Glancing down at the white apron tied at her gown’s high waist, she plucked at her skirt’s folds. “Well, this one is not actually mine, Mr. Reaver. Perhaps you hadn’t realized. It is a maid’s costume. I borrowed it from an acquaintance.”
He frowned and eyed her bosom again. “It doesn’t fit you properly.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know. Dreadfully tight. One can scarcely draw a full breath. But it did facilitate my entry into your establishment. For that I am grateful.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t hear much beyond “dreadfully tight.” He was picturing those full breasts being pressured and squeezed. How they might look once unbound.
“As to my other gowns, I admit they are a trifle staid. I have never been a mistress before. If you would like to provide new garments for me to wear, I shan’t object.”
He found himself scowling. “You should.”
“Why?”
Deliberately, he traced the high neckline of her gown. “This will be much lower.”
Her breathing quickened and gooseflesh bloomed on her throat.
At last, she was taking proper offense. Perhaps he should kiss her and have done with this aggravating business. His eyes fell to her lips. Not remarkably full, but certainly wide. The shape of her jaw—gentle and narrow—made them appear more prominent.
“The garments will be at your expense, Mr. Reaver. If you wish them to be more … revealing, that is your prerogative. Presumably, I would only wear them in my capacity as your mistress.” She blinked slowly and quirked those wide lips. “As you can see, costumes do not frighten me.”
What would? That was the question. He frowned down at the woman who seemingly had few qualms about selling herself to a stranger. Something was amiss.
After her second thwarted visit to Reaver’s, Shaw had recommended investigating her background. Part of Reaver’s business involved collecting information through a vast network of sources inside and outside London, so the task had been a simple one.
She was an unmarried woman of eight-and-twenty from a quiet village in Hampshire. Her father had been a baronet, but upon his death, the title had passed to her uncle. She’d lived with the uncle for less than four years before securing a cottage for herself and her younger sister, Phoebe Widmore. None of these facts suggested a woman of flexible morals.
On the contrary. According to Drayton, a Bow Street runner he’d sent to her village to make inquiries, most of her neighbors described her as pleasant but a bit too proud. “High in the instep,” Drayton had said, mimicking the villagers’ accent. He’d huffed and shaken his head. “Polite way of sayin’ she fancies herself too fine for us commoners.”
Reaver had been sure she would balk at his crude proposal. Let him bed her? Any woman who valued her reputation—her virtue—would have spewed fire and stormed out of his club at the mere suggestion. Of course, any woman who valued her reputation would not have repeatedly invaded an exclusive gentleman’s club.
Still, her acquiescence was out of character.
Either she expected him to back down, or her aim to marry Glassington was a lie. The latter was possible, he supposed. But why else would she be so desperate to acquire Glassington’s markers? Revenge, perhaps? Had Glassington harmed her?
The thought made his guts knot. Men who preyed upon women and children deserved a long, slow death.
He examined her face—slender nose and wide mouth, gray eyes and russet brows. She was taller than average, but her bones were slight. Her skin was pale, as were her lips. But her eyes were far from cowed or wounded. Rather, they sparked with wry intelligence. The tilt of her head and the straightness of her spine gave no hint of victimhood. They spoke of pride. Dignity. Challenge.
“You’re daft, woman,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“If you plan to renege, Mr. Reaver, be warned: I shall regard such an action as a breach of promise similar to that of Lord Glassington. And you have seen the lengths to which I will go in reminding him of his obligations.” Gray eyes sharpened and wide lips pursed. “You and I have an agreement, sir. Should you break it, I will stand outside your club’s entrance every day. I shall inform every man who enters that the proprietor of Reaver’s hasn’t the decency to keep his word. How many of them will feel honor-bound to pay their debts then, do you suppose?”
That did it. The only way to be rid of her was to raise the stakes. “Where are you staying?”
She opened her mouth to answer.
“Never mind. You’ll be moving in with me.”
Her eyes flared. “I—”
“Being my mistress means being available. All the time.”
“All—all the time?”
“Aye.”
One gloved hand flattened over her middle. She glanced around his office. “Do you reside … here?”
He wondered which would be more to his advantage—the truth or a lie. On one hand, he reckoned most women would blanch at the idea of living in a gentlemen’s club. On the other, she’d been unabashed about entering Reaver’s on multiple occasions.
A wonder the club didn’t feel like home to her already.
No, the truth was better. The audacity of suggesting she move into the private house of a man she scarcely knew—where that man would have her all to himself—was likelier to put her off.
Biting back a grin, he answered, “I sleep here from time to time. But, no. I have a separate residence. You’ll live there. With me.”
For several breaths, he watched her. Gray eyes explored his face and shoulders. Gloved hands flattened and squeezed over her waist. Wide lips pressed together. Finally, she released a puff of air. “Very well.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I understand it is customary to keep a separate residence for one’s mistress. Many gentlemen do. But as our arrangement is of short duration, I concede this is more sensible.”
Bloody, bleeding hell. He was wrong. She was mad. Utterly, blindingly mad.
She acted as though he’d suggested they take ale rather than wine with their supper. Her slender nose and delicate jaw and russet brows were all composed. Utterly, maddeningly composed.
“Tonight,” he gritted, searching for her snapping point. “I want you there this evening.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t—”
“This is not negotiable. Either comply or our agreement is void.”
“—be too onerous. I must return to my current lodgings to retrieve a few items, of course.” She glanced toward the window. “There appears to be ample time before dark. Shall we consider our agreement settled, then?”
~~*
CHAPTER FOUR
“An obligation to one’s bloodline, however burdensome, must be attended. Tolerance for a nephew’s imbecility or encouraging a son’s latent procreative instincts, for example, forms the mortar of our very civilization. Gird your loins, my dear fellow. And do what must be done.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the onerous nature of performing one’s familial duty.