All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue (The Debutante Files Book 2) (9 page)

“No, no . . . it’s not her real hair,” the woman beside him explained. “Some women do that, you know. To make their own hair appear thicker.”

So much for all her gold tresses.

Everyone, including Aurelia, backed away as the two of them slogged to shore. By then Mrs. Knotgrass’s maid had arrived—no doubt hearing the commotion—and Max turned the thoroughly wrecked woman over to her waiting servant. He then turned to face Aurelia, his gaze finding her in the crowd.

Her stomach knotted. He looked severe—frightening—as he pointed a finger at her and curled it, beckoning her closer.

She shook her head, her stomach coiling sickly.
It was an accident
, she mouthed at him, pleading with her eyes.

His eyes narrowed on her. She felt the chill of them across the short distance. She had never seen him look like this before. Not even when they quarreled and she irked him. He took a step toward her and then stopped when the widow started wailing for him, motioning for him to return to her. With one last look at Aurelia that promised retribution, he turned his back on her.

A relieved breath shuddered from her. She never thought she would feel gratitude toward Mrs. Knotgrass for anything, but in that moment she could have hugged her. It would be short-lived, she knew. She had seen Max’s face. He wasn’t finished with her.

Swinging her satchel across her shoulder, she started for home with no thought to dignity.

She ran.

Chapter 10

H
e would throttle her.

It was Max’s sole thought as he trudged up the hill, his feet squishing in his soaked boots as he escorted the widow across the park to her waiting curricle.

She wept the entire way. And no small, delicate feminine weeping either. She wailed like a lowing cow, exclaiming over the state of her appearance, drawing all eyes their way. He resisted the impulse to shush her. She was embarrassed over what had transpired, to be certain, but her howling only attracted more attention.

He told himself he should not be so surprised. He knew Aurelia was capable of outrageous behavior. It was clear that she wanted him to think it was an accident.
Ha!
She wanted to punish him for burning her drawing. Even without that discord between them, she would go to any lengths to annoy and pester him. He could almost excuse her for this—he was accustomed to their skirmishes, after all—but the Widow Knotgrass had been innocent in their little war.

Innocent?
She had not exactly kept her claws in check with Aurelia. He winced as he cast her a glance. She was murdering his ears with all her caterwauling. His perception of her as an enticing, soft-spoken lady was now shattered.

The maid trotted behind them, holding the widow’s discarded parasol and pieces of her lost hair. Max tried not to look at the mangled chunks of hair that resembled slaughtered rodents, but he couldn’t help his lip from curling. Again his thoughts returned to Aurelia and the ear-blistering he would give her when he caught up to her. It was bad enough she was the reason he had sought out the widow in the first place. He’d thought a good tupping might take his mind off Aurelia and her stupid quest for a husband. He thought it might help him forget the devastated look on her face when he flung that scroll into the fire. At the very least he would exorcise his lusts so he would stop getting so inconveniently aroused in Aurelia’s company. At least that had been his reasoning.

“My lord, you’re hurting me,” Widow Knotgrass complained, tugging on her arm.

“My apologies.” He quickly loosened his grip.

She sniffed, looking mollified. “And you’re walking much too fast. I cannot keep up.”

He sucked in a breath, reaching deep inside himself for patience as he slowed his pace to a crawl. Aurelia was likely fleeing for home already. From the one glimpse he’d had of her face—her wide eyes and sagging mouth—he knew she was afraid of him. And rightly so. His jaw clenched. He was not finished with her. Not by any means. He merely needed to free himself of the weeping woman at his side so that he could track down his quarry before she locked herself in her bedchamber and hid from him for the remainder of the Season.

She’d have to come out eventually, he assured himself. She was intent on winning a husband, after all. For some reason, this only made his mood darker. His free hand flexed at his side in anticipation of unleashing his ire on her.

“She should be horsewhipped,” the widow complained between gulping sobs, stepping high and holding out her soggy skirts. “She deserves no less. You should call on her brother and see that she is punished.”

He stared straight ahead, struggling to slow his stride for her dragging pace. A prickly feeling swept over his chest as he listened to this woman disparage Aurelia. “It was an accident,” he heard himself say, defending her.

“She’s a menace. That one should be kept on a tight leash,” the widow complained. “Her family should put her in a sanitarium.”

He released a long-suffering breath. “Come now. That’s a trifle extreme, don’t you think?”

She blinked at him. “I am serious. It’s done, you know. For women of her mercurial temperament.”

He shook his head. The chit was abhorrent. He could not hide from that reality any longer. He’d prefer sharing a bed with a diseased monkey. He wanted nothing more than to deposit her in her curricle and be rid of her for good. She tempted him no more. He supposed he could thank Aurelia for giving him the opportunity to see her true colors . . . but he rather resented the fact that she had provided him with that insight.

Max enjoyed his bed sport. He didn’t need great insight into the character of the females he enjoyed. He took his pleasure, gave it in return, and then moved on. Aurelia had made that impossible in this instance and he entirely blamed her.

“Camden,” the widow whined. “You’re still walking much too quickly.”

He slowed his pace yet again, convinced that if he went any slower he would be standing still.

His gaze scoured the far edges of the park, searching for a glimpse of Aurelia in the rolling green. He knew she was fleeing for home not a far distance from where they were. She enjoyed her walks. She would not have made use of a carriage or mount on so short a length. He would overtake her on horseback.

He dragged a bracing breath deep into his lungs. No more of her pranks. This had gone far enough. No more of her sharp tongue. It would end this day. Once and for all.

Reaching the curricle, he assisted the widow up into it and closed the door after her. He had tied his horse to the back of the conveyance earlier so that they could ride together, but his only goal right now was to reclaim his mount and go after Aurelia. His blood pumped harder at the thought of delivering her a much deserved set-down.

“Lord Camden! Where are you going?” Mrs. Knotgrass demanded from where she sat, her hair hanging in wet tangles around her. For some reason he had a flash of Aurelia’s hair . . . the dark mahogany flowing freely over her shoulders. He blinked, banishing the mental comparison and focused on the woman before him. There was not a man who would turn from the invitation in the widow’s eyes. And yet he did not want her.
Bloody hell.

He bowed smartly. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Her face reddened. “We did not even yet have our picnic . . .”

He motioned to his person. “I am hardly in a fit state.” It would be ungentlemanly to point out that she was not either.

She moistened her chattering lips and pouted. “But we had been having such a lovely time.”

Had they?
He recalled their interaction before they happened on Aurelia. He’d been going through the motions . . . flirting, praising her beauty, entertaining her with empty conversation. And he had never been more bored. Not that he was one to share anything of himself with his paramours—but she had not asked a single thing about him.

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. “No need for it to end so soon. We can retire to my house. My servants can see to your clothes . . . while we make ourselves more comfortable in my rooms . . .”

There was no mistaking her meaning. It was what he thought he wanted from her. He slipped his hand free and moved to untether his mount from the back of her carriage. She watched him, her eyes narrowing in clear affront.

“I appreciate the kind offer, but I could not impose on you. Recently widowed . . . you’re too vulnerable. And I must think to your reputation.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

From her bewildered expression, she did not believe he cared one whit for her reputation. “This opportunity, my lord,” she said tightly, “will never come again.”

He shrugged lightly, still smiling. “I will suffer the regret.”

Her lips compressed into a hard line. She leaned back in her carriage and called for her driver to move.

Max did not linger. As far as he was concerned, he had already dallied too long. He mounted in one smooth motion and turned in the direction of the Merlton town house. Digging his heels in, he set off at a gallop across the park.

Chapter 11

A
urelia knew there was a good chance he would come after her.

She felt hunted. The gate clanged behind her, reverberating on the afternoon air. Her lungs burned with labored breath as she hurried down the path, just short of a run. Dignity held her in check . . . as well as sheer stubbornness. She’d done nothing wrong. It was an accident. Only the guilty ran.

Heat flushed her face at the half-truth. Very well, she had been somewhat in error. She had, in fact, pushed him. But that was only after he insulted her. And her intention had never been for the Widow Knotgrass to fall into the pond. That part was purely accidental—no matter how satisfying it had been. A snort escaped her that bordered on laughter. She had, admittedly, for one fraction of a moment, enjoyed seeing Widow Knotgrass emerge looking like a drowned cat. She sobered, forcing her amusement down. There would be time enough for laughter when this day’s events were well and fully behind her. Only from the glimpse she’d had of Max’s face, it would not be for another five years.

She shook her head lightly at the exaggeration. Max’s wrath would cool. In time. Just as it had when she divested him of his garments in that card game at Sodom. His ire had cooled over that. He’d eventually get over this, too.

She sidestepped a maid walking down the path, nodding a greeting and hoping she didn’t look as frazzled as she felt. She need only escape to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

The back entrance of the house appeared and she bypassed it, deciding to ignore it in favor of the servants’ door a little farther around the back. That entrance saw less traffic, and she wouldn’t risk bumping into Mama or Violet. They would only want to chatter and delay any escape into her room.

She knew she was being silly. It’s not as though he would give chase straightaway. He still had Widow Knotgrass to escort. And yet, the fierce look in his eyes had made her shiver.

She took comfort in the knowledge that he would arrive via the front door, and then her comfort dissolved. How would he explain his very wet and disheveled person? That would invite questions. Questions like how did he get wet . . .

Dear God. What if he told Mama? Or Will?

She shook her head. No. He wouldn’t. If he wouldn’t divulge her night activities at Sodom or that she was the artist responsible for the caricatures popping up all around London, he wouldn’t report on her now. At least, she prayed he wouldn’t.

Aurelia forced in a calming breath. By the time Max called she would be safe in her bedchamber. Cecily will have been coached by then, armed with excuses as to why she was unavailable. He’d know the excuses were lies, of course, but she didn’t care.

War called for different rules.

Spotting the ivy-covered back of the house, tension eased from her shoulders. Her pounding heart slowed. She had made it. Even with all the traffic coming in and out of the servants’ door, the lush ivy threatened to swallow it. She closed her hand over the latch, ready to pull it open, when a hard hand clamped down on her shoulder and whirled her around.

She jumped, and quickly swallowed her startled cry as she came face-to-face with a wet, disheveled, very angry Camden.

He was not quite dripping wet, but he was indisputably soaked. Thanks to her. Heat crawled up her face.

He’d rid himself of his jacket and unbuttoned his vest to reveal the fine linen of his shirt. The white fabric was so wet it was rendered translucent. She stepped back, her gaze raking over him, stopping at the tan-gold of his skin visible through the material. The flat expanse of his chest, the sharp contours of his pectoral muscles with their dusky brown nipples, so flat and dark and very different from her own, made her flush and feel all shades of awkward. Her gaze dipped lower, identifying the cut lines of his abdomen. Her mouth dried. She’d seen him shirtless before. The memory of him at Sodom was etched permanently in her mind. It wasn’t right that one man should be so blessed.

Swallowing in an attempt to gain moisture in her mouth, she donned a look of calm innocence. “Lord Camden, what a surprise.”

“A surprise? Oh, you didn’t just see me in the park?” He advanced on her, bringing to mind a stealthy jungle cat. She could not stop herself from retreating, backing away as he spoke in that dangerously gravely voice. “You didn’t just push me into the pond, then?”

“Oh,” she stammered, eyeing his towering form warily. “That . . .”

“Yes.
That
,” he growled, settling his hands against the ivy-layered wall on either side of her head. For all his dampness, his body radiated enough heat that she felt singed.

She gulped, and then felt certain he had heard the sound. He had never talked to her so menacingly. He pressed his body against hers as he had once before. It was heaven. No, it was hell.

She struggled for bravado, refusing to let him know how intimidating she found him. “You’re being a brute, Camden. Let me go.”

“And you’re a brat,” he countered. “So we’re well-matched.”

A small shiver coursed through her. She was not certain how to manage him like this. She met his gaze, clashing with eyes that were now more gray than blue. The coldness in those smoky depths chilled her. She pushed lightly at his shoulder in an attempt to get him to let her pass, but he wouldn’t budge.

“What do you want from me?” She fell back against the brick wall, and he only pressed closer. Her breasts ached where they mashed into him, her nipples hardening, and it was mortifying to think he probably felt her reaction to him—knew of her arousal.

She closed her eyes tightly, and in the darkness behind her lids, the long-ago image of him with Ingrid in the greenhouse flashed into her mind. The physicality of him as he worked himself over the maid made her flush hotter. Desperation shot through her. She would
not
be one of the countless women to fall at his feet. She had to break away before she revealed herself to be just as vulnerable to him as they were. Her pride could not withstand that embarrassment. Being demoralized once by him was all her ego would allow.

“Let me go,” she demanded as she opened her eyes, hating that it sounded like she was pleading.

“You’re not going anywhere until we’re finished.” He inched in, bending his arms so he could thrust his face close. So close that she could see the dark ring of blue surrounding his irises. “And we’re not even close to being done.”

Max knew he should release her. Trapping her against the wall of the house, where anyone could happen upon them, was a bad idea. This was Aurelia. No matter how angry she had made him, he shouldn’t be touching her . . . much less manhandling her. Especially considering the inappropriate thoughts he had been harboring for her lately.

Lately?

If he were honest, he would admit he’d lusted after her for a long time. Ever since he first turned around at that garden party and saw her standing there. It was a dangerous realization—knowing he had wanted her for so long and being this close to her now, without an inch even separating their bodies.

He eased back, but then that obstinate chin of hers went up and she actually had the gall to look affronted. As though
she
were the victim and not the perpetrator of this day’s deeds. “It was an accident, Camden. Unhand me.”

“Was it? You pushed me—”

“You were being a wretch!”

“Enough,” he bit out, closing in again on her. It was as though his body had a mind of its own. “Aren’t you tired of it? The quarreling. The pranks? I know I am. You’re a child . . . you have to stop acting like a spoiled little girl.”

Her eyes widened. “And it’s all me? You have no part in any of it? How dare you! You’re not my father! Or my brother!”

He glanced down. Standing this close together, he couldn’t see much of her body, but he felt every inch of it. The press of her breasts against his chest. The soft splay of her stomach against his hardening groin. As much as he wanted to throttle her, he could not stop his body’s response. With a pained breath, he inserted some much-needed space between them while still keeping his hands anchored to the wall on either side of her head. “Oh, I’m well aware of that fact.”

“And I’m not a child either—”

“You do whatever you want—say whatever you want with no thought.” Then, before he could consider his next words, he flung out, “No wonder no man wants to marry you.”

The color drained from her face.

Cold washed through him as he took in her stricken look. He was a bastard through and through. A slap to the face could not have wounded her more. He recognized this at once.

“Aurelia . . .” he started, but her stricken expression fled at the sound of his voice. A shutter slammed over her eyes and her expression turned to steel. That should have given him warning.

“Go to the devil, Camden!” Her fist landed squarely in his stomach, knocking the wind from him in a whoosh. He bent over, catching his breath. Stunned, he lifted his face, his eyes locking with her equally shocked stare.

She’d hit him.

The air hummed around them, electric and alive.

She covered her mouth with her hands, in shock or horror. Then she fired into action, trying to dodge past him.

Something primal took over. There was only one thing to do. Only one recourse.

He didn’t think. Simply hauled her back against the ivy-thick wall and covered her mouth with his own.