It took no effort at all for his mind to flood with carnal thoughts. It never did with her.
Thinking of how incomparably soft she was, he imagined what her delicate, private skin would feel like to caress. His fingers ached to discover the answer, the tips prickling as he gripped the door molding. He drew in a breath to steady himself, only to catch a familiar fragrance that nearly buckled his knees. Rosehips and almond blossoms.
The sweet, tempting scent was stronger, more concentrated here. Without a doubt, this was her bedchamber.
Scanning the room at a glance, he noted a slender wardrobe with every garment tucked out of sight. The only adornments within these four walls were those of the essential—yet elegant—variety, like the ormolu clock on the mantel, the ornately carved walnut dressing screen in the corner, the small chest at the foot of the bed, and the marble-topped vanity with a brown jar resting beside a smooth-handled brush and dish of hairpins.
Biting the inner wall of his cheek, he forced himself not to imagine her sitting there, brushing her hair every night before bed. Instead he turned his attention to the far wall and focused on the gold-tasseled tiebacks for the brocade curtains. But as he studied the tall window, a disgruntled sort of amusement nearly had him laughing like a madman.
Her bedchamber overlooked Sterling’s. Not only that, but the rooms directly across the street—on the very floor and corner—were his own. This was too much!
Miss Bourne and he were even more intimate neighbors than he could have known. It was like sharing the same space, with him sleeping days and her the nights.
And now he wondered how he was ever going to be able to enter his own chamber again . . . without thinking of hers.
“Ah-ha! I’ve caught you at last,” she said as she wiggled and stretched, her voice like raw velvet, stroking a place low inside him. “Drat! Come back here, you naughty thing.”
Reed cursed under his breath. He’d just entered some sort of hell, he was sure of it. But he’d had his fill of torment for one night.
Ready to end it, he strode into the room and kneeled down on the other side of the bed. Sure enough, he found the cat, absently cleaning her fur and stealthily keeping just out of Ainsley Bourne’s reach.
“Oh, you remind me of Seymour,” she said on a strained breath, fingers wiggling to reach the cat, the space only just too narrow to fit her body. “He even had your coloring. But he only hid beneath my bed during thunderstorms. Well, or whenever Jacinda and Briar tried to put him in a dress.”
“You had a cat when you were younger?”
Her eyes rounded when she caught sight of him, their gazes locking beneath the bed. She took his crouched form in at a glance, assessing the threat within her midst.
“I’m not a lecher, no matter what you might think. I’m only trying to thwart the cat’s escape so that we can both end this night. Sooner rather than later. After all, I don’t want to get shot by your uncle.”
Though if Eggleston even knew how to load a pistol, let alone fire one, Reed would strip down and shout the child’s rhyme of “Wee Willie Winkie” in the middle of the street.
Expelling a breath through the barest opening of her mouth, she nodded but with obvious reluctance. Then she resumed her task but kept an eye on him all the same. “Seymour was our dog, actually, or at least I called him by that name. Jacinda and Briar referred to him as Mr. Fluffington.”
“Poor beast. A far from noble moniker.”
“I always thought so, too. After all, how was he to know that he was a valued part of our family without consideration to his sense of self-worth? Names are very important in that regard.”
“Hmm . . . I sense a lecture coming forthwith about how I have failed to name this cat,” he teased.
“Well, it is the least you could do.”
“Actually, calling her ‘Cat’ is the least I can do.”
“Quite true,” she said with a surprised laugh, then quickly muffled the rich throaty sound by biting her lip.
It didn’t make a difference, however. He’d heard it all the same, and that small break in her composure made his pulse accelerate again. And he wondered what it would be like if she were so at ease with him that she laughed all the time. What would it be like if her head tilted back and her eyes became heavy lidded and glistening from joy as she gazed at him . . .
Abruptly, Reed shook himself free of the wayward notion before it took hold.
The cat stretched out, rolling to her side to bat his hand. But Reed was done playing. He was ready to take her by the scruff and haul her out.
Crawling toward the bedpost, he reached under, shoring his shoulder against a bedside table. But then a scrap of apricot-colored lace brushed across his cheek.
He went deathly still as if facing a viper. One wrong move and he was done for.
Unable to look away, he stared fixedly on that lace, noting the gathers of a slender cuff and a length of whisper-thin fabric that peeked out from beneath a pillow. A sleeve, he determined. The sleeve of—he swallowed—her nightdress.
All at once, his determination to keep a tight rein on errant thoughts broke free and sped away with reckless abandon. The liquid beats of his heart descended in the thick rush, pooling low and heavy in another surge of arousal, one hundred times more potent than before.
He drew in a breath, so heady he could taste it on his tongue.
The idea of Miss Prim and Proper wearing this bit of frippery filled his mind. It would be transparent, just a veil over her body, displaying every curve, every swell, every shadow. And her hair would be down, too, draped all silky-like over her shoulders as she brushed it.
He wondered how long it would be when she took the pins out and unwound that tight coil. Long enough to cover her breasts? Would it feel like silk in his hands, or falling across his face with her straddling him, gazing down into his eyes as she sank down onto his . . .
“Caught you,” Ainsley breathed from the other side.
Reed jolted, guilty. Then he realized she was talking to the cat.
A lengthy minute elapsed before he was able to stand and follow her out and down the corridor. He had to blink several times, the vision in his mind as clear as a memory.
Viper or no, it seemed that the lace had bitten him all the same.
He walked woodenly down the two staircases toward the foyer, trailing behind as she crooned to his cat, telling the cretin that she was clever and pretty but very, very naughty.
An affectionate reprimand, the likes of which he would never hear. Not the common son of a country tavern owner.
No, she would save her tender words, her laughs, and her smiles for a nobleman from a fine family, and together they would look down their noses at the likes of him. Reed had always known this. Though why he gave it a passing thought, he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it was the nightdress venom working through his veins, slowly poisoning him.
As he descended the last few treads, his cat eyed him with an arrogant twitch of whiskers, lid half-closed in bliss as she was being nuzzled and petted while draped over Miss Bourne’s shoulder.
He frowned, disgusted to feel the slightest bit of jealousy. Over a cat.
Miss Bourne lingered near the bottom of the stairs, casting an uncertain glance toward the door and then back to him. “It is time for you to leave, Mr. Sterling. I’m sure you are as eager as I to bring this ordeal to an end. However . . . I should hate for anyone to notice you departing, especially at this hour.”
“I could leave by way of the servant’s entrance if your highness prefers.”
“I was going to suggest the garden.”
She huffed, her exasperated breath lifting the fine chestnut tendrils that curled against her brow. They must have come loose during their beneath-the-bed search. And only now, as he stood near her, did he notice the bit of fluff there as well.
“You have a feather,” he said, moving closer.
“I do?”
This time, she didn’t flinch when he lifted his
hand. Then again, he was much slower and held her watchful gaze all the while, reassuring her.
She held stock still as he sought the white downy bit amidst the fine silken locks and slipped it free without fuss. And without lingering either—which proved the more difficult of tasks.
Pinched between his fingers, he showed the feather to her as proof. She nodded, then abruptly took a step back and thrust the drowsy feline out at arm’s length, its tail swishing like the pendulum of a clock, head lolled to one side. “Here is your cat.”
Now of course a gentleman would have made the exchange without any unnecessary contact. But Reed had no intention of passing up an opportunity for one last tantalizing touch. So, as he reached for the cat, he fumbled a bit on purpose. Thankfully, the boneless creature made bobbling the exchange more convincing and Ainsley was forced to draw closer.
Slyly, his fingertips brushed her impossibly soft hand, the underside of her wrist, the quick thrumming of her pulse. Her breath caught and a new blush stained her cheeks.
Again she took a quick step back, covering that tender spot on her wrist. It seemed she was always shielding herself in some way or another.
His gaze briefly strayed to the way she pressed her lips together, hiding them, and then further down to the gathers of fine netting tucked into her bodice. How many times had he lain awake imagining her parting that silly frippery instead, revealing the milk-white skin beneath, inch by inch?
Too often. Yet even on the hottest days, she always held herself tightly together.
Except for that one moment when she’d flinched.
“You’re not afraid of me this time,” he said, circling around the question he’d had since their last encounter.
Frowning, she searched his features as if suspecting him of wearing a clever mask and she was trying to find the string that held it in place. “Mr. Sterling, I hardly know what to make of you this evening.”
“It’s the cat, isn’t it?” He expelled a dramatic sigh of understanding. “As the owner of a loathsome gaming hell, I should have preferred a rabies-infested wolf but they were in short supply in the middle of town.”
She averted her face, but not before he saw a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. “A pity for you.”
“And for you as well. Just imagine how quickly you could’ve been rid of me if I’d been bitten.”
“Well, you could take a trip to the country and wave around a hunk of raw meat to see if you have any luck.”
“There’s a thought.” He tried not to laugh, but it was damnably difficult. “How kind of you to always think of me, Miss Bourne. Even . . . when there isn’t rubbish on your doorstep.”
She slanted him a glance as she picked up the lamp and began to walk toward the shadows at the back of the house. “Plotting the demise of your business hardly signifies.”
“To my way of thinking, it all puts a betting chip on my side of the table.”
“With a philosophy like that, it leaves me to wonder if your prizefighting success is mere rumor. Perhaps you considered it a victory whenever an opponent decided to appear for the match.”
He chuckled. “There was a bit more to it, highness. Contrary to what you might believe, not just any club-fisted oaf can enter a ring and come away with the purse.”
The instant the words fell from his lips, regret settled in. Now he was thinking about how she’d cringed the other day. And so was she. He felt the air change between them. Their static charge suddenly turned stale and silence followed.
The succinct clip of her soles on the hardwood floor slowed until he could count them one by one. Fifteen before she spoke again, her voice quiet. “Considering your reputation, you must have been skilled. I have to wonder why you gave it up to teach lessons and run a gambling establishment.”
It seemed that every accomplishment he’d made and everything Sterling’s represented were the cruxes of what would always be between them. The insurmountable barriers.
“Lots of reasons.” He shrugged and kept his tone conversational, not wanting to reveal his frustration. “There were, and are, too many fools out there who believed I was the Goliath to their David and set out to prove something, only to get hurt. Pugilism isn’t about pain—either being the giver or the receiver—but about endurance. And only those with even temperaments make it as far as I had done.”
“I should think that”—she swallowed, her complexion stark—“rage would assist a man in such a situation.”
“Only weak men fly into a rage,” he said quietly, watching the subtle shift of candlelight and shadows on her delicate features.
He’d had experience reading people enough that he could see white-eyed wariness, her gaze flitting to the hand he kept curled around his cat and then up to his eyes.
Yet what had him fighting to maintain his own composure was her nearly imperceptible nod of agreement. That was the answer to the suspicion he’d never wanted confirmed.
Ainsley Bourne had witnessed a man’s rage before.
The cat stirred in his grasp, mewling for affection. Not realizing he’d gone tense and still as a headstone, he settled her against his shoulder, petting her as he continued. “That’s why weak men will always lose in the end. A patient man, on the other hand, will take time to learn his opponent if he wants to succeed.”
She stopped at the terrace door and faced him. Her gaze searched his, her brow knitted in concentration as if she expected there to be an examination on this subject. “Was there never a time that you were afraid? Or thought that you would be beaten and injured during one of your exhibitions?”
“Aye. Especially during the last few,” he answered honestly. “In my prime, I was lightning quick. Then years of bare-knuckled body blows took their toll, and I started to notice how slow my hands had become. It was only a matter of time before someone else did, too. And once an opponent learns your weakness . . . well . . . you’re done for.”
Her study of him altered with this admission, a light of understanding flickering in her gaze. “A lesson I shall remember in the days to come.”
“Still going to rid St. James’s of me, are you?”
“Never doubt it.” All at once, a smile bloomed on her face, unexpected and stunning.
His breath stalled, seizing as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. He felt lightheaded, not quite himself. She’d never looked at him this way before—her face glowing and her eyes glinting with impish delight.
It was like stepping directly into the fantasy he’d had upstairs a moment ago.
“Besides,” she continued when he was unable to form words, “I hardly have much choice in the matter. It is either your business or mine. After all, we cannot continue to live on opposite sides of the street. Our mutual loathing would never permit it.”
She sounded so resolute that he couldn’t argue with her.
“Then I welcome you to do your worst,” he said when she opened the door. Stepping out into the cool night breeze helped him come back to his senses. “But you’re going to have to do a far sight better than handbills.”
“Oh, I shall,” she countered with a smug arch of her delicately winged brows.
The threshold between them was now a line scratched in the dirt.
“Best make quick work of it then, if you still expect to have me gone by month’s end like you’d promised. After all, in this game of ours, it’s now my turn and I won’t play fair.”
“And I will find your weakness, Mr. Sterling.”
Dimly, as she closed the door, he worried that she wouldn’t have far to look.
Chapter 7
“She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
I won’t play fair.
Those four words had been a plague upon Ainsley for the days that followed.
Anticipating heaps upon heaps of handbills, she’d checked the doorstep too many times to count but found nothing. Not even the
usual amount of rubbish.
Suspicious, she’d walked the footpath in front of the agency looking over every inch of the façade. Still, she’d found nothing amiss and spent far too much time glaring at Sterling’s. On more than one occasion, she’d caught the owner standing in his doorway with his shoulder propped against the frame, facing her direction. Then, casual as you please, he would incline his head and disappear back into his den.
Just what was he plotting?
Ainsley didn’t know, but his lack of retaliation was wearing on her nerves.
Strange as it seemed, part of her wanted him to do something, if only to keep her mind from venturing back to their last encounter. To those imprudently pleasant and intimate moments alone with him.
“That is a dreadful habit, my dear,” the Duchess of Holliford said with fond reproof from across the low table in her lavender parlor.
Realizing she’d been gnawing the corner of her thumbnail, Ainsley sat up straighter and lowered her hand. “Terrible, I know. Forgive me.”
The duchess nodded, her cheeks creasing like frail vellum when she smiled. A woman in her later years—though she would never divulge her true age—she wore her dove-gray hair in a flawless twist at her crown, the jewels dangling from her ears matching the teal green of her wizened eyes. And, albeit small in stature, she was large in influence on matters of decorum and respectability in society.
“It’s perfectly understandable to be distracted with the agency floundering the way it is,” the duchess said, not unkindly, her voice warm with affection.
Ainsley felt a stab of guilt that Reed Sterling was occupying her thoughts more than the family business.
Keeping this a secret, she responded with her own nod of disappointment. “We have not had a successful match since my half brother married Miss Prescott last Christmas. The worst part is that the agency cannot even take credit because it was nearly all Mr. Cartwright’s own doing.”
The Rogue to Ruin Page 8
