,” she said. “For now, I like to hear how much it pleases you.”

  Lifting his head, he slowly frowned. “I thought we were making a bargain.”

  She traced the cleft in his chin with her smallest finger. “Mmm. Yes. I will bear you dozens of Kilbrenner boys.”

  “And I will do my part. With the greatest pleasure.”

  She met his eyes and smiled, seeing love there in the onyx. “We have an agreement, then, Mr. Reaver.” She offered him her hand.

  “That is not how I seal anything with the mother of my giant brood.”

  “I am not the mother of your giant brood just yet.”

  He leaned closer, whispering against her lips, “But you will be, love. You will be soon enough, eh?” Then he took his kiss, sealing their bargain in full.

  *~*~*

  EPILOGUE

  “Do not suppose this to be the end of our correspondence, Mr. Kilbrenner. You still have much to learn, and I still have much to say.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in an addendum to the addendum to a letter of felicitations on said gentleman’s robust embrace of familial duty.

  16 February 1825

  My dear Mr. Kilbrenner,

  You appear to be in a contest of fertility. I have it on good authority—not yours, of course, as your correspondence may best be described as sparse—that you and Mrs. Kilbrenner are once again expecting a child. One hopes it may be a daughter, as four sons of such gargantuan size are not so much offspring as a siege army.

  Equally, one hopes Lady Tannenbrook’s newest addition is male. Given Lord Tannenbrook’s disposition toward his daughters, such an eventuality may save a fifth girl the heartbreak of spinsterhood.

  By the by, Mrs. Kilbrenner’s uncle appears to have met with further misfortune. After the dreadful impoverishment wrought by their failed investment scheme, Sir Phillip and Lady Widmore must find it most perplexing to have been robbed fully twenty times in five years. This incident, at least, did not involve injury, as have the previous fourteen, although Lady Widmore reportedly has descended into mad despair. The thief took the last of her jewels and even her gown, you see, forcing the poor wretch to return to Binchley Manor in a severe state of undress on a cart pulled by an ass. Such grievous humiliation has become a frequent occurrence for Sir Phillip and his wife. Most unusual, though perhaps the Fates have their reasons.

  One other bit of news: An acquaintance of yours, Lord Holstoke, intends to return to London for the Season. I understand he is seeking a wife. Given his family history of madness and his own peculiar nature, one can only suppose he will meet with great difficulty. I expect the proceedings will prove most entertaining to observe. Perhaps I shall offer him my counsel. It appears to have benefitted you greatly.

  Do give my kindest regards to Mrs. Kilbrenner. I shall expect her for luncheon when she arrives in Town.

  Yrs,

  Dorothea, The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham

  Addendum to letter of 16 February

  24 February 1825

  My dear Mr. Kilbrenner,

  You have no doubt learned of the birth of Lord Tannenbrook’s heir apparent. I am gratified Lady Tannenbrook’s “Inkling” has proven correct, though Mrs. Kilbrenner must surely suffer some disappointment. The dear disguises it well, but she cannot possibly prefer being the wife of a lowborn ruffian to being the wife of an earl.

  Yrs,

  Dorothea, The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham

  P.S. Rec’d Mrs. Kilbrenner’s letter moments ago. Evidently, lowborn ruffians are much to her liking. I credit my tireless instruction in gentlemanly comportment. A lady prefers a gentleman, after all.

  *~*~*

  MORE FROM ELISA BRADEN

  It’s far from over! There are more scandalous predicaments, emotional redemptions, and gripping love stories (with a dash of Lady Wallingham) to come in the Rescued from Ruin series. For new release alerts and updates, follow Elisa on Facebook and Twitter, and sign up for her free email newsletter, so you don’t miss a thing!

  Plus, be sure to check out the other exciting books in the Rescued from Ruin series, available now!
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  The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book One)

  Victoria Lacey’s life is perfect—perfectly boring. Agree to marry a lord who has yet to inspire a single, solitary tingle? It’s all in a day’s work for the oh-so-proper sister of the Duke of Blackmore. Surely no one suspects her secret longing for head-spinning passion. Except a dark stranger, on a terrace, at a ball where she should not be kissing a man she has just met. Especially one bent on revenge.

  The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book Two)

  Painfully shy Jane Huxley is in a most precarious position, thanks to dissolute charmer Colin Lacey’s deceitful wager. Now, his brother, the icy Duke of Blackmore, must make it right, even if it means marrying her himself. Will their union end in frostbite? Perhaps. But after lingering glances and devastating kisses, Jane begins to suspect the truth: Her duke may not be as cold as he appears.

  Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book Three)

  Where Lord Colin Lacey goes, trouble follows. Tortured and hunted by a brutal criminal, he is rescued from death’s door by the stubborn, fetching Sarah Battersby. In return, she asks one small favor: Pretend to be her fiancé. Temporarily, of course. With danger nipping his heels, he knows it is wrong to want her, wrong to agree to her terms. But when has Colin Lacey ever done the sensible thing?

  The Devil Is a Marquess (Book Four)

  A walking scandal surviving on wits, whisky, and wicked skills in the bedchamber, Benedict Chatham must marry a fortune or risk ruin. Tall, redheaded disaster Charlotte Lancaster possesses such a fortune. The price? One year of fidelity and sobriety. Forced to end his libertine ways, Chatham proves he is more than the scandalous charmer she married, but will it be enough to keep his unwanted wife?

  When a Girl Loves an Earl (Book Five)

  Miss Viola Darling always gets what she wants, and what she wants most is to marry Lord Tannenbrook. James knows how determined the tiny beauty can be—she mangled his cravat at a perfectly respectable dinner before he escaped. But he has no desire to marry, less desire to be pursued, and will certainly not kiss her kissable lips until they are both breathless, no matter how tempted he may be.