The Rogue to Ruin

by Vivienne Lorret

For the first few months of his marriage, Ainsley had always kept the girl in her prayers, until finally deciding to put Nigel and everything associated with him out of her mind for good.

  Standing mere paces away, he tilted his head in scrutiny as if searching for a shred of jealousy to satisfy his ego. Then his smile turned into a self-congratulatory smirk, clearly mistaking pity for envy.

  “Did it bother you to know that you were so easily replaced?” He did not wait for her answer but continued on, forever in the mood to hear the sound of his own voice. “Grace was so young and pretty, so adoring and obedient—all the things a man wants. All the things a man deserves.”

  Ainsley swallowed down the bile rising to the back of her throat. “Was?”

  “Died in childbirth, both her and the girl, nigh on a year now.”

  “My sympathies,” she rasped, sorry for the end of such a short life, and sad for whatever pain the girl had suffered.

  He nodded, adopting a solemn frown. Yet he was quick to recover, mouth curling upward as he dusted his hands together.

  “At least I’m out of that wearying obligation of mourning. Now that I’m a man of the world once more, I thought I’d move to London and see what all the fuss was about.” His voice gained a sharper edge. He slowed his speech as well, enunciating every word, gradually growing louder as if he were standing on a pulpit. “After all, you seem to like it so much that you never thought to return to Hampshire. The tenants living on Viscount Eggleston’s estate tell me that your uncle has no intention of returning.”

  “You . . . you went back to the house?”

  “Of course. I felt it was only right to renew my addresses to you once I was free to do so. As I recall, you were quite keen to be Mrs. Mitchum once upon a time.” His gaze skimmed over her dress with sickening familiarity. “Quite keen, indeed.”

  Ainsley was going to be ill. Had he truly convinced himself of entirely different events between them?

  She took a step back only to encounter the doorframe of her office. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  He snickered as if she’d made a jest. “I don’t see a ring upon your finger, Ains. And there haven’t been any banns read for you either. Not that I’ve heard . . . well, not since they read my name along with yours. I still have the page with our announcement. The way I see it, we’re still betrothed in the eyes of the church.”

  But she was sure that Uncle Ernest had taken care of all that before they’d left for London.

  “I—I have an understanding with someone. A man. He—he’ll be here any moment,” she stammered in a rush of self-preservation.

  Nigel sobered—altered—with alarming speed. It was clearly the wrong thing to say.

  His mouth flattened to a straight line as he took a hard step toward her. “And did you know this man in Hampshire? Is he the reason you left me without a word and looking like a fool?”

  “No, I met him when I came to London.” She hardly knew what she was saying. Acute panic rushed through her in shrill, icy waves that buzzed in her ears. Her limbs froze in place, heavy and useless like they’d been once before.

  She thought she’d left this cowardly version of herself in Hampshire. Where was her stronger self now?

  “Well? Who is he?”

  Only one name rushed to the forefront of her mind. Only one name held the power and strength she was lacking in this moment but wished she possessed.

  “Reed Sterling.”

  Nigel eyed her skeptically. “Reed Sterling, the prizefighter?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she murmured with a tight nod. “Reed Sterling, indeed. But, of course, he’s far more than a mere prizefighter to me.”

  She hoped she sounded convincing. Even more than that, she hoped her neighbor would never know that she’d used his name to save herself.

  Ainsley should have known better.

  In the very next instant, as if she’d spoken his name into a genie’s lamp, Reed Sterling slowly appeared. It wasn’t possible, but there he was, ascending the staircase, step by step, at the end of the hall. She blinked, dumfounded, breathless, and wondering if he was an apparition conjured by desperation.

  Yet the instant his gaze fixed on her, she knew he was real. She felt it in the quick thrumming of her pulse and in the way her skin grew taut, shoring up her frame.

  “Did I hear mention of my name, highness?” He flashed a knowing grin.

  Dear heavens, he’d heard her. At once, her cheeks grew hot. She’d breeched a level of acquaintanceship, hitherto unbreeched, by using his given name and intimating that they were . . . well . . . drat.

  What was she going to do now?

  She swallowed, wondering if it was actually possible to die of embarrassment. “You did, indeed.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nigel glance over his shoulder, not once but twice. He straightened, shoulders back, chin jutting as if to make himself appear taller and broader. But no amount of posturing could ever make him as virile as Reed Sterling.

  She was sure very few men were.

  Her neighbor’s lips cocked in a familiar smirk as he approached. But his gaze was sharp, too, alert in a way that left no doubt he was assessing every nuance of the situation—Nigel’s close proximity, her fisted hands and locked arms.

  Reed stopped at her side, close enough for her to feel the heat rise from his body. Strange as it was, his presence comforted her.

  “Then it’s rather serendipitous that I should arrive at precisely this instant to make the acquaintance of . . .”

  “Mr. Mitchum,” she supplied.

  The gentlemen exchanged cursory nods, each sizing up the other.

  Again, Nigel puffed out his chest. “You know, I once employed a sportsman who studied pugilism under the venerable Gentleman Jackson.”

  Reed said nothing to this, but glanced at Ainsley. In the strained silence that followed, she knew she was expected to say more. But the last thing she wanted was for Nigel to know that the imposing figure beside her wasn’t her intended.

  “Mr. Mitchum hails from Hampshire and dropped by to pay a call on an old . . . acquaintance.” Nerves constricted her throat as she kept her tone achingly, ingratiatingly polite. “But with all of London beckoning I should hate to delay his explorations.”

  “‘Old acquaintance,’” Nigel chided with a laugh, his mouth twisting into his usual self-aggrandizing grin. “Ains, you are being modest for the sake of the stranger in our midst. There is no reason to keep the fact of our betrothal a secret.”

  She could never depend on Nigel to leave when he was asked. “Former betrothal.”

  He turned to Reed, and like a trained actor on the stage, Nigel applied his friendly everyman eyeroll and lifted his shoulders in an offhand shrug. “She always has the tendency to be overly dramatic. So full of herself, making up stories . . . and stringing other men along. Though it is good that I am here to make you aware of the situation before your small understanding with my Ains took an unfortunate turn.”

  She straightened, her bones no longer filled with dread but with anger. How dare he make her seem like an empty-headed nitwit! And did he actually believe that he could force her into an agreement simply because there was an audience present?

  Reed turned the full force of his attention on her and she feared he would mock her. Yet when she looked into those indigo eyes, she was surprised to find understanding.

  She should have known. He’d always had this innate ability to read her, whether she liked it or not.

  And now, he lifted his brows in an unspoken question as though he was willing to assist her, but only if she agreed.

  Forgetting for the moment that everything with Reed Sterling came at a price, she felt her head wobble in something of a nod, giving him permission.

  As if that was all he needed, Reed turned to Nigel and began with a swift verbal uppercut. “If Miss Bourne was interested in your attentions, wouldn’t she have remained in Hampshire?”

  Nigel’s gaze flashed
with instant fury. “I don’t think you have any—”

  “And as for our small understanding, as you put it, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. It’s rather large,” Reed cut in with another jab. “In fact, I asked her to marry me.”

  All the air rushed out of her lungs at once. She felt like a flattened bellows. Dimly, she wondered if it was this difficult for his boxing opponents to keep up with him in the ring.

  And yet, she had asked for his assistance . . .

  Still, she barely managed to croak out a response. “And I said yes.”

  “Without any hesitation whatsoever.” Reed glanced down at her and, this time, with a roguish grin tucked into one corner of his mouth. Then his hand—his slow hand, as he’d put it the other night—was terribly quick to settle into the small of her back and draw her against his side in a demonstration of possession.

  She should’ve been thoroughly disgusted by such a primitive display. After all, how dare he insinuate that he had laid claim to her!

  Yet instead of revulsion or ire, a disconcerting thrill shot through her. Every pulse inside her body jolted at once, thrumming to life in a rush of tingles. More confusing was the peculiar sense of comfort she gained from this highly improper near embrace. She even settled her hand lightly over his lapel, trying—but failing miserably—not to notice how solid he felt. It was like being pressed against a wall of warm contoured granite.

  “Of course, you asked my uncle’s permission first,” she added without looking at Nigel, but kept her gaze locked securely on Reed’s. “Remember, dearest?”

  She nearly cringed at the awkwardness of the endearment.

  “How could I forget?” he asked, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Eggleston is drawing up the contracts today. As a matter of fact, I dropped by to talk to you about where we’ll live. I imagine you’ll want a fine house like this one with lots of servants to butter your crumpets.”

  She gave his chest another pat, a little harder this time. He was enjoying this a bit too much. Therefore she decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. “You know very well that I could be content in a tiny cottage without any servants. As long as we have each other, that is all that matters.”

  His breath stalled for an instant, and he went completely still. Well, all except for the hard thumps rising beneath her hand. Then he blinked, and something altered in his expression but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “We should talk about this more in private,” he murmured. Then he slanted a glance to Nigel in a way that made it patently clear that he was unwelcome. “Though of course, I don’t mean to rush you out the door, Mr. . . . Winkle, was it?”

  “Mitchum,” Nigel corrected through clenched teeth, reddish-purple color rising above his cravat. He speared Ainsley with a dark look that sent her stomach roiling in panic. “I’ll come back to finish our discussion at a more convenient time.”

  Reed shook his head, covering the hand that she’d thoughtlessly curled over the lapel of his coat. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve said all you needed to say this time around. But if there’s anything else, you can tell me on our way to the door. Or, better yet, come over to Sterling’s across the street. Then you and I can have a . . . chat.”

  Before Reed stepped apart from her, his fingers brushed lightly over hers. And though she would never admit it aloud—not even in the privacy of her own rooms—she had the disturbing desire to take hold of his hand and keep him at her side.

  Then he remedied that desire in short order when he turned his head and winked at her. “Try not to miss me too much while I’m away, highness.”

  * * *

  Reed stared at the figure storming off down the pavement, filled with a deep dislike for Mr. Mitchum. He’d met too many of his kind before, all charm and arrogance on the outside with a twisted core of entitlement and wrath on the inside.

  After his childhood experiences with Lord Bray, Reed had learned to spot the signs long ago—the self-satisfied grin, the need to condescend to others, the unmistakable flash of fury when challenged, and the constant flow of horse shite spewing from his lips.

  Had Mitchum actually tried to proclaim that the stern, reserved Ainsley Bourne tended to be dramatic? That was as ridiculous as saying Finch tended to wear frilly dresses and prance around town in a bonnet.

  “Ignorant prig,” Reed muttered and closed the door. He slid the bolt for good measure.

  If he’d learned anything about Mitchum’s type, he knew he’d come back around, needing to settle the score. Though men like him usually didn’t want a fair fight. No, they liked to pick on those who were smaller and defenseless.

  At the thought, tension knotted the muscles in Reed’s neck and shoulders as he looked up the marble stairs toward Ainsley’s office.

  He didn’t like that she’d been alone this morning, unguarded. Where were her servants? Her butler standing sentinel at the door?

  Looking around at the rich surroundings, he saw no one move from room to room with a feather duster. And the sounds of footsteps—of people going about their chores—were absent, too. Only the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries let him know that someone was in the kitchen, and likely it was that cantankerous cook, Mrs. Darden.

  But where were the others?

  Reed frowned. Recalling the instant he’d seen the unmistakable pallor of fear in Ainsley’s face, he’d wanted to murder Mitchum on the spot. And since Reed prided himself on never losing his temper, that was an unexpected awareness.

  That impulse had grown stronger when she’d sought his reassurance, fixing her gaze on his as if her life depended on it. Him of all people. The very enemy she was attempting to run out of business.

  That frailty had been his undoing. He’d been possessed by a reckless desire to hold her, to comfort her, and to make her feel strong again. And from their innumerable encounters, he’d learned that the surest way of catching a glimpse of Ainsley’s inner warrior was through their usual banter.

  So he’d overstepped the boundaries of their mutual loathing—as she liked to call it—and declared that they were getting married.

  He was surprised the words had come out so easily. After all, claiming an intimate association with wholesome Miss Matchmaker could hardly bode well for his business.

  In all honestly, he’d expected her to put up a fuss and correct him. Or in the very least, remove his hand from her lower back. It was only when she’d relaxed against him and had gone along with his story that something primal had torn through him.

  He’d wanted to grip Mitchum by his scrawny neck for causing her even a moment of fear. The reason didn’t matter. She could have told him that her former betrothed had done nothing but kill a spider in front of her and Reed still would have enjoyed ripping the limbs off Mitchum’s body, one by one.

  Yet he knew her fear stemmed from something greater . . . Something that might have given her cause to flinch reflexively when she saw a man raise his hand.

  You know, I once employed a sportsman who studied pugilism under the venerable Gentleman Jackson.

  Recalling what Mitchum had said, Reed growled low in his throat. Damn. No wonder Ainsley had loathed him from the very beginning.

  Well, that was going to have to change. With Mitchum sniffing around, Reed wasn’t about to let Ainsley be caught alone again. And since her uncle obviously did not employ reliable servants to stand their posts, someone would have to step in—or overstep—and hire someone.

  Now Reed just needed to convince her to let him handle everything.

  A wry grin tugged at his mouth as he mounted the stairs. This ought to be interesting.

  Chapter 10

  “It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Ainsley hoped that Reed Sterling would conveniently leave the agency when he escorted Nigel out. She didn’t want to answer any questions, or to be confronted about the posters she’d pasted either. That would have to wait until she was
more herself.

  Unfortunately, the genie’s lamp that had granted her previous wish did not hear her this time.

  Mr. Sterling returned to her office. His intense gaze settled on her, his features hard and immovable as granite. It was the look he always wore whenever he claimed to know something about her. Her spine stiffened.

  “Just so you know, I did not ask you to come to my rescue.”

  “Didn’t you?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and arched a single smug brow.

  Leaving her desk, she stalked toward him, ready to send him on his way. “See here. I know how to take care of myself without any interference from the likes of you.”

  “Is that why you told your old acquaintance that we have an understanding?”

  “Well . . .” She stopped near the edge of the rug to smooth her skirts, trying to come up with a good answer, or at least one that made sense. But she couldn’t.

  “Using the name of the gaming hell owner you loathe was a rather curious choice. After all, you might have picked any one of your highborn clients or a family acquaintance instead.”

  If only she could have thought of someone else. Anyone at all. But his had been the only name in her mind, as if every other man had been erased.

  She swallowed down a rise of discomfiture. “That would have been unethical.”

  “And the lowborn bloke across the way could hardly be bound by ethics,” he said evenly.

  “You’re making too much of an insignificant slip of the tongue.”

  “Have my name on your tongue often, do you?”

  Honestly, the man could turn every conversation into something untoward. “Perhaps I did take a miniscule liberty by using your name, but it was the most convenient way out of my predicament. It shouldn’t matter to you one way or the other. It changes nothing.”

  “Oh, it changes a good deal of things, you just don’t know it yet.” He eyed her shrewdly, seeming to size her up. “Both of my professions have required that I see a bit more than people think they’re showing. I can spot a left hook before an opponent lifts his arm, and a Captain Sharp the instant he walks through the door. I can see who’s betting their last farthing and has nothing to lose but their self-respect. In other words, highness, I can spot trouble when it’s brewing.”