With the tender gesture, she nearly gave in to the desire to relax against him. She felt her eyelids grow heavy, her breaths slow. It was disturbing how good it felt to be in his arms. Confusing.
How could it be that the man holding her was the same one she’d argued with on the pavement for nearly two years? It was like he was two different people . . .
The thought sent a sudden thrill of anxiety trampling through her and she tensed.
“It will all turn out well in the end. I’ll make certain of it,” Reed said, continuing his soothing strokes along her spine.
She squirmed away from him, her pulse frenzied from this half hour’s upheaval.
“You’re . . . different this evening,” she said, eyeing him warily. And when he took a step toward her, she held up her hand and shook her head.
He instantly stopped, his feet planted on the carpet, but there was a flash of frustration in his gaze. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
“That may be true, but I would prefer it if you treated me the same as you have always done. I would prefer it if you stayed the same. In the very least, you should be displaying a degree of irritated inconvenience by this entire episode.”
If there was one thing she didn’t trust, it was when a person’s behavior ventured outside what was expected. Since the agency opened, she’d developed a set of skills, a keen sense for identifying the wrong sort. She could spot a philanderer or deserter before the ink was dry on the application. And her skin would crawl whenever she encountered the charmers. Like Nigel, they were the type who put on a grand show of being affable and enchanting, but were monsters in private.
Yet until this moment she didn’t know how thankful she was that Reed Sterling had never pretended to be something he was not. Strange as it was, for all his wickedness and barbaric mannerisms, she’d found a sense of comfort in knowing what to expect of their encounters.
“That would prove pointless under the circumstances. Things are different now,” Reed said, the flesh of his brow puckered.
She had the startling impulse to smooth the lines with her fingertips. To let his arms draw her closer and assuage her worries. Already her skin tingled in anticipation.
Clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight.
She skirted past him and around the low-walled chiffonier, toward the corridor. “No, they’re not and . . . and . . . you need to leave.”
“You cannot shut the door on this as you would an unwelcome caller.”
“I won’t hold you to it.” She began to pace the narrow strip of floor between the rug and the threshold. It was necessary to set things straight between them. “Our betrothal will be a mere pretense. In a few weeks, the ton will have forgotten all about it. After all, I’ve read that the king has been gifted a giraffe from the viceroy of Egypt. When the creature arrives, I’m certain that’s all the news the papers will hold. And we will simply say that we’ve come to an amicable separation and no one will even care.”
“My mum will care. She’s been hounding me on this topic for so long that I don’t recall if we’ve ever spoken of anything else.”
She stopped and faced him, eyes wide with shock. “Mum?”
“Yes, highness. I have a mother,” he said on an exasperated breath. “I did not, as you likely believe, sprout fully formed from Satan’s tar pit.”
She pressed her lips together, both amused and guilty. “Of course, I didn’t think that. It’s just so strange to hear you say mum. You’ve never spoken of her before.”
“You and I haven’t really had chats over tea, now have we?”
“No.” She felt the tug of a grin at the notion. What type of scones would Mrs. Darden prepare for tea with the enemy? Something bitter and full of spice, no doubt.
“She’ll want to meet you.”
Her breath caught, a strange nervousness bloating her lungs as she wondered if his mother would even like her. “That wouldn’t be wise, considering we won’t be getting married.”
His shoulders tensed, a muscle ticking along his jawline. “Is there someone else, then? Or is it that you would rather have had an aristocrat stand up for you?”
“Your actions this evening were far nobler than any man born of nobility might have been,” she admitted quietly and saw him relax. “The truth is that I don’t intend to marry.”
“Come now, a matchmaker who has no intention of marrying?”
“Precisely.”
“At all?”
“Not ever.”
He seemed to consider this for a moment. Then those indigo eyes softened as they roamed over her features as if he saw something that required tenderness there. “But without marriage, how will you have that noisy life you miss?”
At first, she was confused. She didn’t understand how he could know such an intimate thing about her when she’d never told anyone else. Then she recalled that night they were looking for his cat and how she couldn’t stop her nervous rambling. Bother.
Peculiarly, the hand that no longer bore the scratch from his cat tingled and turned warm as if his touch had left an imprint on her. And only now did she become aware that they were standing within arm’s reach once more.
She intended to take a step back, but her feet did not obey. “Are you saying that my husband would be a loud sort of fellow, clanging around my house?”
“No. He would give you children to fill it,” he said with a low murmur of certainty.
If he had suddenly shouted the words, they would have been less startling.
Disconcertingly, she felt a sharp ache somewhere in her middle and a fluttering inside her chest as images flashed in her mind’s eye. A girl giggling and skipping through the halls, then sliding down the bannister when she thought no one was looking. A pair of tousled-haired boys, one plunking away on the piano, the other holding a bunch of flowers freshly dug from the garden and with smudges of dirt on his cheeks beneath his mismatched eyes.
“I think you should leave now,” she said in a rush. “In case you have forgotten, we are at war.”
“You would still run me out of business? Bankrupt your own husband?”
“If that husband were you, the answer is yes.” She tried to sound waspish, but failed miserably.
He had the nerve to grin about it all. She felt helpless against his devilish charm and nearly found herself grinning back. At least, until his gaze drifted to her lips.
Breathless, a thrill pulsed through her. “You shouldn’t look at me like that. There will be no more pushing boundaries and . . . and . . . kissing between us. It will only confuse matters.”
“Don’t worry, highness. I’m not going to kiss you.”
“That is correct.”
“You’re going to kiss me,” he clarified with a rakish flick of his brow. “When you’ve mulled over our upcoming nuptials, and every doubt has been put to bed—”
She gasped at his audacity.
“Or laid to rest, if you prefer,” he amended with a wicked chuckle. “Then you’ll see that I’m right.”
“We are not getting married. And I, most certainly, will not kiss you.”
Yet, even saying the words caused her wayward pulse to quicken. She couldn’t stop herself from remembering how it had been. How he’d opened her mouth with his own and slowly consumed her. Her tongue tingled, craving the taste of him again . . .
“Oh, you will. In fact, I’d wager you’re already thinking about it.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks even as she shook her head in denial. “That is a bet you’ll lose.”
The snick on his upper lip and the erudite gleam in his eyes were both calling her bluff, but he didn’t speak the words aloud. Instead, he inclined his head and moved past her, toward the stairs. “Sweet dreams, highness. I know that mine will be.”
For a full minute, she stared at the vacant corridor, oddly displeased that he hadn’t kissed her. She was irritated all over again. Mostly with herself.
Then she had the most troubling thought that, perhaps, the
re was more between them than a simple, straightforward animosity.
Chapter 16
“. . . every body was either surprized or not surprized and had some question to ask . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
“You’re going to kiss me . . .”
Those taunting words had interrupted Ainsley’s sleep all night, waking her from several scandalous dreams.
In the first one, she’d taken him by the lapels and crushed her mouth to his in the library. The following one took place in her office. The next, out on the pavement. And finally, on the stairs with her skirts tied around his hands.
This morning, she was exhausted, her nerves strung tight.
Yet at least she hadn’t spent any time thinking about what Nigel had said in front of the crowd at Sterling’s. Dimly, she wondered if that had been Reed’s plan, to keep her from worrying herself sick over the things she couldn’t alter.
But no. It seemed far more likely that he was just devilishly good at saying roguish things.
By now, half of London would have heard the news of their betrothal. Hopefully, it would come as such a tremendous shock—as it had to her—that whatever led up to the announcement would quickly be forgotten.
She sat up in bed, yawning as she lit the taper on the bedside table. The absence of sunlight—as well as the clock on her mantel—confirmed that it wasn’t quite dawn. Even so, there was no point in lingering beneath the coverlet when she knew what scandalous tableaus lurked behind her eyelids.
Padding across the room to the washstand, she bathed with the chilled water from the pitcher. By the time she finished, she was fully awake and shivering.
But, too easily, her thoughts drifted back to Reed. All it took was the scent rising up from the jar of balm when she opened the lid. She recalled the comments he’d made about her softness, the low murmurs of appreciation. Then, as if trying to seal in his touch from days ago, she rubbed the silken essence of rosehips and almond blossoms from her palms to her elbows. She even brushed the cream over her cheeks and lips, too, thinking of his slow, burning kisses.
Her skin heated, her heartbeat quivering like a hummingbird’s wings. In the oval looking glass, her face was now flushed, her lips full and darker, the deep hue matching the dusky rose of her nipples.
Experimentally, she rubbed balm there, too. Her skin ruched instantly, sensitive to the tentative brush. A strained gasp of pleasure shocked her, her stomach clenching sweetly.
She dropped her hands at once.
Pulse racing, she stared at the glazed-eyed stranger in the mirror and wondered what had come over her. She had never been one driven by passions. Those impulses led people to make rash, foolish decisions—the same way Mother had agreed to marry Father after having known him for a sennight. Too caught up in romantic fancies, she hadn’t realized that he’d been pretending to love her. A scoundrel only telling her what she wanted to hear. He’d had no intention of stopping his philandering ways. And, in the end, he’d broken her heart past the point of mending.
Ainsley would never fall for such a trick. By the age of twelve, she’d already vowed to be far more rational. She’d used her parents’ mistake to help her see the true nature of things between men and women.
Unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped her from making her own dreadful error, but she was determined to use that experience to help others avoid such a fate.
The decision to marry should be made with a sound mind and a passionless heart. Any slight deviation from this could ruin one’s life forever.
All at once, she was irritated. Restless. She glared at this strange new sensual creature in the looking glass. Then, stalking to the wardrobe, she slipped into a fresh chemise, stays, and a storm cloud–gray daygown, hoping the drab color would put her back to rights.
As was her habit, she went to the window to let in more light, forgetting it was too early. Even so, as she tied back the heavy drapes, she was welcomed by a soft lavender glow sifting in through the sheers.
Normally she could hear the noise of revelers at night before bed, and by morning she would awaken to the steady clamor of traffic, the sounds blending together into an indiscernible hum. Yet this early all she heard was the sedate clip-clop of a single carriage rattling down the lane.
Curious to see a sleepy, one-cart London, she parted the fall of lace. Her gaze drifted from the retreating scavenger cart on the wet cobblestone to the façade of Sterling’s.
The windows were dark and slumbering. All but one.
Across from her, a light glowed, soft and golden. And on the window ledge within that room, sat the piebald cat she knew. Grooming herself, the unnamed cat paused in her ministration and turned her brindled head to stare back across the street. Then she set her paw to the pane as if she’d spotted Ainsley.
Smiling at this, Ainsley pressed her hand to the glass, too, but more so in a jest because she knew it wasn’t possible that the creature was actually greeting her. More likely, her focus was on a raindrop, drifting down the other side of the invisible barrier.
Just as Ainsley was taking her hand away to finish dressing, a form approached the neighboring window in a few easy strides. The self-assured gate was so familiar it caused a jolt to rush through her. The pulse in her throat beat a hard tattoo. Then, before she could gather enough sense to slink back behind the curtains, Reed Sterling appeared.
Wearing only his shirtsleeves tucked into a pair of dark trousers, he gathered up the cat in his arms and cradled her against the broad expanse of his chest. He stroked her fur slowly, his lips moving as if he were crooning to her, his expression unguarded. In this light, he didn’t seem like a man who’d used violence to make his fortune.
Ainsley did not mean to linger or to invade his privacy, but found herself entranced by this glimpse of him. Was this what he was like when no one was watching?
Well . . . no one other than her.
She should feel guilty for spying on him. And she did, of course, especially when her greedy eyes refused to look away.
The cat squirmed out of his grasp and returned to the window seat. This time, however, she placed both paws on the glass. In the next instant, Reed turned his attention to the view across the street.
Directly into Ainsley’s bedchamber window.
She froze in place, hoping that her glass merely appeared like a mirror, reflecting the façade of Sterling’s back to him.
But with the candles glowing behind her, she was not so fortunate. Leaning closer, Reed squinted. Then a slow grin curved his mouth.
At once, Ainsley became unaccountably aware of the silky balm she’d applied. Her skin was sensitive to every sensation—the feel of cambric against her taut nipples, the soft weight of her plaited hair hanging over her shoulder, the brush of muslin against her legs.
At the moment, she wore no stockings and no fichu. She might as well have been naked. Staring back at him, she would almost swear that he could see every inch of her.
Crimson-cheeked, she staggered back beyond the sheer and untied the drapes, letting them fall in place. And as she struggled to catch her breath, she wondered how long Reed had known they shared a view. And how much he had seen of her.
At once, she started to fume. And it wasn’t kissing Reed that consumed her thoughts.
She might very well have to kill him instead.
* * *
A short while later, and fortified with irritation, Ainsley found Mrs. Darden and Ginny in the kitchen, breaking their fast.
With their schedules, it was a bit early for them to have heard the news. But doubtless there were servants aplenty in other houses nearby who were already scheming ways to pay a visit to this kitchen. So she knew that her beloved cook and maid should hear it from her.
Yet when met with the morning cheer and wishes that she’d enjoyed a good night’s rest, Ainsley’s mind drifted again to Reed and she faltered a bit.
Her reply came out in a strained rush. “And a good morning to the both of you. I slept
well, thank you. And, just so you know, Mr. Sterling and I are betrothed.”
She sucked in a breath, smoothed her skirts, and left it at that. After all, there was no reason to explain the circumstances, or provide any further details. Not when this entire debacle would be over in a few weeks.
A tense silence greeted her.
Mrs. Darden stood up from her stool and took her plate to the sink. Then, without a word, she pumped fresh water into a burnished copper kettle and set it on the stovetop. Hard. The fire below crackled and wayward sparks took flight.
Ainsley swallowed and saw Ginny nervously tuck a lock of brown hair beneath her ruffled cap. The maid cast a wary glance between Mrs. Darden and her, her copper-brown eyes going wide as pennies. Then she stood, too, and put a cloche over the bowl of gruel waiting on a tea tray. “I’ll just . . . take this up to Mr. Hatman and give the two of you a moment. Um . . . congratulations, miss?”
“Thank you, Ginny.”
As Ginny slipped out, Mrs. Darden stormed into the larder and came to the table with a crock of butter and a pint of cream. Then she went to the cabinets to take out a large earthenware bowl. It thunked down on the uneven work surface, rocking in a circular motion, the sound of it ringing like a warning bell.
“I can see that you aren’t pleased with the news,” Ainsley said. “But our betrothal was a matter of necessity.”
Mrs. Darden stopped, a wooden spoon gripped in her fist, eyes flashing. “Did that scoundrel take more than a kiss, then?”
Ainsley startled at the assumption, then blushed. “No, of course not.”
Mrs. Darden gave a sniff, muttering to herself as she stalked back into the larder. “I would have cut him to ribbons with my cleaver and put him in a stew. A man the likes of him certainly has gall, thinking he deserves one of my girls . . .”
Ainsley tried not to grin, but it was sweet the way their cook had always fussed and clucked over them. “It isn’t as bad as all that. His intentions were actually quite honorable.”
“If there is an honorable bone in his body then I’ll eat a shoe.” Mrs. Darden stalked back into the kitchen, her hard gaze narrowing over Ainsley’s shoulder and to the sound of the door opening. “Speak of the devil. What do you think you’re doing here, Mr. Sterling?”
The Rogue to Ruin Page 17
