All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue Page 9

  Rolling her eyes, she permitted Rosalie to lead her from the room, not bothering to contradict her. They wove through the crowded ballroom once again. Aurelia kept an eye out for Buckston, fully intending to honor her promise to dance with him.

  “Ah, look. Speak of the devil. It’s Camden.”

  Even as a part of her willed herself not to look, she felt herself turning. Felt her gaze tracking across the crowded room until she spotted him.

  He moved with purposeful strides across the ballroom, weaving between dancing couples. She and Rosalie weren’t the only ones watching him. He cut a fine figure. People stared after him. Women and men alike. He was that handsome, that tall and virile in his dark evening attire. The consummate rake, he was a rare sight in ballrooms of the ton.

  At that thought, she angled her head. Why was he here? Polite Society functions were not his forte. Aside from her family’s gatherings, he eschewed the balls and routs that occupied so many of her nights. Places such as these, events such as this, they were not for him. Sodom was for him.

  Curiosity piqued, she continued to watch him. He slipped from view for a moment and she stepped to the side, craning her neck and gaining sight of him once again as he stopped before a woman pressed against the far wall. The girl shrank into the wallpaper as though she were part of the pattern.

  He bowed before the lady. Aurelia assessed her—the pale brown hair pinned demurely atop her head, the length of her nondescript gown. The woman was no older than herself and vaguely familiar. Aurelia felt fairly certain they had shared the same wall before on at least one other occasion.

  “Oh, he’s asking Miss Bell to dance.” Rosalie clapped her hands lightly, pleasure writ all over her face. “How kind of him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Miss Bell take to the dance floor before.”

  Miss Bell. She searched her memory, finally recalling her. Yes. Miss Samantha Bell. She was the late Duke of Faircloth’s stepdaughter. Miss Bell’s half sister, Lady Mariah, was the toast of the Season. Miss Bell was her constant companion and shadow.

  Gazing across the ballroom at her, Aurelia noted the girl’s stunned expression as she gazed up at Camden. She was clearly not the one accustomed to handsome swains begging a dance. Unfair, she supposed. Miss Bell was not unattractive, but existing aside of her younger, prettier half sister? Who happened to be the daughter of a duke, whilst she was merely a gentleman’s daughter? It must not lend many opportunities for dance partners. Nor suitors, for that matter. Aurelia could relate to such a situation.

  She angled her head, watching as he led the still startled-looking Miss Bell onto the dance floor. They watched in rapt fascination—as did many others. Camden seemed unaware of the stares his action was eliciting. Either that or he was indifferent. He looked straight ahead, unaffected as he led Miss Bell to the center of the ballroom floor.

  “Isn’t that kind of him?” Rosalie nodded approvingly.

  “Yes. Indeed.” It was kind of him. Which was not a word she had ever applied to him before, and yet here he was doing something generous and wholly unexpected.

  Riveted, she continued watching as he swept Miss Bell in a graceful circle. Camden didn’t dance. Ever. Well, with her, yes, but that had only been to torment her. Dancing with Miss Bell was not driven out of his need to torment. Something had motivated him to walk across a crowded room and beg a dance from a girl who clung to the shadows. Could it simply be compassion? Had he seen her between the potted ferns and decided to take pity? He said something then that cracked Miss Bell’s timid shell and made her smile, and Aurelia suspected it was just that. He was being charitable.

  “Good for Miss Bell,” Rosalie said. “I imagine this raises her in the estimation of most gentlemen in this room.” She plucked a glass from a passing tray and took a sip. “A sad state of affairs, but no less true.”

  “There you are, wife.” Dec slid close beside Rosalie. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  A besotted grin instantly curved her lips. A grin that turned downright dazed as Dec leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She pressed fingertips to her lips but that did little to stifle her giggle.

  “Cousin.” Dec winked at her. “Would you mind if I stole my wife away for a dance?”

  “Of course not. I might even let you have her for two dances.”

  “So kind,” he murmured, lifting Rosalie’s drink from her hand and passing it to Aurelia. With a lingering kiss to his wife’s palm, he swept her onto the dance floor.

  Aurelia found a place to deposit the glass and then meandered along the edge of the room, glancing around to confirm that no one seemed particularly attentive to her movements. With a final glance around, she slipped from the ballroom. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the main corridor, smiling as she passed a pair of ladies.

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, she turned down a narrow hall. The sounds from the ballroom were distant and muffled now. She opened one door and peered within. A salon. The room did not feel very used. Her drawing might not even be detected for some time in here. She needed a room that met more traffic.

  Shutting the door, she continued down the corridor, opening several others until she came to a set of double doors that led to the library. The vast space smelled of rich wood and leather. Several sconces lit the room and a fire crackled in the hearth. The room appeared to be well lived in. A book sat open on the couch where the reader had left it. There also appeared to be a chess game still in play at a table. A plump tabby cat that might outweigh Mama’s fat cat by a good half stone lifted its head from where it rested on the sofa and let out a plaintive meow.

  With a final glance over her shoulder to make certain she was still alone, she slipped the scroll from her bodice. She moved to the chessboard, already envisioning placing it there for later discovery. Stopping before the board, her hand hovered over the center.

  “What’s this?” A deep voice sounded in her ear. An arm stretched over her shoulder, reaching for the drawing. Her heart jumped to her throat. She whirled around with a yelp just as her palm shot out and smacked Max in the face.

  “Ow!” He covered his cheek with one hand. “What was that for?”

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. You startled me!”

  He lifted both eyebrows and then lowered them, drawing them tightly over his blue-gray eyes. “What do you have there, Aurelia?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He smiled, but it was deceptive. There was no humor in the curve of those well-shaped lips. “Let’s see it.” He reached for the rolled up drawing in her hand.

  Gasping, she tucked it behind her back and shuffled away, stopping when her thighs bumped the chess table.

  His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. “I can’t believe you. You’re doing it again, you bloody fool.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Don’t be that!” His gaze devoured her, eyeing her overheated face. “Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  He shook his head. “Have you any notion what would happen if it wasn’t me standing here right now? If someone else caught you? This little hobby of yours is as reckless as your trip to Sodom. With you it’s one stupid decision after another.”

  “Oh, you arrogant, overbearing—” She swallowed back the rest of her words and inhaled a burning breath. “My actions are none of your business.”

  “I can assure you your quest for a husband would be at an end. No one would have you then.”

  “I’m sure you care so very much about that,” she scoffed.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Indeed I don’t. But I care about Will and Dec and their wives. I care about your mother. So stop being a selfish brat and end this.”

  Anger and hurt welled up in her chest. She suddenly felt tired. Tired of his insults. Tired of his interference. Tired that he made her feel guilty for doing the one thing that g
ave her fulfillment. She would not be caught, but even if she were, the consequences would be on her. Not her family. They’d weather it. The risk was on her, and it was worth it.

  She blinked stinging eyes. “I despise you.”

  He smiled then, clearly indifferent, and she despised him all the more for that. She loathed that he could be so cold and unaffected in the face of her animosity. She especially despised that despite her best arguments with herself, he could make her feel ashamed.

  “Give me the drawing.”

  Her chin went up. “No.”

  “Fine,” he bit out. Tension feathered along his square jaw and something knotted low in her belly. “Then I’ll take it from you.”

  Max felt as feral as a predator as he watched her shake her head and send the dark coil of hair bouncing over her shoulder. Angling his head, he followed the trail of it. The tip curled enticingly between her breasts. He inhaled at the view. He wanted to wrap his fist around that hair and haul her closer. Lick and kiss that saucy mouth of hers into submission.

  She arched away and forced her arm deeper behind her back. The action only caused her breasts to rise even higher within her bodice.

  “Stay away from me.” Her voice shook a little, and he smiled down at her, enjoying that he was so obviously affecting her.

  He closed in, wrapping his arms around her, bringing her flush against his chest. He fought to ignore the sensation of her pressed against his body as his hands slid down the length of her arms. Her eyes gleamed amber fire in her face, widening as his fingers reached her wrists.

  She scanned his features as though she had never seen him before. Indeed, he, too, felt as though he was seeing her anew. He could actually count the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. He noted the freckle beside her right eyebrow that was darker and larger than the rest of her freckles.

  The two of them weren’t standing in a ballroom or the drawing room of her brother’s house. No one stood nearby ready to step in and put a stop to their quarreling should it become too much. This wasn’t Sodom with countless eyes on them, watching their every move, staying his hand from doing anything he should not.

  They were alone. Anything could happen. Especially things that shouldn’t happen.

  Her stare dropped to his mouth before snapping back up to his eyes. A telltale flush stained her cheeks.

  His hands folded over hers, clenched so tightly together. Her fingers were long and slim. He tested their shape and length. An artist’s hands. He felt the parchment through the cracks in her fingers.

  “You don’t understand,” she whispered.

  “No, you don’t,” he growled. “You can ruin people’s lives.”

  Her gaze bored into him. “It’s all I have. There’s nothing else. I need this.”

  “Find another hobby,” he said, refusing to let her thaw his ire. She risked too much. On this, he wasn’t wrong. Her drawings could wreak havoc. He knew that firsthand. He pried her fingers apart and snatched hold of the drawing, holding it away from her with no care for crinkling the parchment.

  But she cared. She cried out and tried to grab it back. He backed away, moving out of range. He glanced to the hearth. She followed his gaze and her eyes widened in horror.

  “No! Don’t!” She lunged at him. He placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her at bay. She pushed against him, trying to reclaim the scroll.

  He turned and faced the fire, ignoring her hopping and surging against his back, beating him with balled-up fists.

  He had a moment’s hesitation as she choked out behind him, “Camden, please! Don’t!”

  Pushing aside the stab of doubt, he tossed the scroll into the fire, watching grimly as it went up in an angry nest of red and orange flame.

  With a strangled cry, she surged around him as though she would dive for it, heedless of burning herself. He hauled her back by the waist, and she turned in his arms, raining her fists on his chest in a violent fury.

  “Enough! Have you lost your mind?” He wrapped her in his arms, but she still struggled and writhed as though he had just tossed a living thing into the fire and not a simple drawing.

  “How could you?” Her brown eyes blazed at him and he muttered a curse at the sheen of tears there.

  The doubt he had felt earlier came roaring back now.

  “Satisfied?” she demanded, her voice flat, dull. Her gaze drifted to the fire where the parchment was naught but blackened ash. “You must have enjoyed that.”

  “It was for your own good—”

  “Spare me your altruism.” She struggled to break free and he let her go this time. She backed away, her steps hard little jarring drops on her heels. Her gaze seared him, raking him with such burning contempt. “This is about punishing me and nothing else.”

  Was it? Perhaps it was. For years that had been his sole function around her. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to be anything else with her. This was just what they were.

  She rubbed the heel of a palm against her eyes. Ah. Bloody hell. She was on the verge of tears. He’d never seen her cry before. He didn’t think Aurelia the sort of female to succumb to tears.

  “No more.” She shook her head, inching back farther and jabbing a finger at him. “Stay away from me.” She turned and fled the room as if the hounds of hell were after her. He stared after her until she was gone.

  He should feel triumphant. He had done nothing wrong. Her almost-tears should not matter. Whether he had crossed a line and hurt her feelings should not matter. And yet it did.

  Chapter 9

  Sketch pad balanced on her lap, Aurelia lifted her gaze to study the park, studying the serene scene. She had just finished sketching a nanny being dragged by a set of raucous twin boys. Aurelia had given the boys the bodies of monkeys—tails and all—but kept their features virtually the same.

  She was giggling by the time she finished and flipped the page. It wasn’t her usual material, but it amused her and it felt good to laugh. For days she had mourned the loss of the caricature Max destroyed. Picking up her sketch pad again felt like a return to herself even if she wasn’t creating anything of satirical meaning. It also served as good practice until she decided on her next subject.

  Because she wasn’t quitting. Max might have destroyed her drawing and crushed her in that moment, but she was not beaten.

  She scanned the landscape. People dotted the picturesque view. Nannies pushing prams and guiding their young charges. Couples sharing curricles. A few people cast their lines off the small bridge stretched out over the pond. It was just the kind of scene to take her mind off Max.

  She scowled. Only apparently not. There she went again, thinking of him and his cruel manner.

  Squaring her shoulders, she renewed her search for a new subject to draw, determined to push him from her thoughts. A feat that was destined for failure. Her stomach dipped and twisted when she spotted him.

  He sat in a boat in the middle of the pond with none other than the Widow Knotgrass. He leaned across the small space of the boat and brushed something off her face. Apparently the rumors were true and they were lovers—or soon to be. Max would not be in her company otherwise. He did not waste his time on proper courtships. This rankled her. Who was he to criticize Mr. Mackenzie? At least Mr. Mackenzie’s intentions were honorable.

  Max was wrong about him. Struan Mackenzie had called on her this morning and behaved only as a gentleman should. It was clear the Scotsman’s intention was to court her honorably. Max merely wanted to aggravate her. Impede her quest to find a husband out of pure contrariness. Because that’s what he did. He thwarted her attempt to dance with suitors and he burned her caricatures.

  Fury burned in her blood as she started feverishly sketching Max, giving him a pair of horns, drooling fangs, and a large salivating tongue as he sat beside the Widow Knotgrass. The widow was not to be spared either. Indeed not.
In her sketch, the angelic lady sat upon a pile of squirming debutantes. Aurelia did not stop there. She gave the widow several spiders’ legs. The wiry black limbs crept out beneath her fashionable striped muslin gown, assisting in pinning down the struggling debutantes.

  To say she possessed fond memories of the lady would be a lie. Before she became a widow, the young woman had taken her first curtsy with Aurelia. Whenever Aurelia spoke to her, she had stared at her as though she were repugnant before whisking past, her retinue fast on her heels, leaving Aurelia among the titters of onlookers.

  Despite all that, when her betrothal to old Knotgrass was announced, Aurelia had felt only pity for her. True, the man was wealthy beyond reason, but he was ancient and bound to a wheelchair. No one seemed to acknowledge the wrongness of a girl of eighteen marrying a man in his nineties.

  Ever since his death a year ago, the Widow Knotgrass had been seen about Town with all manner of handsome, unattached gentlemen. It stood to reason she would eventually turn her eye to Max.

  Aurelia finished her sketch with a few angry flourishes and then sat back—still fuming. She sat there for some moments, waiting. The anticipated euphoria never came. As good as it felt in those moments to create her image of Max and the widow, she had not totally exorcised her demons. Deciding her day at the park had been ruined, she stuffed her sketch pad into her satchel and rose to her feet, ready to return home.

  She took the most direct path, the route that edged the pond. She couldn’t, however, stop her gaze from straying to where Camden rowed the boat serenely back toward shore. She bit her lip and paused, realizing that if she kept her course she would come abreast of them as they came ashore. Unless she broke into a run. She winced, considering her options. Or she could turn around and lurk somewhere, waiting until they disembarked and left the park. Her chin shot up as she considered that undignified image of herself.

  Rubbish. This was a public park. She had every right to be here. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She certainly wasn’t afraid of them. She would not hide or skulk away.