“But you’ve taken me, deep and true.” His chest heaved against her back, the linen of his shirt soft against her skin, his muscles hard. Unyielding. “Now, I shall take you.”
She felt him slide out by inches. Return with a hard forge. Again. Again. Soon, his withdrawals were longer, his thrusts harder. She wanted to watch him in the mirror, but everything was their joining. Everything. She could not think, only feel.
His length. His heat. His staff battering inside her, stoking a deeper fire than she’d thought possible. Dragging against hidden nerves. Pleasuring her in a way she’d never contemplated. He touched her only at her waist and neck and sheath. Not her breasts. Not the place he’d stroked earlier.
Everything was their joining.
She did not know if she could reach her peak this way. The pressure was hard and growing harder with every hammering thrust.
“Look at us,” he growled. “Look.”
She did. And her body was seized by lightning. It came so suddenly, she screamed through gritted teeth. Her back arched. She flexed around him hard enough that the friction of their joining burned. He kept thrusting. She seized again, sobbing his name. Clawing the hand on the carpet beside hers.
The pleasure was too much. He was too much. She turned her head and opened her mouth against the muscles of his arm, tasting salt and Bastian. She seized again, the ripples jagged now as his rhythm quickened. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.
She was pleading, pleading, pleading.
He thrust deep. She seized again, squeezing him hard. Then she felt it, the warmth of his release inside her. Heard his shouts, hoarse and rumbling. Heard her name echoing. Augusta. Augusta. Love you. Love you.
As the shivering pulses of her ecstasy slowed and eased, she kissed his arm. Laced her fingers atop his. Met his beautiful onyx eyes in the mirror. “And I love you,” she whispered. “More than I ever imagined possible.”
~~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“One is wise to assume all one’s choices are of importance to the outcome, whether they appear directed by some external force or not. As I explained to my former lady’s maid only yesterday, one cannot blame one’s misfortune on the weather when one is caught ‘keeping warm’ with the coachman and a flask of gin.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter filled with accumulated wisdom.
Many things in Phoebe’s life had happened by chance. Her mother’s death. Her father’s. Augusta being born eight years before her. Meeting Glassington at house party where only local gentry were expected.
Today, she could list one more: the arrival of a note delivered by Mr. Duff at the very moment she was passing through the entrance hall on a mission to speak to Cook about adding more ginger to the ginger biscuits. It was an odd coincidence. One might say prophetic, given its occurrence the day after she’d nearly lost Augusta.
The note was addressed to Reaver, not her, but she happened to be near the door, so she answered the knock. And she happened to get on quite well with Mr. Duff, so he was pleased to allow her to pass the note along. And she happened to see what looked like Glassington’s name through the outside of the folded paper.
So she opened it.
And her throat began to ache.
And she recalled everything Augusta had sacrificed for her sake.
And she thought how selfish she had been, despairing that she must marry Glassington.
Augusta would not hesitate to do what was necessary. She would make a plan and charge forward. Now, Phoebe intended to do the same.
First, she arranged to have the carriage brought around. Then, she packed a valise, tucking the coins Augusta had given her inside. She penned a note to her beloved sister and bundled it together with the note addressed to Sebastian. And she left the house.
On the journey to Reaver’s club, she reviewed the note in her mind.
Remembered Augusta being carried out of that hideous house in Cheapside, stunned and wheezing.
Remembered Augusta being struck by Georgiana’s blows as she covered Phoebe like a warrior’s shield.
Remembered Augusta forbidding Phoebe to help with the laundry because Phoebe must have “a lady’s hands” if she wished to be a lady.
Then, she steeled her spine, layered stone around her bleeding heart, and did what must be done.
~~*
It was nearing Christmas, so Reaver’s was a bloody madhouse. Every man was in his cups. Every man wished to celebrate the sacred occasion with wild wagers and wilder revelry. Adam had been running the entire day.
Which explained why he did not read the note until half-past-four. Satisfaction surged through him as he realized the implications. Only a matter of time now. Soon, Phoebe would be his.
Unless.
He went cold, reading the words. Knowing Drayton would have notified not just Adam but Reaver, too.
Phoebe would be his unless Reaver was more persuaded by his devotion to Augusta than his loyalty to a friend—even a best friend. A partner.
There could be little doubt Adam required insurance. Tucking the note inside his coat pocket, he charged from his office to Reaver’s.
“Frelling,” he said crisply. “I need a set of markers.”
Frelling frowned and rose from his desk, leading the way into Reaver’s office. “Which file are you seeking?”
“Glassington.”
Frelling adjusted his spectacles and browsed the drawers behind Reaver’s desk. He held up a finger as he pulled open a drawer. “Ah, yes. Here.” He withdrew the file. And found it empty. “I—I don’t know where … Mr. Reaver must have …”
Adam was no longer listening. He was stalking out of Reaver’s office, headed for Reaver’s house. Along the way, he encountered Duff, who mentioned seeing Miss Widmore earlier in the day—twice. Once at Mr. Reaver’s house and once there, at the club.
“She asked about hirin’ a post-chaise.” Duff shook his head and frowned. “Odd thing, that. Reaver’s coach is a far sight better than a post-chaise.”
Adam listened, all the while growing colder and more furious. He mounted his horse and galloped for Reaver’s house as though hell itself were at his heels.
He arrived with a scattering of snow on his coat and a feeling of dread in his gut. Reaver’s new butler, Teedle, waved him inside. “I’m afraid Mr. Kilbrenner is not at home, Mr. Shaw.”
“Of course he is. You may fetch him or I will.”
Teedle sputtered a protest.
Adam drew close to the white-haired servant. “Now, my good man. I haven’t time for games.”
“He—he is indisposed. With Mrs. Kilbrenner.”
“Ah. Why didn’t you say so?” Adam brushed past the butler and headed upstairs, ignoring the man’s indignant blustering.
Adam knocked on Reaver’s bedchamber door. Loudly.
A deep, bellowing reply came immediately. “Bloody, bleeding hell! The house had best be on fire, Teedle!”
A feminine laugh was followed by a bit of conversation.