It stuck in her throat to ask anything of him, but this wasn’t the kind of thing she could just take upon herself without first consulting him. There would be workmen and expenses. Mama would likely be in and out, voicing her considerable opinions.
“Of course. It’s your home now,” he replied quickly. “Do as you see fit. Whatever you want.” Almost too quickly. She narrowed her gaze on him. Was that relief in his voice?
He averted his eyes, and it dawned on her that he was glad she had asked this of him. A task to occupy herself and forget how less than satisfactory this marriage was for both of them.
A footman arrived holding a tray of correspondence. Max quickly went through them, plucking out one missive and then offering her the tray to browse through the remainder.
“What are these?” she asked.
“Invitations. I have no desire to attend any of them, but by all means, feel free to do so.”
Without him.
He really didn’t care if she went about Town without him. Heat slowly crept up her neck. She could just imagine the whispers and titters of those girls who had been so hateful toward her if her first appearance in Society as Lady Camden was without Max. The speculation would be vicious and as fast-moving as wildfire.
She swallowed against the thickness of her throat. They truly were going to lead separate lives. She attempted to look on the bright side. She would go where she wanted. She should have reveled in this freedom. Countless other wives would envy her situation.
So why did she feel so bleak? So alone?
She slid the tray closer and began flipping through the mail as a hollow sensation spread throughout her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured, focusing her tear-blurred eyes on the neatly penned script, keeping her head carefully bowed so he would not see she was affected. “I believe I will.”
The pattern was established.
A routine of actions and behavior that flowed in a comfortable rhythm. Inane chatter over breakfast, and then Max would depart, leaving Aurelia to her own devices.
He busied himself throughout the day—in his office, meeting with his man of affairs or investors, riding, walking, visiting his club. Essentially anything and everything that took him out of Aurelia’s sphere.
He rarely dined at home. His club was good enough for a tasty meal. Mornings, however, were the worst. He couldn’t run away entirely. Pride demanded he take his breakfast as he usually did. He insisted on sleeping in the comforting familiarity of his own bed, too.
Fleeing his home completely, eschewing his favored breakfast at his very own table, smacked of fear. Or cruel indifference to his wife. He could not have done any of those either.
The mornings were a torment. Seeing her, knowing she was his and yet not . . . that he could never think of her as belonging to him.
She watched him eat as she nibbled on her porridge and browsed his discarded invitations for any that might strike her interest.
She asked little of him aside from her request to redecorate. She didn’t know what he did with himself during the day or where he took himself to at night. She never once asked or seemed to care, and he never volunteered the information. To do so would establish one’s claim on the other, and they were quite careful never to cross that invisible line.
It was almost annoying. He’d been with other females who staked more of a claim on him—or attempted to, at any rate. Aurelia did not bother even making the attempt.
He sliced a kipper in half and considered her beneath his lashes. She paused over one invitation, biting her plump bottom lip. The action had him holding back a groan. Even without trying, she managed to entice him.
Max made quick work of finishing his breakfast. Wiping his mouth, he rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment.”
She looked up at him with those wide eyes of hers, watching him but said nothing as he turned away and strode from the room. He did not return again until the house was shrouded in shadowed silence. Even when he approached the door to her adjoining chamber later that night and pressed his ear to the heavy solidness, he heard nothing.
Chapter 20
Aurelia sighed at her reflection in the mirror. Her slippers tapped anxiously beneath her skirts.
“What’s this? A sigh? The day has not begun. What can be so wrong with it already?”
She met Cecily’s reflection in the mirror and forced a smile.
Cecily tsked. “Oh, that’s scarcely heartfelt.”
“What can I say?” Aurelia plucked at a jeweled comb. “I’m restless . . . Very well, I’m bored.”
“A matter that can be rectified if you would only step from these doors and return to the world. Never did I think I would see the day when you cowered—”
“I’m not cowering!” Her gaze snapped fire.
“No? The invitations pour in and yet here you remain day after day.”
“I haven’t felt the inclination—”
“And why not?”
At this, Aurelia simply stared at herself in the mirror. How could she explain? She did not relish facing the world. Family, friends. The barbed-tongue vipers of the ton. She did not want to confront them without her husband at her side.
“Never thought I’d see you afraid—”
“I’m not afraid,” she snapped, glaring at Cecily. “I—I . . . it’s pride! I have my pride, Cecily.”
Cecily squeezed her shoulders and leaned her face close to Aurelia’s. “Your pride should not keep you a prisoner in this house. It’s your pride that should demand you accept one of those invitations and—”
“Very well.” Her chin went up. “I will venture out.”
Cecily grinned brightly. “There you are. I recognize you now.”
Aurelia felt somewhat better as she finished dressing for the day. Indeed, when she sat down at the dining table, she was almost eager to begin perusing the fresh crop of invitations. She was ready for an end to the monotony. A holiday of sorts from the days of conducting herself politely with Max. The two of them strangers in his great town house.
Perhaps venturing out would help her forget how very much she missed him. She longed for their squabbling. The sniping banter. It wasn’t healthy, she supposed. She actually contemplated picking a fight with him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wasn’t a child, fighting for his attention anymore. She was his wife, and if that wasn’t enough to win his notice, then she wouldn’t invent a petty argument.
No, she would live. She would not pick a quarrel. She smiled at him as he seated himself before his plate and returned her attention to the invitations, trying to decide which event would harken the new Lady Camden into Society.
As she was flipping through the invitations, her gaze landed on a familiar name. She must have made a small sound as she came upon the elegant cream-colored envelope.
“What is it?” Max looked up.
She looked up. “Struan Mackenzie is hosting a soiree.” Possibly interested, she set the envelope to the side. “It’s in a fortnight—”
“You cannot go.”
Her gaze shot up to his face. “Pardon me?”
“You will not go. Obviously.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because . . .” She let the word hover out there, arching an eyebrow. “Because you simply don’t wish me to go?”
“Is that not reason enough?”
“I’m sorry, but no. It’s not. We agreed on separate lives. Is that not what we’ve been doing since I moved in here?”
“Yes, but in this, I cannot budge.” He set his fork down on his plate with a clatter. “Pick another invitation. Attend another party,” he commanded with all the authority of a father addressing a defiant child.
She rose, tossing her napkin down on the table. Heat crawled over her face, reaching the tips of her ears. “Oh, I am going.”
It suddenly occurred to her that they were quarreling again. Had she actually missed this? She must be a lunatic to
have missed this.
His expression darkened, his eyes going from that gray-blue to deep cobalt. It reminded her of the way he had looked before he kissed her that first time. He’d been so angry at her then, too. A shiver rolled down her spine that she quickly told herself was not anticipation.
He arched one dark brow at her in warning. “I’m your husband and in this matter I am telling you no.”
“You don’t get to play husband with me.” She jabbed a finger in the air toward him. “This was a mistake, remember? Separate lives, remember? You gave me my freedom and that means I can chose which parties I wish to attend.”
Turning, satisfied she had the last word, she strode from the room, her half-eaten breakfast forgotten. Her hands opened and closed at her sides. Oh, the gall! She was fuming. He could not ignore her when he wished and then impose his will on her when the mood struck him. It wasn’t to be borne.
She fled to her bedchamber, determined to venture out for a walk or ride in the park. Perhaps she would call on Rosalie. She only knew that she needed to get out of this house. She immediately started twisting left and right, trying to reach the back of her dress so she might undress and change.
Cecily looked up from where she was putting away garments in her armoire. Her friend took one look at her face and tsked. “What’s amiss?”
“That wretch!” She managed to get one button free. Grunting, she continued on to the next.
Cecily approached, hands stretched out to offer assistance. “Allow me.”
She continued to writhe, furious and determined to undress herself, for some reason. “He thinks he can bend me to his will . . .”
“Uh-hm.” Cecily nodded sympathetically and then froze, her gaze widening as it settled on something beyond her shoulder.
With a sinking sensation, Aurelia turned, her hand pressing to her roiling stomach.
He had followed her, still wearing that dark expression, his lips compressed into an uncompromising line. No doubt he’d just heard her vent her spleen to Cecily.
“You will not go,” he repeated, indifferent to the fact that they had an audience.
Cecily whispered beside her, “Aurelia?”
“Leave us, please, Cecily.”
There was a long moment of silence before Cecily strode past her, closing the chamber door behind her.
It wasn’t until she was gone that Aurelia considered that closed door. This was the first time they were alone in a room—in a bedchamber, no less—since they were married. Her heart pounded, her pulse a loud beat in her ears, even as she reminded herself that theirs was not a marriage of physical intimacy. It didn’t matter what had transpired between them in the past. They had agreed on that condition.
Besides. She was so angry . . . desire should be the last thing on her mind when it came to him. “You can’t command me—”
“In this, I can. Mackenzie has designs on you—”
“Had,” she inserted. “Not ‘has.’ That is in the past. His interest was in marriage. I’m married now. Sham that it is.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s real enough. Real enough that I shall not be made a fool, Aurelia.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I won’t suffer being made a cuckold.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. Was he implying that he thought she would betray her vows? He was not one to cast stones. He who spent every night away from this house. From her. God only knew what time he returned home to his own bed every night. “How many women have you dallied with since we took vows?”
“We are not discussing me.”
His jaw clenched. His silence was all the answer she needed. An answer that shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.
“No. We never discuss you. Well, rest assured, I’m nothing like you. I won’t betray my vows . . . but even if I did, why would you care? We’re both free, as I recall. That was our agreement.”
“I will not be made a laughingstock.”
She laughed then. She could not help it . . . even as his expression burned red. “Oh. You disappoint me, Camden. You’re so very typical. For days you care naught for me . . . but now that you imagine some other man has an interest in me you find it necessary to suddenly take notice of me again.”
He closed the distance between them until he was looking down at her, his chest practically touching her own. “Make no mistake, Aurelia, I have never not noticed you.”
She started to step back, but stopped herself. Cecily’s accusation rang in her ears. She was not a coward. She would stand her ground and not let him bully her. No matter how her skin shivered and her instincts warned her to flee.
“I will go to Mr. Mackenzie’s dinner party . . .” It dawned on her that she didn’t care one way or another about Struan Mackenzie’s party. This had become about something much bigger. A fight she could not back down from now. “You may always attend with me, of course. Your name was on the invitation.”
“The last thing I want to do is attend Mackenzie’s party and smile at the bastard as he flirts with my wife.”
A flush spread through her that wasn’t entirely rooted in displeasure. He behaved almost jealously. She shook her head once, dismissing that notion. There was little logic in that. He had not touched her since their wedding day—and then only a chaste press of his lips to hers. That wasn’t the behavior of a man who wanted her for himself.
She folded her hands in front of her. “Then we are at an impasse, I fear.”
His hands opened and closed at his sides as though he were restraining himself. She watched in bemusement. She knew he would never harm her. It wasn’t in him to be cruel or violent.
He made a low growl of frustration and swung away from her, marching toward the door, stopping and turning back for her, and then stopping again, his hands still working at his sides as though he were tempted to grab something—her—and shake it.
She watched him at war with himself. He couldn’t control her and it was gnawing at him. She smiled, feeling inordinately pleased with standing her ground as he unraveled. All because he could not get his way. It was gratifying.
And then he caught her expression.
He stilled, looking suddenly dangerous. And that made her nervous. She knew that expression . . . knew what came after it.
Her smug smile slipped, uncertain whether she should run. She held out a hand as if that could ward him off . . . even as a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. What are you running away from? You want him. You’ve always wanted him . . .
Three strides and he caught her up in his arms. His mouth smothered her cry, hard and punishing, but so delicious. She had longed for this. Every night as she lay in her bed, listening for his tread, she had yearned for this. She couldn’t lie to herself anymore. Not with his mouth fused to hers. Not with his solid length molded to her.
His hands held her face and then traveled, touching her everywhere. Her hands had minds of their own as well, brushing his cheeks, his shoulders, dragging down the front of his jacket, and then dipping inside, desperate to feel him better.
He did not break his kiss even as he shrugged out of his jacket with anxious, jerky moves. Then his arms went around her, sweeping her against him and lifting her off her feet, carrying her to the bed as if she weighed a feather.
They didn’t say anything. They were just mouths and tongues and hands. On the bed, he flipped her over. Face pressed to the counterpane, her breath escaped in noisy pants as he ran a hand slowly down her spine, squeezing her bottom through the folds of her gown. She groaned, arching shamelessly into his touch.
He seized her hem and tossed her skirts up around her waist. Cooler air caressed her stocking-clad legs and seeped inside her drawers. He circled her ankles in strong fingers and guided her legs apart. Breathing heavily, she looked over her shoulder, her breasts heaving against her bodice, the fabric chafing and abrading against her over-sensitized flesh.
Max looked wild and rakish, his brown hair falling over h
is brow, his shirt bare at the throat, a hungry gleam in his eyes as he surveyed her like a feast to be devoured. His hands roamed over her hips and thighs, and then glided between those thighs. He touched her the way he knew would get a response, rubbing against the damp crotch of her drawers, finding that spot that drove her out of her skin. The friction was unbearable and she pushed back against him.
Suddenly his hands left her. She whimpered, bereft and aching at the loss. He unbuttoned her gown, shrugging it up her torso and over her head with quick efficiency. Her undergarments followed.
Then he was rolling her over again, his big hands on her breasts. She cried out, surging into his palms. His gaze scorched her, assessing every exposed inch of her as his thumb rolled her nipples. If his hands weren’t driving her out of her mind, she would have felt self-conscious.
And then there was his mouth again. That splendid, brilliant mouth of his could kiss a nun into submission. When his lips covered hers there was nothing gentle or easy about it. It was fire and need . . . as hot and heavy as lava pumping through her veins.
His hands moved over her quickly, roughly, callused palms rasping her sensitive flesh, and she reveled in it. In the way his cobalt-dark eyes tracked over her hungrily as he stripped off the rest of his garments until they were both naked. His hands and mouth followed the path of his eyes, burning caresses, stroking and tasting with his lips, tongue, and teeth until she was arching and moaning, her fingers spearing through his hair and hanging on like he was her lifeline.
His hand delved between them to cover her mound. He pressed the heel of his palm into her as he inserted one finger deep inside. She arched, her hands fisting into the bedding, hanging on tightly as if that was the only thing to keep her from launching off the bed.
He uttered nothing, watching her darkly as he ravaged her, hitting some unknown spot tucked away inside her and sending her flying apart with the stroke of his fingers.
She was still floating back down, her pounding heart slowing, hardly conscious of reality when she felt him at her entrance. The thick head of him entered her a fraction and then stopped.
All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue (The Debutante Files Book 2) Page 18
