Ainsley batted his hands away and freed her own foot. “My shoe was caught.”
“But what was he doing here before that?” Jacinda asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“We merely had another row.”
“A row indeed.” Mrs. Darden harrumphed.
Jacinda set her hands on her hips, watching him closely as he stood. “With the outer door locked?”
“That must have happened by accident,” Ainsley answered again, her words edged with a note of warning, both toward the middle sister and to him when he deigned to offer his arm to assist her down the stairs. Ignoring him, she proceeded down, a step ahead of him the entire way. “And besides, Mrs. Darden has been here all the while.”
“A perfect chaperone,” Reed interjected, inclining his head toward the cook to demonstrate he held no ill will against her.
Though if her quick, agitated motions of brushing flour from her apron in his direction was any indication, she still held a grudge against him.
“I am thankful, sir, that I did not have to rush into my dear girl’s office and break a pot of tea over your head or anything of the sort.”
He couldn’t fight a grin. This entire interlude had turned into something straight out of Bedlam. “And for that I am truly grateful, ma’am.”
“The back of your coat is wet, Mr. Sterling,” came the duchess’s disapproving voice.
Then her younger sister chimed in with an amused hiccup. “And your hair is damp, too.”
“What can I say, other than it is London and it rains a great deal.”
“It did not rain this morning.”
“Yes it did, Jacinda,” Ainsley said between her clenched teeth. “A brief, but drenching downpour. Now if you would step aside, I’m certain Mr. Sterling should like to be on his way.”
“Always a pleasure,” he said to the younger sisters and the cook. Then he faced Ainsley again.
There was still a matter of business to discuss—her need of a reliable man-at-the-door. But that would have to wait until she was more receptive. Right now she was glaring, the threatening chill in her eyes ready to freeze him into a solid block of ice.
He let his gaze drift to her lips, still tasting her sweetness on his tongue. “Miss Bourne, I look forward to our next . . . row.”
And before he left to manage the hoard of gatherers in front of his hell, he had the distinct pleasure of seeing her blush.
Chapter 12
“A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
Not an hour had passed before Ainsley was ready to strangle both of her sisters. They had not been able to draw a single breath without mentioning Reed Sterling. All she wanted to do was forget about his . . . visit . . . and go about the rest of her day, pretending that nothing had happened. Was that too much to ask?
“It was just our usual row, nothing more,” she said blandly. Repeatedly.
Keeping to the same response seemed the wisest course of action. Especially since Jacinda had an alarming knack for interrogation. Her questions were so pointed that Ainsley struggled not to shift in her chair and give herself away.
“Perhaps a row was Mr. Sterling’s excuse to come here,” Briar chimed in with a dreamy grin on her lips. “Secretly, what he really wanted this morning—and what he has wanted ever since we moved here—was the chance to see you alone and to kiss you.”
Briar’s ability to craft far-fetched scenarios nearly caused Ainsley to break and admit the entire episode. Surely, what actually transpired would seem tame and uninteresting compared to this.
“And his passion for you is the reason why he never wears a cravat, for he is always burning up with desire,” Jacinda added with a well-timed waggle of eyebrows. This brought a hiccupped laugh from Briar and some sense to Ainsley.
Her decision was etched in stone. She would never, ever speak of what happened.
Likely, she would have to endure this ribbing for weeks to come. Perhaps even longer. And it was all Reed Sterling’s fault.
He was the one who’d kissed her and caused all this upheaval.
She still didn’t know why he’d been so singularly focused. Had her name somehow made it to the list of sins he’d needed to complete by the end of the day? Perhaps the poster ordeal had interrupted his morning gluttony and he’d decided to feast on her instead.
Her breath caught on the vision her mind summoned. Gracious! What a scandalous—but intriguing—thought.
Well, whatever his intention, his method certainly proved successful. He’d breached her frosty exterior with melting kisses that she would not soon forget. If ever. She could still feel the warm pressure of his lips. Still feel the heat he roused to a smolder. Oh, how she wished she could snuff out these sensations as easily as a candle flame.
Her gaze drifted to the red cover of Emma on the console table near the door. The primrose was still there. Taunting her.
Even worse, she had two shards of a broken teapot in her pocket, along with the memory of her first pleasant conversation with Reed Sterling. The moment had been surprising and . . . well . . . nice.
But these were all distractions she didn’t need. She couldn’t waste time ruminating over a kiss when she had a business to manage and the pressing need to find a butler.
After this morning, it was clear she had to employ someone to guard the entrance on the three days a week the agency was open. There could be no more leaving the door unlocked for her sisters.
Usually Mrs. Darden answered when someone called. But with her other tasks, it was simply too much for her to manage. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been another option when they’d first opened the agency. And looking over the accounts now at her desk, there still didn’t seem to be.
Their client list remained stagnant. With the high cost of living in London, renting this house, and the requirement to purchase food instead of growing their own, the family coffers didn’t have the funds to house, clothe, and feed any more servants. And since it was considered bad form for good ton to work, they were forced to run their business under the illusion that they didn’t require the money to do so.
Therefore they would simply make do as they had always done.
Her mind ran over the limited possibilities. Cutting back on paper, ink, and candles made the top of her list. Not to mention, they could use crow feather quills instead of the finer pens from the stationers, but her uncle had always been against this in the past.
Dear Uncle Ernest . . . Ainsley thought with a quiet sigh. She would have to tell him what happened. Some of it, at least, and without mentioning Mr. Sterling’s involvement.
The less she spoke of her neighbor, the better chances she had of not blushing.
Ainsley left her office with no one the wiser. Her sisters had finished their teasing—for the moment—and were busily chatting about felicity in marriage and motherhood through the adjoining office door.
Uncle Ernest had returned a minute ago from his jaunt in the park, then disappeared into his office without a word. Likely he was jotting down a fresh sonnet for whomever he’d fallen in love with this morning. But Ainsley would have to disturb him.
Walking down the corridor, she spied a trail of yarn on the runner. Strange, but she didn’t think Mrs. Teasdale was here yet this morning. After all, Rosamunde usually came directly into her office to chat about her knitting creations and the latest gossip.
Ainsley slowed her steps, feeling her brow pucker with worry. She hoped Mrs. Teasdale hadn’t overheard any of her sister’s teasing about Reed Sterling.
Through the crack in the door, Ainsley listened to Uncle Ernest, his cultured voice uncharacteristically harsh. “See here, woman. What’s the meaning of this, barging into my office?”
“This is not an office,” Mrs. Teasdale answered with a supercilious scoff. “Why, it looks more like a jungle with these potted palms and feather plumes around your desk. I’m surprised you’re
able to see anything.”
Through the meager opening, Ainsley saw his lean form rise from the chair behind his desk as he tugged smartly on his gray satin waistcoat. Beneath thick waves of silver-sand hair, his lapis blue eyes narrowed at the woman who stood across from him, dressed in a garish magenta silk.
“Not that a person of your nature would understand, but it creates ambiance for my compositions. Which I was in the midst of writing when you so rudely barged in without so much as a knock. Now, if you please . . .”
“It looks more like you’re just scribbling on a page. Find yourself in love with the first lady to bat her eyes at you this morning, did you?”
Oh dear, Ainsley thought with a sudden rise of amusement. Uncle Ernest was a gentleman in every regard. But when it came to his nieces, his poems, and his affectionate friendships—as he liked to call them—he was rather protective.
“The matter does not, and will not ever, concern you, madam.”
“And my heart is fairly broken over the thought,” Mrs. Teasdale answered, her tone dripping with honied sarcasm.
Ainsley decided that her conversation with him could wait until the verbal gunpowder cleared the room. Besides, she’d rather not have Mrs. Teasdale around for what she had to say about Nigel’s call, and their need to trim expenses to hire a butler.
For the moment, she decided to head to the kitchen. Perhaps Mrs. Darden had ideas for cutting back on their food budget.
Yet, as she walked down the stairs, the thought of facing Mrs. Darden again so soon after she’d witnessed that terrible lapse in judgment sent heat rising to Ainsley’s cheeks.
Though to be honest, kissing Reed Sterling had not felt terrible. It was quite agreeable, actually. More than agreeable.
The inextinguishable memory caused her stomach to flip and clench. Settling a hand over her middle, she did her best to quell the intriguing—but foolhardy—sensations.
“I would be better off to forget all about—oof!” She stopped short in a sudden full-body collision of breasts, stomach, hips, and thighs. She even hit her forehead on a chin. And not just any chin . . . “Mr. Sterling!”
“Damn. Are you hurt?” Reed asked, automatically securing her against him. One hand stole to the curve of her hip and the other reached up to rub that spot on her forehead in slow circles.
Pressed against a wall of thick muscle, Ainsley was unable to speak. He was so blessedly hard everywhere. Her soft curves and valleys molded against him in a seemingly perfect alignment. All the parts of her that had been slumbering for most of her life were now tingling and wide awake. In fact, they were flinging off the coverlet, fully alert, and ready for whatever might happen next.
Somehow, she managed to rasp, “I’m unharmed.”
Apparently, he didn’t believe her. His fingertips trailed from her forehead to her chin, tilting her face up for inspection. Then his attention veered to her lips. And lingered.
His indigo gaze simmered beneath the shadow of his lashes and her heart gave an excited leap. To make matters worse, her hands splayed possessively over the intriguing contours of his chest, warm and firm beneath his coat.
She was shocked by her responses, but couldn’t seem to control herself. She only hoped he wouldn’t notice.
One eyebrow inched upward and a slow grin curled his mouth on the nicked side as he leaned in to whisper, “Still not had enough of me today, I see.”
Scalding heat climbed to her cheeks and she pushed free. Stepping back, her knees felt weak as peony stems and she had the mortifying impulse to return to his embrace.
Thankfully, she resisted. “Why are you here, again? I thought you would be busily scraping windows all morning.”
The forbidding tone of her voice and the reminder of what they actually were to each other—enemies till death—doused the heat in his eyes. His grin faded and he released a slow breath. “I’ve hired a few urchins to do the labor, Miss Bourne. It may please you to know that your scheme has given them a better occupation than pickpocketing and begging on the streets.”
In other words, he’d taken her trick and turned it into something good.
A perplexing rush of tenderness filled her.
“As you know, that was not my intention,” she admitted, chagrinned. “But I am glad that you have given them an opportunity for honest labor, even if only for a day.”
His brow flattened. “I’ve promised them continued employment if their work is excellent. It may surprise you that even common children yearn for a better life. Not everyone is so fortunate to be born into it. Doubtless, those who toil for their suppers are beneath your esteemed notice.”
Ah, yes. She’d forgotten for a moment how privileged her life had always been. How she’d never had to worry about selling furniture from the house to purchase food at market and thread to mend her sisters’ stockings. Or how society frowned on women with determination and the willingness to do anything to succeed in business. Those were only traits to be admired in men, after all.
She felt a migraine coming on, starting where her head had met his arrogant chin. And any tender feeling that might have glanced across her heart withered away like orchid petals after a hard frost. “It is strange how I do not see many of the hoi polloi enter your elite establishment. Are there no commoners who enjoy gaming?”
“I do not mark a person’s birth against them.”
“Ha. Do you not?”
He stiffened. “Many tradesmen—an ample number, in fact—have earned invitations.”
“And those who are not so wealthy?”
She knew very well that he would not welcome anyone with an income as meager as her own, no matter what class the person was born into.
“No doubt they are working from sunup to sundown, ensuring that little Miss Highborn can sit in her office and play matchmaker.”
Ainsley fumed at his presumptions, unable to speak for all the hateful words weighing down her tongue. Yet she did not bother to rail at him or to correct him. Instead, she smiled coolly, suddenly overcome with the perfect idea for her next attack.
It would be the best one of all.
She would send out dozens, if not hundreds, of handwritten invitations to attend a free supper at Sterling’s. And the guests of honor, invited by Mr. Sterling himself—in a roundabout fashion—would be every commoner who visited the servant’s registry.
She should like to see how his club fared once his wealthy patrons were elbow to elbow with the people who toiled in their kitchens and workhouses.
His eyes narrowed quizzically at her pleased expression as if he didn’t know what to make of it. “Your two attacks have started rumors, you know. In fact, there’s never been such a curious, eager crowd filling my gaming hell.”
Of course, she thought with disgust, hating that all her work was for naught. Couldn’t he have been inconvenienced at least?
“Is that so? Well, I’m simply delighted that you came here to tell me your news.” She gritted her teeth. “I hope they all wore shocked countenances when you told them you were bested by a woman.”
“I did not tell them of your involvement. Thoughtlessly, I kept it a secret.”
She sputtered in futile outrage. “Surely someone has been able to figure out the party responsible. For heaven’s sake, the handbills had our names printed on them!”
“And what did you want me to tell them? That the eldest niece of a respected viscount is so obsessed with running me out of business that she plays these little games—stealing into my club, sneaking over at the break of dawn—in the hopes that the entire ton will never think of my name without linking it to hers?”
Suddenly, the blood rushed out of her head. Ainsley was left with the dizzying understanding of what he was saying.
She’d wanted to make him appear soft. But she hadn’t given a thought to how her actions could be misconstrued as a desire to gain his attentions. Oh dear . . .
“And you,” she began uncertainly, “were able to turn it to your benefit co
nvincingly?”
He nodded, his face stern with warning.
At once, she felt contrite . . . until he spoke again.
“Cease these attacks before there is nothing I can do to save you from yourself.”
“To save me from—” She growled, actually growled, at the odious man. His arrogance had no limit! Hands on her hips, she leaned in, breath seething. “I will stop only when Sterling’s is no longer across the street.”
His gaze flashed with heat, drifting to her mouth.
For a single simmering instant, she knew he was recalling their previous quarrel. Her lips tingled with awareness. She was struck by opposing impulses—to either bite off his nose if he so much as twitched in her direction, or to kiss him senseless.
“It would be folly to continue on that path,” he said in a low voice as if to himself. Then he shook his head and took a step back. “Regardless, that is not the reason I have returned. I am here to employ a man at your door. Since you have not seen fit to do so, then I am doing it for you.”
Of all the nerve! She should have bitten his nose when she’d had the chance. “Who are you to demand anything of me? When I wish to hire a butler, then I will do so. I hardly need your assistance.”
“I notice you don’t employ any footmen either. Are you so against the male sex that you cannot stand them beneath your roof?”
She would rather prick her fingertip with a needle a thousand times than confess to Reed Sterling that she lacked the funds to hire more servants.
“You’re being absurd. My uncle lives here, along with his valet.” Though Mr. Hatman was a septuagenarian who spent most of his days napping in the dressing room. There had been times when she forgot him completely only to find him taking his evening meal with Mrs. Darden and Ginny in the kitchen. “Not to mention many male clients as well.”
Unfortunately, the majority of those were also septuagenarians who’d applied initially, but hadn’t gotten around to canceling their subscriptions. She’d even taken to looking over obituaries to mark clients off their list.
The Rogue to Ruin Page 13
