All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue(36)

            “How could you?” Her brown eyes blazed at him and he muttered a curse at the sheen of tears there.

            The doubt he had felt earlier came roaring back now.

            “Satisfied?” she demanded, her voice flat, dull. Her gaze drifted to the fire where the parchment was naught but blackened ash. “You must have enjoyed that.”

            “It was for your own good—”

            “Spare me your altruism.” She struggled to break free and he let her go this time. She backed away, her steps hard little jarring drops on her heels. Her gaze seared him, raking him with such burning contempt. “This is about punishing me and nothing else.”

            Was it? Perhaps it was. For years that had been his sole function around her. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to be anything else with her. This was just what they were.

            She rubbed the heel of a palm against her eyes. Ah. Bloody hell. She was on the verge of tears. He’d never seen her cry before. He didn’t think Aurelia the sort of female to succumb to tears.

            “No more.” She shook her head, inching back farther and jabbing a finger at him. “Stay away from me.” She turned and fled the room as if the hounds of hell were after her. He stared after her until she was gone.

            He should feel triumphant. He had done nothing wrong. Her almost-tears should not matter. Whether he had crossed a line and hurt her feelings should not matter. And yet it did.





            Chapter 9

            Sketch pad balanced on her lap, Aurelia lifted her gaze to study the park, studying the serene scene. She had just finished sketching a nanny being dragged by a set of raucous twin boys. Aurelia had given the boys the bodies of monkeys—tails and all—but kept their features virtually the same.

            She was giggling by the time she finished and flipped the page. It wasn’t her usual material, but it amused her and it felt good to laugh. For days she had mourned the loss of the caricature Max destroyed. Picking up her sketch pad again felt like a return to herself even if she wasn’t creating anything of satirical meaning. It also served as good practice until she decided on her next subject.

            Because she wasn’t quitting. Max might have destroyed her drawing and crushed her in that moment, but she was not beaten.

            She scanned the landscape. People dotted the picturesque view. Nannies pushing prams and guiding their young charges. Couples sharing curricles. A few people cast their lines off the small bridge stretched out over the pond. It was just the kind of scene to take her mind off Max.

            She scowled. Only apparently not. There she went again, thinking of him and his cruel manner.

            Squaring her shoulders, she renewed her search for a new subject to draw, determined to push him from her thoughts. A feat that was destined for failure. Her stomach dipped and twisted when she spotted him.

            He sat in a boat in the middle of the pond with none other than the Widow Knotgrass. He leaned across the small space of the boat and brushed something off her face. Apparently the rumors were true and they were lovers—or soon to be. Max would not be in her company otherwise. He did not waste his time on proper courtships. This rankled her. Who was he to criticize Mr. Mackenzie? At least Mr. Mackenzie’s intentions were honorable.

            Max was wrong about him. Struan Mackenzie had called on her this morning and behaved only as a gentleman should. It was clear the Scotsman’s intention was to court her honorably. Max merely wanted to aggravate her. Impede her quest to find a husband out of pure contrariness. Because that’s what he did. He thwarted her attempt to dance with suitors and he burned her caricatures.

            Fury burned in her blood as she started feverishly sketching Max, giving him a pair of horns, drooling fangs, and a large salivating tongue as he sat beside the Widow Knotgrass. The widow was not to be spared either. Indeed not. In her sketch, the angelic lady sat upon a pile of squirming debutantes. Aurelia did not stop there. She gave the widow several spiders’ legs. The wiry black limbs crept out beneath her fashionable striped muslin gown, assisting in pinning down the struggling debutantes.