“Honestly,” Ainsley tsked. “Must you make it sound so sordid? I am not taking up with anyone, least of all a former prizefighter. It was a lapse in judgment. It will not happen again. And I would appreciate it if we kept this matter private. My uncle and sisters need never find out. The . . . event . . . you stumbled upon will never happen again.”
“Mmm-hmm. You said that twice, you know. Looking at the way you’re fussing over him, I have to wonder if you’re trying to convince me or yourself.”
The lap beneath Reed’s head stiffened, fingers stalling midstroke.
“And what, pray tell, was I supposed to do after you tried to kill him? Leave him in a defenseless heap on the floor? You know I could not do that. I want to run him out of business, not murder him. At least, not today.”
“Stuff and nonsense. It’d take more than a pot of tea to kill the likes of him.”
At another mention of the teapot, Reed sighed inwardly in self-disgust. Must they keep repeating it? If his men ever learned of this, he’d never hear the end of it.
“For our sake, I hope so. I should not like to see either of us on trial for it would ruin the reputation of the agency. And reputation is nearly the only thing we have left. I have to hope that what I have observed of his even temperament remains to be true.” She hesitated, a tense tremor rolling through her. “He doesn’t seem to be the sort to call the guard or to hold grudges. Though one can never be too sure.”
“No indeed. He’s the sort to take matters—and willing neighbors, apparently—into his own hands.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ainsley muttered darkly, tapping her finger in an impatient tattoo against his temple. “I’m not going to discuss this any further. Now, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you imagine you could bring back a bit of toweling after you take the broken shards to the kitchen?”
“You expect me to leave you alone with him again?”
“He’s hardly in a state to ravish me.”
“Perhaps I’m more worried about what you might do to him,” Mrs. Darden said with another huff. “Even so, I suppose someone has to see to the rug since Ginny is not yet back from market. Just try not to get too familiar while I’m gone.”
The sound of her voice gradually faded beneath the fractious bustle of retreating footsteps and the faint clank and rattle of dishes.
Then, when all was silent, Ainsley Bourne expelled a slow breath. “I am seven and twenty, not some foolish young girl with her head in the clouds.”
The stroking resumed. Reed felt a few gentle tugs as if she were twining the short wavy locks over her fingertips and he nearly found himself purring with contentment. He wouldn’t mind staying right here for the remainder of the day.
Unfortunately, sooner or later, someone would discover that the front door was locked, thereby making the kiss Mrs. Darden witnessed all the more scandalous. And he still had an important matter to discuss with Ainsley as well.
“This isn’t so bad, being petted by you. Remind me to get clobbered over the head every time I pay a call.”
He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he’d startled her. He heard it in her gasp, felt it in the sudden absence of her touch.
“I thought you were near death.” She slithered out from under him so quickly his skull hit the floor.
He groaned, grabbing the back of his head. Discovering he wasn’t covered in blood but in tea, he groaned again, utterly emasculated.
As he sat up, the room spun in a blur of green walls and white casings. He took a moment to steady himself and focused on her smoothing her aubergine skirts in harsh, aggravated motions.
“And would you have mourned over my grave?”
“I would have dug the hole.”
He’d wager she wished he was dead at the moment, rather than own up to the tenderness she’d exhibited. Yet even now she was anticipating his needs by pushing one of the pale upholstered chairs nearer to him with a faint little grunt of effort.
He felt the tug of a grin as he stood, bracing himself against the sturdy bronze frame. “Ah, Miss Bourne, I like sparring with you even more now.”
“If you intend to say something rakish, then I won’t hear it.”
“Betrothed less than an hour and already you know me so well.”
She stiffened. “You may leave now, Mr. Sterling. Again, I thank you for the use of your name, but my account with you is settled and closed.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?” She hiked up her chin, hands on hips, brown eyes narrowed and frosty as barley in winter. “If this is about my clever attacks on your business and you think to find restitution from my lips, then banish the thought this instant. Simply because I allowed this one kiss to occur, doesn’t mean it will happen again. In fact, I can say with certainty that it won’t. I will never again endure any of your ruffian pawing.”
Normally, he would have fired off an instant jab in retaliation. Exchange blow for blow. But he’d come to learn that her venom held more bite when she was putting up her guard.
He couldn’t fault her for trying to gain a semblance of control after all the events that had transpired this morning—first with Mitchum’s unwelcome call and then with Reed crossing another boundary between them.
In his own defense, however, Reed hadn’t intended to kiss her. He’d merely wanted to rile her up to distract her from her worries. But then he’d touched her and his more honorable intentions faded.
What had made it worse—or better, he still wasn’t sure—was witnessing the slow unfolding of desire in her face. The flush of her cheeks, the plump pout of her lips, and the inky darkness of her pupils spilling into soft brown all told him that she’d been curious, too.
And Reed was never one to pass up such a tempting opportunity.
His father had taught him to know when to hold back and when to strike.
Never rush, son. Wait for the perfect moment—your gut will tell you—but don’t hesitate when you know it’s right. If you do, you’ll lose your chance.
While Dad might have been talking about angling at the time, Reed wouldn’t have gotten this far in life if he hadn’t taken every bit of advice.
“Ah, what tempting lips to guard such a waspish tongue.” Reed’s gaze dipped to her mouth.
She covered it with her delicate fingertips. “To you, I am all wasp.”
“Then I am ever so fond of the way you sting, highness,” he drawled, unable to resist a little more rakish goading. “But as for restitution, I would not take payment from your lips. I much prefer your kisses free and unbound by restraint, as they were moments ago. And it’s clear”—he continued over her sputters of denial—“that my retaliation against your first attack on Sterling’s was just the right amount of enticement for you to hand them over.”
She shook her head, adamant, color flaming in her cheeks. “You are wrong on every account.”
“Is that all you have to say about my own clever counterstrike?”
“There is nothing to say because you did nothing. There was no trick—no piles of rubbish, no vulgar handbills delivered to my door, nor anything of the sort. I know, for I checked several times a day.”
“And for days you expected something. You were constantly thinking about what I might do. Constantly thinking”—he grinned—“about me.”
Her eyes widened, flashing with abrupt understanding. “You . . . you devil!”
“Not as easy to get rid of a thought as it is a handbill. Wouldn’t you agree, highness?”
He should know, for he’d been thinking about her, too. Every day since their last encounter anticipation had gnawed at him, whetting his appetite.
This morning’s interlude should have left him more than satisfied, and a bit smug, too. But he felt ravenous instead. Already hungry for the next taste, the next touch.
Forbidding as a goddess of war, she crossed her arms over her chest, the muffled tap of her foot on the rug keeping a
solid, methodical beat. “I daresay you’ll not recover so quickly from my attack today. Rumors do spread on fleeted foot, you know. Your sinful patrons will surely hear of the placards on your windows and think twice about crossing the threshold to your gambling establishment.”
She was right. Her stunt this morning would cost him. And it wouldn’t be as simple to recover from as before. He’d likely have to plant more than a mere rumor of an old opponent trying to prod him back into the ring, but offer his patrons something more tangible.
“No need to worry about Sterling’s. I’ll always do whatever it takes to keep it in good standing.”
At her frown in response, he lifted his shoulders in a controlled shrug. He didn’t want to think about the tasks ahead of him when he had something more pressing on his mind.
“And what of your plans,” he asked carefully, “regarding Mr. Mitchum?”
She paled considerably, the tapping of her foot falling still and silent. “The matter doesn’t concern you.”
“I’ve met his sort before and men like him don’t seem to know how to leave well enough alone. He’ll likely turn up again.”
“Are you”—she swallowed—“trying to alarm me?”
Unmistakable vulnerability moved like a shadow over her milk-white features, snuffing out the glow from her eyes. When her wide-eyed gaze darted to the door, Reed’s hands curled into fists. He wished he had Mitchum’s neck in his grasp instead of the back of the chair.
What type of monster was Mitchum that the mention of his name could do this to the woman who so fearlessly confronted Reed on a near-daily basis?
Once again, he did not like the answers brewing inside his mind. He wanted to ask, but knew Ainsley wouldn’t answer. She was too proud and too sharp-witted to do anything other than change the subject.
“I believe you prefer frank speaking. As do I.” Even so, he gentled his tone before he continued. “Therefore, I will simply tell you that if you have need of more than just my name, you have but to ask.”
Her attention swerved back to him. Speculation and mistrust knitted her brow as if she suspected he was a charlatan selling cure-alls from a portmanteau on the pavement. In all honesty, once the words were out, not even he was sure what he meant by them.
Was he offering to come and stand beside her if she beckoned, or . . . to beat Mitchum to a bloody pulp?
A warning shiver chased down his spine.
There was a reason Reed had only fought for prize money. Rage turned a man mindless, giving control over to an inner, bloodthirsty beast. Because of that, he’d vowed long ago never to fight a man in anger. And yet, in this moment, he wasn’t entirely sure that he could keep that part of him chained if he ever stepped into the ring with the man who’d clearly done something to instill fear in Ainsley Bourne.
She broke the silence on an indrawn breath. “As I said, it won’t be necessary. I’ll inform my uncle of all that has transpired.”
“All?”
Swift color returned to her cheeks and she carefully straightened her fichu. “The pertinent facts. I won’t mention the betrothal pretense or . . . what followed. You needn’t fear that my uncle will demand anything of you.”
“You know,” he began, “any woman might try to manipulate the situation to her own benefit. Perhaps as a next act of war.”
There were a number of ways his arch nemesis could use this against him—by calling the guard, blackmail, threatening to tell the world that he was felled by a teapot . . .
“I should like to,” she admitted. “But in all fairness, it would be grossly unsporting of me since I contributed to said events. At least, in part.”
“Don’t try to sell yourself short, highness. You fully contributed. I have your teeth marks on my flesh to prove it.”
“That isn’t possible. I never even—” She narrowed her eyes when he chuckled. “You are a cad and I detest you to your very core.”
“Then all is as it should be.”
She made no comment, but bent toward a stray fragment of white porcelain, hidden beneath a rosewood table. Reed spotted another piece of the infamous teapot. Moving the weighty chair back to its place, he picked up the shard.
Briefly, he recalled Ainsley mentioning to her cook that she could not afford a replacement. But surely it couldn’t be true of someone who lived in such a fine house and burned beeswax tapers indiscriminately. Still he frowned. Where had all her servants been this morning?
Distractedly, he circled his thumb over the smooth-glazed surface. “I knew a man who came to my father’s tavern on his off day each week—a butler for an old eccentric gentleman on a nearby estate. Mr. Adachi hailed from the Orient and he told me that, where he came from, men were hired to mend pottery like this with gold.”
“That seems rather extravagant. Gold is too costly to waste on something broken. Not to mention, it would bring more attention to the imperfections.”
“According to him, this practice—kintsugi, he called it—is a belief that history should not be something to hide, tossed in the bin, or even thought on with regret. There is beauty to be found in every journey, even the flawed ones.”
Reed held out the fragment, but Ainsley did not take it. Instead, she stared at him with a quizzical expression, the inner workings of her mind held captive in her eyes. It was typical of her to keep her thoughts hidden. Not for the first time, he wished he could read every shift of her features as easily as a deck of cards or an opponent in the ring.
When she finally took the piece from him, she softly said, “I hope you’re not too hurt.”
“Nothing that can’t be mended,” he said, curling his fingers into his now empty hand. “And I’m sorry for your pot.”
Her lips tilted upward at the corners, the light in her eyes returning. “’Tis a pity I do not have any spare gold on hand to mend it properly. I should like to see what design it would make. Though considering the hardness of your head, I do not imagine there is much left to salvage.”
“And if it had hit your stubborn head, it would have disintegrated into dust.”
At any other time, such jabs would have caused a heated argument. Instead, it brought smiles to both their faces as a strange sort of peace settled between them.
Then, silent for the moment—as if neither of them dared to break this new treaty—they left her office.
Walking along the corridor toward the stairs, he nearly forgot the reason he’d brought up the story about Mr. Adachi. “There’s something we still need to discuss. You must employ a reliable butler and—”
He broke off at the sound of rapping on the door.
Stopping a third of the way down the stairs beside Ainsley, he saw the face of one of her sisters peer through the sidelights, squinting.
“Why is Jacinda knocking?” Ainsley’s gaze skirted down the stairs and back to him. Her winged brows lifted in question, then dropped in abrupt understanding. And accusation. “Tell me you did not bolt the door. Tell me we were not caught kissing in my office with the house practically empty and the outer door locked as if . . .”
When she didn’t finish, he filled in the blanks for her, every word punctuated by the continued knocking.
“As if I intended to put us both in the precarious situation of being discovered? Well, I didn’t. I only meant to keep Mitchum away while we had an important discussion, which we have yet to complete. Now, I should like to propose—”
“Mr. Sterling, please,” she interrupted, pressing a hand to her temple. “Your choice of words is not amusing in the least. Especially when we are about to be discovered and my reputation torn to shreds. The agency is already holding on by tenterhooks and this will surely be the end of everything that matters.”
Perhaps now was not the best time to discuss butlers.
“We’ll settle this matter a little later, then,” he said, willing to compromise. “Point me in the direction of your servants’ stairs and I’ll slip away without anyone else the wiser.”
Bu
t it was already too late. They went still as statues as the door opened and both Bourne sisters rushed into the house in a flurry.
Thankfully, Jacinda, the Duchess of Rydstrom, was busy pushing a pair of hatpins into her green silk bonnet when she said, “It is fortunate that I know how to put these to good use. Though I cannot fathom why the door was locked. Ainsley never leaves it locked.”
The woman in question slid Reed an incredulous glare.
“Perhaps it has something to do with the mob outside of Sterling’s,” Briar, Lady Edgemont, said, peering outside one last time before closing the door, her white-gloved hand absently resting over the swell beneath her pink-striped dress.
Now it was Reed’s turn to arch his brows in blame.
Ainsley merely pursed her lips in response, and damned if he didn’t want to kiss her, right then and there. But he didn’t. There was still a chance they could make their escape.
They both seemed to share the same idea. Turning in unison, he took her elbow, prepared to lead her back up the stairs.
Yet they hadn’t made it a single step before she jerked to a halt and looked down. And blast it all if her dress wasn’t wrapped around her shoe. Without a word, he quickly kneeled to untangle her, working as deftly and as silently as he could.
At the same time, the cook bustled into the foyer. She was coated in flour from head to toe, wiping it from her eyes with the corner of her apron, her ruffled cap awry.
“Mrs. Darden! What on earth has happened?” Jacinda asked.
“I couldn’t say,” she replied, up in arms. “Nothing is as it is supposed to be this morning. Broken teapot. A bit of toweling underneath the flour sack. The kitchen a disaster. And your sister—Oh! For the life of me I don’t know what she was thinking to let that man inside.”
“What man?” Jacinda and Briar said in alarmed unison.
Then together, they looked to the stairs. Catching Reed with a handful of Ainsley’s skirts.
“Mr. Sterling!” Briar gasped, her hand flying to her open mouth. There was a muffled sound of a laugh before she continued. “Whatever are you doing to my sister?”
The Rogue to Ruin Page 12
