All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue

  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.

  Chapter 12

  The moment his lips crashed over hers, she felt as though she was swept up into a dream. None of it was real. Not the firm pressure of lips that felt surprisingly soft against her own. Not the slant of his mouth or the placement of his thumb on her chin, urging her jaw to loosen.

  And if it wasn’t real, then she could indulge herself in the delicious fantasy. Embracing that delusion, she parted her mouth for him on a sigh of surrender. His tongue slid inside and she moaned at the taste of him.

  He shoved her deeper into the wall and it might have been uncomfortable if not for the cushion of ivy at her back and the delicious press of his body sinking against hers.

  His hands gripped her shoulders, powerful fingers digging into her skin through her gown. She relished the sensation. The feel of him everywhere, the man, the body she had fantasized over since her gaze feasted on him at Sodom—and this with layers of clothes between them. She couldn’t fathom what it might feel like skin-to-skin. The very possibility made her light-headed.

  His mouth scorched hers, his tongue colliding with hers, licking and stroking until a hungry fire burned in her belly. She whimpered as he tore his mouth off hers. His gray eyes glittered brightly down at her.

  His hands eased where they gripped her shoulders. “Did I—” His voice sounded dark and strained. “—hurt you?”

  “Don’t stop,” she growled, pulling him back with one hand around his neck, letting that suffice for her response.

  The kiss burned hotter, feverish and hard. Teeth clanged, but she didn’t care. She had waited too long for this. He feasted on her lips, slanting his mouth one way and then the next. She caught on fast, mimicking his movements and quickly forgetting all about the kiss she had suffered long ago at the mercy of Archibald Lewis.

  Lust sizzled through her veins. It wasn’t enough. Her palm glided across his chest, sliding inside the open V of his shirt so that she could touch and feel his warm, firm skin. So much softer than she imagined he would feel. And yet hard. Muscle, sinew, and bone beneath taut skin.

  Still not enough.

  He returned the favor, his palm finding her breast. Stabbing pleasure shot straight to her core from the contact and she moaned anew. He drank in the sound, squeezing her breast, his fingers unerringly finding her nipple through the fabric of her bodice and pinching down. A needle of pleasure so sharp it bordered pain grayed the edges of her vision.

  She cried out into his kiss, but thankfully his mouth swallowed that sound, too. Ripples of pleasure eddied over her. Her legs shook. If not for the pressure of him at her front and the wall at her back, she would have slid to the ground in a quivering mass. The tension coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

  His fingers gentled, rolling her nipple softly, teasing until she was gasping again, shaking in his arms, desperate and throbbing. She surged against his hand, wanting more, dying for a firmer touch again, for the release to the building pressure.

  He positioned his hardness where she most ached and ground down against her, one hand cupping her bottom to lift her higher for him. Her eyes flew wide. He felt huge. Even through layers of clothing, she felt the enormous ridge of his manhood. Tortured little sounds escaped her mouth and nose as he rubbed himself against her, building and stoking that pressure until she felt ready to explode.

  And he never stopped kissing her. His mouth and tongue continued tasting her, fierce and consuming, ravaging her lips.

  Her fingers smarted where she clutched his shoulders, pulling and tugging him closer. It was madness, but she didn’t want it to stop. He could take her right against the wall of overgrown ivy and nary a protest would pass her lips.

  She lifted her mouth from his. “Please,” she begged, needing an end to the ache.

  She’d brought herself to release before. She knew she was close. She knew it would not take much more from him. He looked down at her with cobalt-dark eyes . . . a stranger, as new to her as this experience was. He watched her intently, his jaw locked and hard, his eyes penetrating and dark as he thrust his manhood once more against her and then pinched down sharply on her nipple.

  She shattered in his arms, her body jerking against his. He claimed her mouth again, swallowing her cry. Her hands drifted from his shoulders, her arms sliding around him so she didn’t melt into a puddle at his feet.

  “That . . .” she gasped, her chest heaving as though she had just run a great distance.

  That had been nothing like the pleasure she gave herself in the darkness of her bedchamber.

  And she had not even removed her garments. Her mind reeled, thinking about what it might be like to truly be with him. The two of them with all the time in the world and not a stitch of clothing between them.

  She dropped her head back against the wall, ignoring a pointy twig of ivy poking her in the temple. Max stared at her, his expression unreadable but no less penetrating, no less thorough. He stared at her long and hard, as though seeing her for the first time.

  She moistened her lips, trying to think of something to say. What did one say after sharing such intimacy? His breathing was nearly as labored as her own. His gaze stark and searching.

  The door suddenly opened beside them, and Max flattened against her, pressing them both back to the wall again. Hopefully the ivy obscured them. Aurelia watched over Max’s shoulder as a maid left the house and departed down the path, humming softly under her breath.

  They held still for a moment, Max’s body aligned with hers, his heart beating against her rib cage in rhythm with her own.

  “She’s gone,” she whispered, her fingers lightly fluttering against his shoulder.

  He glanced behind him and then stepped back several healthy steps. Fortunately, she didn’t slide to the ground. She smoothed a shaking hand over her dress and stepped away from the house.

  She studied him then, waiting for him to say something, anything. Certainly, they needed to discuss what just happened. Acknowledge it in some way?

  He held her gaze, his stare unflinching. Her heart beat faster. The undeniable wish stirred inside her that he would declare himself in some manner. That after their kiss, he would not be able to not kiss her again. That it had been special for him, too. Perhaps . . . that she was.

  It was an absurd and fanciful notion, but he had said he was tired of the quarreling. Did he mean that? Could they move on from the bickering and be friends again? Could they have this now? The more she had always hoped for. Had she found it with Max, of all people?

  He edged back a step, putting more distance
between them. She frowned, beginning to realize he wasn’t going to say any of those things. Indeed not. He would not say anything at all. He was leaving.

  With one final look at her, he spun on his heel and quickly disappeared down the path without a word to her or a backward glance.

  She stared after him for some moments, her lips still burning, her body still humming in the aftermath of the shattering release he had given her. He was running away from her.

  Feeling slightly dazed, she brought her hand to her mouth, lightly fingering the kiss-bruised flesh. A slow smile took hold of her lips. A kiss like that . . . it wasn’t ordinary. She didn’t need vast experience to know there were sparks between them. Chemistry that couldn’t be found just anywhere or with just anyone.

  He’d be back.

  He didn’t come back.

  A week. A blasted week had passed with no sight of Max. Perhaps that kiss hadn’t been so shattering for him, after all.

  She busied herself, working on a new sketch and even taking calls from Mr. Mackenzie and Lord Buckston. Even if her heart wasn’t invested, she accepted their courtship. Contrary to what Max said, they were suitable and her pickings were slim. Time was slipping through her fingers like water escaping a sieve. Her mother had begun packing for Thurso, and Aurelia knew that unless she wanted to go with her, she needed to concentrate more on finding a husband and less on Max.

  She sighed. Easier said than done. She had possessed only vague notions of what a proper kiss should be. She’d witnessed Rosalie’s and Violet’s starry-eyed expressions and secret smiles when they were with their husbands. She knew there had to be something behind it all. Some thrill. She had been certain a kiss should not taste of fish and sour milk, as had the kiss she endured from Archibald Lewis, but until Max she had no notion of what a proper kiss could be. How it could make her forget everything else in the world. Everything except the sensation of lips and skin and sweetly warm breath.

  That kiss had changed everything—ignited a deep craving in her.

  She set her sketch pad aside and rose from the chaise beside her balcony. “He’s avoiding me,” she declared, pacing a hard line between her bed and dressing table.