All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue (The Debutante Files Book 2) Page 7

“Can it be?” he taunted. “Aurelia at a loss for words? Impossible. Let us mark this day.”

  She opened her mouth, gaping like a little fish. It was tempting to step closer. To feel those breasts against his chest, the nipples pressing into him like scorching points.

  “You’re soused,” she accused, her nostrils flaring as she smelled the liquor on him.

  “I’ve had a brandy or two.” Or five.

  “Clearly, you’ve had one too many or you wouldn’t corner me here like this. I’m not one of your giggling tarts—”

  “Of that I am painfully aware, Lady Aurelia. They know what to do with their mouths, and it isn’t talk.”

  Bloody hell. Even in the dim glow of the corridor, he did not mistake the rush of color to her cheeks and throat. He blinked once, hard, as he considered that blush, wondering how far it extended beneath her night rail. Would it reach her breasts? Her belly? The dip of her navel? The insides of her thighs? He ground his cock into the soft slope of her stomach. Her breath caught in a sound that resembled a moan. A shudder racked him.

  “But then you aren’t so innocent, are you? You’ve been to Sodom.”

  She shook her head, but he couldn’t stop. With her, he could never stop. Never back down.

  “Did you go upstairs? Did you see anything you liked? Did you do anything in one of those rooms? Let someone put his hands on this very ripe body of yours? Would you like that? To be touched, stroked? Your breasts were made to be caressed, tasted—”

  “N-No,” she choked.

  He blinked.

  Bloody, bloody hell. He stepped back quickly and dragged a hand through his hair. Perhaps he had imbibed too freely tonight. That, or Arlington’s fist to his face had done more damage than he originally thought and shook his brain loose.

  She blinked those wide doe eyes up at him. They looked almost black in the near-dark, glowing with an emotion he had never seen from her.

  He opened his mouth to say something. An apology for acting like a rutting beast. Nothing seemed adequate. He’d just spoken to Will’s little sister as though she were some vulgar minx he met at a sordid pub. To say nothing of his actions. He’d just ground his cock against her like she was a seasoned whore. This on the heels of Will and Max telling him he needed to behave more circumspectly. He really was a bastard.

  Without a word, he turned and fled, descending the stairs with his cock throbbing. When he reached the bottom floor, he was tempted to look up, to see if she watched him, as he felt she did, or if that notion was just in his head.

  He resisted. Keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  Aurelia leaned over the railing and watched Max depart the house as if the hounds of hell were after him. She had done that. To him. She had sent the rogue running for once . . . and it was not because of her barbed tongue. It was because of her. He had left because of what swelled between them. The heat . . . the desire that even now still pumped between her legs.

  For a moment there, pressed against the wall, she had thought he might kiss her. Finally, she would have a kiss other than the one Archibald Lewis forced upon her. She would know a kiss that did not taste of fish. She would be kissed properly. If nothing else could be said of Max, she felt certain it was this. He would know how to go about pleasing a woman.

  She returned dazedly to her bedchamber, not recalling precisely how she got there. Somehow her feet moved, one step after another, until she was tucked back beneath her sheets, her hand pressed to the curve of her breast where her heart pounded like an incessant hammer.

  The night had been eventful. Her hand slid to her throat where her pulse hiccupped a mad staccato as she recalled Max’s body so close to hers. What would he have done if she closed that space? If she had kissed him? She’d witnessed all manner of illicit activity in the private rooms at Sodom. She had seen kissing and more. Her cheeks caught fire. Much more.

  She was no ignorant girl. Images of those people coupling had stayed with her, filling her mind with fantasies when she was alone in her bed at night and aching. Her imaginary partner had always been a phantom man. Vague and faceless. But in this moment, tonight, he possessed a face. He was Max. A breath shuddered out of her.

  She had no misconceptions of what Max was. She wasn’t romanticizing him. She’d seen him in the greenhouse, trysting with the maid. She knew of his innumerable exploits after she, however inadvertently, christened him Cockless Camden.

  They know what to do with their mouths . . .

  A breath shuddered past her lips. He was a rogue who lived for pleasure. And his body had felt so good against her. Hard and strong. Her hand swept over her breast, fondled it, finding the nipple and giving it a squeeze, imagining it was Max’s fingers. A small whimper escaped her.

  And then reality crashed down around her. This was Camden. He would never cross that line with her. No, not with Will’s little sister.

  Sighing, she rolled onto her side. She had made up her mind tonight to find a husband and save herself from a lifetime of obscurity in Scotland with Aunt Daphne and her horde of pillows every shape, size, and color.

  She best forget about Max and formulate a plan. Her gaze drifted to where her armoire stood. The room was too dark for her to see its hulking shape, but she knew precisely where it was, and she knew what resided within it. Countless gowns all handpicked by Mama. None were suited for her shape or coloring. She’d always known this and yet had never cared enough to oppose Mama on the matter. That would have to change. Starting tomorrow, she would need new gowns. She would begin there. A small and yet necessary change if she wanted to secure a proposal this Season.

  She had two months before Mama left for Aunt Daphne’s. And yet lying in the dark, the idea of marrying someone so that she could remain here only filled her with an aching bleakness. For the first time in years her drawings and the purpose they fed her soul didn’t seem enough. Perhaps it was greedy of her, but she wanted more.

  A shaky breath slipped past her lips as her mind touched on Max’s face, his voice, the sensation of his bigger body so close to her own tonight. She’d felt him all over . . . against her, around her. Everywhere, right down to her toes. And he had not even laid a finger on her. How would it be, how would it feel, if he did?

  Snuggling deeper under the covers, she slipped her hand between her thighs and touched herself, gently at first and then with growing pressure. Closing her eyes, she increased the friction and arched her back, envisioning it was someone else’s hand on her, someone’s body. Someone she wanted, someone she craved as desperately as her next breath.

  As she brought herself to release, it was Max she saw in her mind.

  Chapter 6

  Max was not certain what he was doing in the crowded ballroom of Lady Chatham’s house. Perhaps it was to prove to his friends that he could walk the line of respectability and they needn’t fear having him around their families like some manner of infectious ailment. Even so, he hugged the shadows, sticking close to the potted ferns, where he could avoid being coerced into dancing with one of the several eligible young ladies in attendance.

  “Come, Max, you did not attend simply to skulk in shadows, did you?” Someone queried behind him.

  He turned and forced a smile for Declan’s wife, Rosalie. She eyed him with a twinkle in her eye. “I am quite certain there is at least one young lady to tempt you.”

  “Oh, there are lovely ladies aplenty, to be certain, but none so lovely as you, Rosalie.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “I prefer to stand here and pine for the one that I let slip through my fingers.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Poppycock. As though I would have tempted you from your steadfast bachelor status.”

  He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his nape. “Well. No woman is capable of that, I fear.”

  “Oh, I do not believe that for an instant. There is someone for everyone.”

  What was it about those happily wed that made them hell-bent for everyone arou
nd them to wed as well? He held up both hands in mock surrender. “I would never be so disagreeable as to argue with a lady.”

  She laughed. “And yet you argue with Aurelia. Incessantly.”

  “Ah, yes. Aurelia. Well. We have a special relationship.” There was a gentle euphemism.

  “Hm,” she murmured, lifting her drink to her lips and giving him a sly look. “We are in accord on that. Quite special, I think.”

  He frowned, not liking the suggestive lilt to her voice. Especially after last week, when he had backed Aurelia into that wall, pushed his hips against her as though she were an eager tavern maid and addressed her so crudely. He had avoided her since then but had not forgotten the look on her face, the sound of her tiny gasp . . . or her tempting shape beneath that filmy night rail. It was not his custom to deny himself. Any other woman he would not have hesitated to touch. To kiss. If she had been anyone else, he would have had that night rail up around her hips in two seconds flat. The very notion was starting to make him hard with lust.

  Even more problematic was that he’d decided to forgo Sodom that night and instead returned directly home. He had stroked himself to satisfaction, all the while envisioning her face. A decided first and a new low. Much could be said of him, but it was not his practice to debauch untried girls. Especially when they were the sister of his best friend. If he ever had a doubt, he no longer did. He was going to hell.

  “We thrive on discord,” he said now, as though Rosalie needed to understand what he meant by special. He wasn’t going to explain their complicated history, but he’d been around enough matchmaking mamas to recognize a conniving mind, and he didn’t want her to get any ideas when it came to Aurelia and himself. Now that would be a disastrous match. They would likely kill each other within the first week.

  “You know what they say of enemies and lovers . . .” she said, looking at him archly . . . almost as though she could read his mind. “It’s a fine line between the two,” she elaborated.

  “Your romantic nature is running away with you.”

  “Ah, speaking of Aurelia. There she is.” Rosalie nodded toward the ballroom floor. “She’s looking exceptionally fine tonight, is she not?”

  A familiar tightness lined his shoulders as he braced himself, preparing for the sight of her . . . the moment their eyes would meet and she would give him that cool, dispassionate look. The empty smile. As though he were nothing. Simply a subject to be sketched in her pad, torn down, and reduced to something of ridicule.

  He followed Rosalie’s gaze to Aurelia. She did indeed look exceptionally well. He swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. Like a Mediterranean princess. A sultry red rose in a sea of pale English primrose.

  Her hair was swept up in a mahogany mass atop her head. A single long ringlet draped over the smooth expanse of her naked shoulder. She wasn’t wearing the usual ruffles and flounces. No, she was garbed in a sleek amber gown with simple lines that fit her torso tightly before flaring out at the waist. Her gaze was trained on the gentleman waltzing her about the floor—a man who seemed equally attentive to her as well. Bastard.

  “What’s she wearing?” he muttered beneath his breath. Her partner’s hand rested not on her dress but on the bare skin of her back above the dress. He glared at the man’s pudgy hand on that smooth, olive-toned back, wanting nothing more than to wrench it free of her. He told himself this was because she was Will’s sister, that he felt protective of her for Will’s sake. Nothing more. That flash of desire he’d had for her last week was an aberration. An anomaly. Thrust him alone with a half-dressed woman and tell him she was off-limits and he would react the same.

  “Isn’t the dress stunning? Much more flattering than her usual gowns.”

  “What was wrong with her usual gowns?” he grumbled.

  “They weren’t precisely memorable.”

  This dress was memorable. Or rather, Aurelia in this dress was memorable. The waltz came to an end and another gentleman was already there, waiting for the next dance.

  “Aurelia is memorable no matter what she’s wearing,” he murmured, watching her closely as she drifted into the arms of her new partner.

  “That’s kind of you to say,” Rosalie said, sounding surprised. “You should tell her that.”

  No he shouldn’t. And he wasn’t trying to be kind. Her saucy mouth made her impossible to ignore. That was all he meant. Presently, he simply did not care for the looks she was getting in her gown. Her display of cleavage did not go unnoticed.

  Rosalie continued, “I think Aurelia was hoping to attract a little more attention for herself tonight.”

  “Why?” He frowned. For some reason, he didn’t like the notion of Aurelia attracting suitors. He’d gotten accustomed to her role as Will’s unwed sister. He’d assumed she would remain just that. A fixture in Will’s household for the years to come, there to quarrel with him whenever he visited.

  Rosalie ducked her head evasively. “I should not speak on her behalf. Perhaps you should ask her yourself.”

  He returned his gaze to the ballroom floor, stiffening the moment he spotted Mackenzie cutting a direct line for Aurelia. What the hell was he doing here? He’d seen the man around Town, and he knew his reputation. The Scot was ruthless. He was also big. Muscular like a dockworker. He owned several gaming hells and other questionable establishments in Edinburgh and Glasgow and had recently begun expanding into England after he won a popular hell in the rookery.

  There was much scandal attached to his acquisition of Rapture. Rumors that he cheated abounded. He had heard the former owner was deep in his cups at the time of the card game, and several people questioned Mackenzie’s right to claim Rapture through such spurious means. Of course, no one challenged him directly. It was said the man carried the vouchers of too many noblemen.

  It was also rumored that the Scot’s ruthlessness extended to the bedroom. He was purported to enjoy bed sport of the rough variety. Max’s hands clenched as he thought of Aurelia beneath the burly Scotsman.

  And aside from all that, he recalled hearing something about Mackenzie being on the hunt for a blue-blooded bride to give him an added stamp of legitimacy among the ton. He watched grimly as the Scot cut a path for Aurelia, thinking only one thought. Hell no.

  Mackenzie stopped before her and bowed over her hand. Surely she would not think him an appropriate suitor. There was a brief exchange between the two and then she was suddenly swept up in the Scot’s arms and waltzing around the room. Senseless chit. He glanced around, searching for Will or Dec, determined that they put a stop to this at once. Only they were nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, see there. He’s a handsome gentleman, is he not?” Rosalie commented. “They make a fine couple. She with her dark looks, and he a fair Viking.” He glared briefly at Rosalie. She stood on tiptoes to whisper up at him, “They would make such beautiful babies, do you not think?”

  She had lost her bloody mind. Until that moment, he had quite liked Dec’s wife. Now he could toss her out the nearby French doors. If she thought Aurelia and Mackenzie would be making babies together, she was sorely mistaken.

  He returned his attention to the dancing couple. At that particular moment, Aurelia tossed her head back and laughed at something Mackenzie said. Clearly she did not know the manner of man with whom she danced. Nor the way that action pulled the bodice of her gown lower, revealing more of her delectable décolletage. Of course, Mackenzie noticed. With her head thrown back, every man in the room feasted on the sight of those impressive breasts.

  Max growled low in his throat, wondering at the surge of aggression he felt.

  He suddenly lost sight of them among the couples and had to step to the side, searching for them among the whirl of bodies. His tension eased only marginally when he identified Mackenzie again. Fortunately, the Scot stood taller than most of the other dancers, so he was able to spot the man’s dark blond head.

  “He’s not eligible,” Max muttered.

  “No? What’s wron
g with him?”

  Was Rosalie still here? He had forgotten about her. He looked down at her, still irked with her earlier comment. She watched him keenly, waiting his explanation. “Everything.”

  Rosalie frowned. “You dislike him that much? If he’s truly ineligible, then perhaps I should fetch Will to—”

  “No need. I’ll take care of it.” Max started off through the crowd, cutting across the ballroom floor, ignoring the people staring after him, who doubtlessly were marveling that Lord Camden had not only graced the ball of a very proper dame of the ton, but was actually on the dance floor.

  He dodged a lady that reached for his arm in an attempt to drag him into conversation—or perhaps a dance. He walked with single-minded purpose toward Aurelia, ready to save her from herself.

  No, he was not going to wait for Will to put an end to her flirtation with the likes of Mackenzie.

  He was going to end it himself.

  Aurelia exhaled in relief when the waltz came to an end. Of all the gentlemen who had danced with her tonight—and there had been a record high number, thanks to her new gown—Mr. Mackenzie was the only one whose stare made her decidedly uncomfortable.

  His green eyes were as sharp and cutting as glass, peering into her as though he were trying to evaluate her and decide her worth. Those all-seeing eyes made her feel naked. She almost thought he knew the changes that she had wrought within herself over the last week.

  She had taken control of her wardrobe. A long overdue duty perhaps. Gone were the pastels and flounces and ribbons that did nothing for her shape. A necessary change to avoid a fate of spinsterhood. She needed gentlemen to forget everything they had ever heard of her and want to court her.

  As the waltz came to an end, Mr. Mackenzie stepped back very properly and performed a quick bow. “Thank you for the dance, my lady.” His Scottish burr rolled over her, and she had to admit that it was rather attractive. Truthfully, the man himself was attractive . . . if not a little overwhelming. He was nearly as tall as Max, but burly, not lean. Unlike Max, he looked as though he had spent half his life plowing a field.