All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue (The Debutante Files Book 2) (14 page)

Chapter 16

A
urelia looked up as a footman led Max into the drawing room. She was careful to school her features into a mask of impassivity despite her surprise at his appearance. After their last encounter, she did not expect to see him for a good while.

Three days had passed since he hauled her from Sodom. Three days since he had kissed and rejected her. Three days since she decided once and for all to move forward with her life and stop doing whatever it was she was doing with Max. She’d told herself time and distance would be for the best. So truly there was no excuse for her heart to race faster at the sight of him.

His tall length ambled with a casual grace. He conveyed strength and checked power as he greeted her brother and Violet. He cut a fine figure in a dark jacket and buff-colored breeches. She looked away from his impressive physique and glanced to Buckston, sitting across from her. Buckston was still talking, moving his hands animatedly. He had not even noticed the new arrival. Her smile felt brittle as glass but she clung to it, desperate to give no reaction to the inclusion of Max into their dinner party. He’d been around all her life. Tonight should be no different from any other night.

Except it was
. She never had to mingle among her family with him so close, with the knowledge of what his lips tasted like, a living, breathing memory.

She clenched her hands together in her lap and followed Buckston’s cue, laughing when he laughed even though she had no notion what he had said that he considered so amusing.

Even though she did not glance at Max again, all of her hummed with awareness, her body achingly alert. A marked change from moments ago. She had been fighting to stay awake during Buckston’s diatribe as he recounted his latest shopping spree and the new haberdashery that had just opened its doors. Buckston just might enjoy matters of clothing and fashion more than any woman of her acquaintance. He had won Mama over instantly when he complimented her puce turban and matching slippers. Gentlemen so rarely noticed a lady’s slippers.

Buckston reached out to stroke the sleeve of her gown. “I must say, Lady Aurelia, I’m a great admirer of jewel tones, and this emerald green is a lovely color on you.”

She glanced down at her gown. She was so rattled by Max’s presence she could not recall what she was wearing. The awareness of him was still there, a warm hum that flowed along her nerves. Without even looking, she imagined she felt his stare.

A quick glance across the room revealed he was in fact staring at her, his blue eyes dark as a night sky. He watched as Buckston lightly fingered her sleeve, his brows drawn tightly over his deep-set eyes.

Her brother and cousin conversed, oblivious that Max’s attention was focused with soul-burning intensity on her. Panic tickled low in her belly when she glanced around the room, catching Violet looking between them curiously.
Blast
. Her sister-in-law had noticed.

She snapped her gaze away. What was he doing looking at her like she had done something wrong? She had not seen fit to visit Sodom again, and she’d refrained from sabotaging any more of his liaisons. Assuming he had any.

That almost made her laugh. This was Max. It had been three days. He’d likely engaged in any number of liaisons.

The very idea that he continued his rakehell ways brought forth her own scowl.
Brilliant
. Now they were both scowling at each other in a roomful of people, displeasure radiating between them in palpable waves.

Blood rushed to her face, and she gave him a slight shake of her head, hopefully signifying that he should stop glowering at her. She forced her attention away. It was a sad state indeed when her body failed to grasp what her mind already had. She needed a husband, and Max was not that man.

She fixated on Buckston’s kindly, attentive face and enormous bobbing Adam’s apple. She skimmed his rail-thin form and tried to ignore the knotting in her stomach at the idea of Buckston touching her.

“Th-Thank you,” she murmured when she realized she had yet to respond to his compliment of her gown.

Even though she did not turn to look, she could see on her periphery that Max had joined Will and Dec at the far side of the room.

She tapped a single foot impatiently beneath her skirts. Tonight was to have been a small dinner party. Aside from Dec and Rosalie, Buckston was the only other person invited. At least that’s what she had thought when her mother asked her if she would like to include a suitor. She’d prepared herself for an intimate gathering. She’d had no time to brace herself for seeing Max again so soon. She had convinced herself she would be betrothed before she clapped eyes on him again, and once that happened, she would have forgotten all about Max. Because it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing.

She woke the morning after Sodom with fresh resolve swimming in her veins to welcome whatever suitors came to call. She promised herself that she would be agreeable. Charming even. Well, as charming as possible. She fully expected Struan Mackenzie to call on her, but as it turned out, Buckston was her only suitor to surface. Apparently, Struan Mackenzie had a change of heart after Sodom. It had been an easy enough matter to settle on Buckston when no one else had called on her. It was a jarring reminder that she was no great catch. Penniless with only good bloodlines to recommend her.

Aurelia knew she should have been disappointed, but there was only numbness. Struan or Buckston. It made little difference. She felt nothing for either one of them. In truth, the gangly Buckston was probably the far safer choice. He would expect little. Struan might demand too much from her. She shivered at the thought. He would see past her inane remarks and empty smiles. He would know she thought of another man whenever he touched her.

The thought of Max made her look again. She couldn’t help it. He stared back at her over the rim of his glass with eyes far too serious. She was accustomed to derisive laughter and cheeky smiles from him. Not this broody and intense Max. If she thought he was dangerous before, he was downright deadly to her senses now.

Her cheeks burned and she faced forward. Mama urged Buckston to play for them. Everyone else chimed in, clapping encouragingly. Buckston sank behind the pianoforte, flipping out his coattails. “Forgive my blunders,” he declared. “I’m no Chopin.” He then began to play with relish. He might not be Chopin but he played a near second.

She took advantage of the reprieve and moved to stand beside her mother. “Mama? What’s Camden doing here?”

Mama did not tear her gaze from Buckston at the pianoforte while saying, “Oh, I invited him, dear. It’s been a while since he last dined with us.” Then, as if a thought occurred to her, she cast a quick frown at Aurelia. “I do hope you won’t be a beast, dear. It won’t do at all to behave that way in front of Buckston.”

“Of course not, Mama,” she replied dutifully, sighing as Buckston slid into another song. As well as he played, the loud music beat at her temples. “If you’ll pardon me,” she murmured. Mama did not spare her a glance, her smiling gaze fixed on Buckston.

Aurelia slipped from the room without a backward glance. She quickly made her way down the corridor, leaving the sounds of the pianoforte behind. For a moment she debated taking refuge in her bedchamber, but Cecily was probably there.

Desperate for a moment’s solitude, she slipped inside her brother’s study.

Chapter 17

S
he sank down in an overstuffed armchair beside his desk and gazed unseeingly into the dying embers of the fireplace. Sighing, she rubbed the bridge of her nose, squeezing it between her fingers.

The sudden opening of the door followed by it clicking shut had her sitting upright in her chair, an explanation on her lips. She expected Mama to stand there, ready to chastise her for abandoning their guests . . . especially the favored Buckston. She had not bothered to hide her joy at Aurelia’s renewed interest in claiming a suitor.

But it was not her mother. Max stood there, his imposing figure framed against the door. The flickering shadows cast his face into sharp lines and hollows.

She shot to her feet, fisting the fabric of her skirts in both hands. They stared at one another for one long moment against the distant trill of the pianoforte.

“What are you doing in here?” she finally asked. “We shouldn’t be alone.” Although she knew no one in her family would think askance of the two of them alone in a room together. Mama, Will . . . neither would ever suspect either one of them would behave in a manner that would require supervision.

“What are you doing with that fop Buckston?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in the dark warm space.

“What does it look like?” She lifted her chin defensively. “I’m being
properly
courted.”

Why she emphasized the word proper, she had no idea. Perhaps because she and Max were only ever improper with each other and she wanted to fling that at him. She wanted him to know that there existed gentlemen who thought her deserving of courtship. Not a great many, but some.

“Properly courted by that fool dandy? You can’t possibly think the two of you will suit?”

And why did that question suddenly make her remember what it felt like to be caught up in Max’s arms? The hard sensation of his body against her? The way his lips devoured her mouth? There was more to compatibility than physical attraction.

She flushed hotly. “What concern is it of yours?” Her speech stalled as he started toward her, his strides long and predatory. She swallowed, then resumed speaking. “First you objected to Mr. Mackenzie . . .” She snorted. “You’ll be relieved to know that he has ceased to call on me.” Something in Max’s expression gave her pause. It was as though a veil dropped over his face. He also halted his advance.

“Camden?” She stepped closer, her gaze narrowing as a sinking sensation settled in her belly. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

He studied her, and she could almost see the calculation behind his eyes. He was trying to decide what to admit to her.

“Camden?” she pressed.

He shrugged one shoulder as if it were of no import.

She crossed the short distance separating them and punched him in the shoulder with her fist, but that probably hurt her hand more than it wounded him. She shook her wrist lightly. He smirked and she was tempted to try again.

“Feel better?” he asked lightly.

“No,” she snapped. Her eyes burned. She pressed a hand to her chest. “You know how important this is to me.”

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and she knew she had him. “You didn’t want Mackenzie.”

Her chest lifted on a quick inhale. “I could have wanted him.” In time.

His square jaw clenched. Even in the dim shadows, she detected a muscle feathering along his cheek. “It would have been a mistake.”

“And why is that?”

“Because …”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve better,” he bit out.

Her mouth closed with a snap, his flattery now mingling with her anger. She pushed the softer sentiment away.

“What was it you said to me?” she whispered, pressing fingers to her suddenly aching temples. She felt as though he were yanking her left, then right, up, then down. Kissing her. Pushing her away. Chasing her. Running away. “Cease behaving as a child? Well, Camden, why don’t you take a bit of your own advice and stay out of my life?”

She stepped around him, giving him wide berth, but his voice stopped her before she reached the door. “The difference between you and me is that you fail to exercise good judgment.”

Anger returned in a searing flash. She turned slowly, a red haze filling her vision. “Is that what you call
your
behavior?” She advanced on him. “I’ve watched you live your life as you please with little thought to decorum or propriety.” The words flew from her lips like mortar. Emotion clogged her voice and tightened her chest. “I watched you tup a maid in the greenhouse when I was fifteen years old. I thought I loved you.” At his shocked expression, she added, “I know, senseless, yes? It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. I see that now, but back then I was hurt and drew that horrible picture of you. I didn’t mean for it to be discovered. You never even heard me out when I tried to apologize.” Her voice cracked and she forced a shrug. “Since then we’ve been at this stupid war, and I’m just weary of it. So very weary. I want it to stop. I want you to stop and leave me alone. Let me live my life.”

Color flushed his cheeks. His mouth worked before he asked, “You were there?”

She nodded, the dreaded burn of tears threatening.

“Oh, Aurelia.” He stepped toward her and she held up a hand. He stopped as though she had erected an invisible barrier between them with that hand.

“No,” she commanded. She couldn’t have him touch her again. Not anymore. It addled her head.

He angled his head, looking at her almost tenderly. “Aurelia,” he repeated.

She shook her head fiercely, hating herself for having told him. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

He moved again, cautiously, slowly, as though she were some small animal of prey and he was afraid of startling her.

“Not another step,” she warned, hating how her voice shook, how weak she must appear right now.

“No.” He nodded yes as though she had not disagreed and closed the distance between them until the flat of her hand met his chest and stopped him. “I’m sorry, Aurelia. I was young and stupid.”

“You’re still stupid,” she charged, her voice cracking, making her feel weak and equally senseless.

He brought a hand up to cup her face, and the tenderness undid her. His thumb stroked her cheek. “I am. I know it.”

She closed her eyes at the sensation of his hand on her face, but it did no good. She could still see him looking down at her tenderly. “Stop looking at me like I’m something pathetic to be pitied.”

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

She complied. He cupped her face, fingers spearing through her hair as he pinned her with a stark-eyed gaze. “Never. I’ve never pitied you. It’s not possible. You’re not pitiable.”

Her chest clenched. She shook her head, completely flummoxed. He wasn’t supposed to be this. He wasn’t supposed to be gentle and kind and sincere. He wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a rakehell who burned a path through the hearts and bedrooms of women everywhere. And he was
not
supposed to touch her anymore, affecting her and making her want him in a way she could never have him.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair that he could be this way. The hot dash of tears tripped down her cheeks. He caught her tears with his fingers in an attempt to rub her cheeks dry. She fought a sob but it escaped, a choked, strangled sound.

“Don’t cry, Aurelia,” he soothed, still sliding those blunt-tipped fingers over her tear-damp cheeks.

“What are you doing? Please . . . don’t touch me.”

“I’m sorry.” He pressed butterfly kisses to her cheeks. “I can’t . . .”

She sniffed, hating and loving his tender ministrations. But it had to stop. It was tearing her apart and wrecking her resolve.

“You can. We have to stop this.” She circled his wrists with her fingers and tried to tug his hands down. He wouldn’t budge his grip.

He dragged warm lips over the moist tear tracks on her face, ignoring her words and offering the intimacy that made her stomach heat and flutter.

“Stop,” she whispered as his mouth inched toward the corner of hers.

Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. She trembled from the restraint of not lifting her chin that tiny inch and kissing him.

He had no such qualms.

He settled his mouth over hers, his lips loose and open, but not a true kiss.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he said against her mouth, lips grazing ever so slightly and spiking sensation straight to every nerve.

“I know.” The two words forced her lips to brush against his in a close simulation of a kiss. And perhaps she over-exaggerated the movement, savoring the tantalizing sensation of his mouth. His warm, dry lips softer than she ever thought possible. A shudder racked her.

“Good,” he rasped. “Because for three days I’ve only thought of you. Of this mouth. The things I want to do to it . . . the things I want to teach it.”

She moaned softly and his mouth claimed hers. Seized. Completely. Totally. No more tentative dancing around it.

There was no room for breath. His tongue thrust against her tongue. His mouth slanted hotly on hers. A simmer built inside her as his hands buried in her hair, tipping her head back, angling her for his ravaging mouth.

She whimpered, lost, completely at his mercy as he backed her up until she collided with the desk. Something rattled and fell to the floor with a thud. She had a fleeting hope that it wasn’t the ink well, and then she did not care. A stampeding herd of llamas could have charged through the room and she wouldn’t have stopped kissing Max for a single moment of it.

He loosened his grip for a split second to grab her by the waist and heft her on top of the desk. Then his hands came back for her face, fingers both hard and tender, burrowing through her hair again, scattering pins.

Another thing she didn’t care about. She didn’t care about having to explain her fallen hair or missing pins. She only cared about his mouth on hers . . . about the deepening ache between her legs that needed assuaging.

He nudged her knees apart and wedged his hips between her thighs, the fabric of her skirts bunching between them. She clutched his waist, her fingers digging deep through fabric to flesh and bone underneath.

His mouth devoured her until she turned into a boneless mass on top of the desk. She slid her hands up, clutching his shoulders, arms, wrists, straining against him, diving headlong into the kiss.

“Aurelia,” he gasped into her mouth. “I can’t stop this anymore. I can’t
not
want you.” He sounded aggrieved about it, pained and frustrated.

“Then don’t,” she heard herself utter back into his mouth. She wanted him to want her. To surrender to the undeniable heat flaring between them. Consequences be damned. She’d worry about that later.

She reveled in this man who was so wrecked for want of her. She never thought it could happen. She never thought she could want him like she did before.

He took one of her hands that wrapped around his wrist and dragged it down between them, placing her palm roughly over the bulge of his manhood. A ragged breath swelled her chest.

“Feel what you do to me. How much I want you, Aurelia.”

The core of her throbbed in response. The hard rod pressing against her fingers was because of her.

“I—I want to feel it,” she choked against the brand of his searing lips.

His eyes gleamed down at her, never breaking contact even as he opened his breeches and freed his erection. He very deliberately closed her smaller fingers around him, watching her hotly. “Like this,” he instructed, showing her what to do, what he liked.

He shook as she stroked him, dropping his forehead against hers. She felt empowered. Holding him in her hand and feeling him shudder with his breath hot on her lips . . . it was the most decadent thing she had ever done. She felt wild and free.

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s like silk.” Her womanhood tightened almost painfully as she slid her fingers up and down the hard length of him. “It’s big.”

“I’m hard and hurting and it’s all because of you,” he accused against her mouth.

She laughed brokenly and wiggled closer on top of the desk, her stocking-clad knees high on his hips.

“I hurt, too,” she confessed. Desire pumped through her, pushing her far past any sense of propriety. She guided him between her legs and rubbed the tip of him against her drawers, gasping at this first contact. Shielded by only a layer of cotton, moisture rushed between her legs.

He choked her name, but she didn’t stop. She angled her hips and stroked him along her opening. It was a cruel tease, and a broken sob ripped from her throat, as much torment for her as it was for him. If possible, he grew bigger in her hand, and she felt the first stirrings of alarm.

“I don’t know . . . would we fit . . .”

“Oh, we’d make it work.” Then a pained sound escaped him. “But it can’t come to that, Aurelia. Do you understand?”

No, she didn’t. With the hard rod of him stroking against her, she didn’t understand.

She whimpered again, the throb between her legs twisting, squeezing almost in protest. She tightened her fingers around him and pumped once . . . twice . . .