She lost her breath. His eyes were like onyx.
“Unless you are here delivering ink, we have nothing to discuss. Nothing whatever.”
She moved three steps closer. “My name is—”
“I know who you are.”
“—Miss Augusta Widmore. One of your club’s members is a gentleman with whom I am acquainted. Lord Glassington. He … owes you a substantial sum.”
His features were strangely raw. Heavy brows. Piercing black eyes, cold and deep. A hawkish nose with a crook at the bridge like a road cut in two. His jaw was wide and square, the bones of his cheeks sharp and unforgiving. Darkness shadowed the lower half of his face where his whiskers threatened to grow. He’d been ruthless with the hair upon his head, cutting it severely short. She imagined he’d be equally ruthless with his beard. And with people, for that matter.
“You may leave on your own. Or I may toss you out the door. Your choice.”
She swallowed. Licked her lips. Moved another step closer. “Regretfully, I must prevail upon your honor, sir.”
Most men would have risen by now. Even the lowliest knew it was customary to stand when in the presence of a lady.
She cleared her throat. “With the greatest respect, I would ask you to forfeit Lord Glassington’s markers.”
“No.”
“I haven’t yet explained my reasons. Allow me to—”
“With the greatest respect, Miss Augusta Widmore, your reasons mean less to me than the deposits made in the privy this morning.”
Her mind stuttered as she took his meaning.
“Now. Leave my office.”
“Mr. Reaver, I realize my request is unusual—”
“You are the fourth one this week. And it is only Tuesday.”
The fourth? Blast. It was worse than she’d imagined. Much worse than she’d hoped. “Nevertheless, I beseech you. If you will only listen—”
“How did you elude Shaw? He would not have let you inside, much less shown you to my office.”
She pressed her lips together. How to answer? “Mr. Shaw refused me entry. He is unaware of my presence.”
His expression—as forbidding and chilling as his reputation—darkened. “So, it was Duff.”
“No,” she answered, cursing the tremor in her voice. “I found my way here on my own. You mustn’t seek to punish your employees. They are not to blame.”
He released an amused puff of air. “If you are here, then they have failed in their duties.” Unnerving onyx eyes swept the length of her, pausing almost imperceptibly at her hips and her shoulders. Though, perhaps that last stop had been slightly below her shoulders. It happened too quickly to be certain. “And you are undeniably here.”
She swallowed. Her eyes fell to his hands, casually clasped atop his desk. Blunt, sizable fingers were stained with ink. It was difficult to imagine a man as physically powerful and ruthlessly potent as this one sitting behind a desk all day, complaining of empty ink pots.
“I am here because you are the only one who can help me.” Her eyes lifted to find him frowning. “Lord Glassington’s debt is outrageously large, so it is understandable that you would hesitate to set it aside. But he was deep in his cups when he—”
“If I forgave every marker signed by a drunkard, I would be both a pauper and a bloody imbecile.”
“He has family obligations, sir. Responsibilities.”
“They all do. Never stopped one from turning a card.”
“His judgment was appalling, but—”
Black eyes narrowed upon her. “Who is this blighter to you, Miss Augusta Widmore? Not your brother, for he hasn’t any siblings. Some other relation?”
“How we are acquainted is of little consequence.”
Mr. Reaver’s hands flattened upon his desk. He pushed to his feet. Straightened to his full height.
Dear God and all His angels. Not a myth. Giants were very, very real.
He rounded the desk and approached. She now wished with every fiber of her quivering being that she had not tread so deeply into the room. In fact, she was beginning to regret every choice that had led to this moment—coddling Phoebe, believing Glassington, leaving Hampshire. The last one especially.
Augusta was hardly a small woman—several inches above average for a female, in fact. But he towered a foot taller than she. Maybe more. That would be sufficient to explain her spinning head and sudden need for air. But he was also broad enough to block all light from the office’s window, casting his rough-hewn features into stark shadow.
His gaze scoured her skin. She could imagine what he saw. Plain, albeit dignified, Widmore features. Dark-red hair pinned flat against her head to tame the curl. Unadorned straw bonnet. Woven wool pelisse that might have been fashionable five years earlier, when she’d first sewn it, but was now worn and dull. Gloved hands tightly clasped at her waist.
Despite the intensity in his gaze, she did not delude herself that he found her comely. She’d gone eight-and-twenty years without a man commenting upon her attractiveness. After so long, the conclusions were obvious.
No, Mr. Reaver was not staring down at her from his great, gargantuan height because he was riveted by her beauty. This was a test. His silent regard was meant to intimidate, to make her shrink and retreat.
Well, perhaps she was no beauty. And perhaps her quiet life in Hampshire had been poor training for a confrontation of this sort. But Mr. Reaver had a thing or two to learn about Augusta Widmore if he thought a bit of size and intimidation would dissuade her from her task.
She lifted a brow. “Staring is rude, you know.”
Once again, he frowned. One of those blunt, ink-stained fingers came up to flick her lapel. The gesture startled her. He was like a great bear playing with his food.
“Figured you’d landed a ripe one, eh? Newly minted earl. Did he promise marriage, then?”
She retreated two steps before she stopped herself. Tension took hold of the muscles in her legs and belly and neck. He was too close to the truth.
“Must have disappointed ye when he lost all but the title in a single fortnight.”
“Disappointed” did not begin to describe her reaction. Glassington had destroyed not only his own fortune but everything she’d worked to build since she was seventeen. He’d consigned a woman who had trusted him with her heart and her body to a life of disgrace and poverty.
All for two weeks of drunken revelry.
She raised her chin and held his gaze. “It is not for Lord Glassington’s sake that I make my request. Others will be harmed when you call in his markers. Innocents who have done nothing more than—”
“Trust the wrong bloody nob. Aye. A common problem, that.” His head gave a subtle tilt. “Not my problem, however. ”