She gazed up at him standing there, his eyes full of mockery. Beside him, the widow’s feral little eyes gleamed with deep satisfaction. Perhaps it hurt so much because he said it in front of Knotgrass. The devil’s own mercenary. And to think a moment ago she thought he might defend her.
She supposed she should not have been so caught off guard. And yet she felt betrayed. Flayed and exposed. His words rooted deep, bruising her to the bone.
“You . . .” A thousand fractured thoughts flashed through her mind as she gazed at his smug face. None proper. All ugly. But the one she landed on, the one she seized with greedy hands and launched at him, was perhaps the worst of all. “You . . . Cockless Camden.”
Shock rippled across his features. His mouth pulled tight, the corners edging white. Mrs. Knotgrass gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a burst of laughter.
Belatedly, Aurelia realized this moment must echo the first time that moniker was uttered. There was laughter then, too.
“Aurelia,” Camden growled.
“What?” Aurelia blinked. “Did I say something amiss?”
The widow recovered enough to mutter, “With that ill-mannered tongue, it’s no wonder she can’t catch a man.”
Max looked very capable of inflicting bodily harm. Rationally, she knew he wouldn’t, of course, but when he took a step toward her she simply reacted.
Her palms came up and shoved. Hard.
It all happened in an instant, though for her time slowed to a crawl. Max’s eyes flared wide as he fell back, his arms flailing in wide circles, seeking balance, but he only succeeded in colliding into Mrs. Knotgrass as he went down. She yelped, her own arms flapping as she followed him into the pond.
Oh. Dear, God. Aurelia’s hand flew to her mouth as Mrs. Knotgrass screamed loud enough to gain the attention of every bystander within miles. She stood, frozen, rooted to the spot, watching the scene unfold with macabre fascination. Several others crowded along the shore, gawking at the spectacle as well.
The woman continued to shriek as though she was injured, her arms flailing wildly while Max attempted to help her from the pond to the shore. Her lovely white and lavender striped gown was a muddied beige color now, with bits of sludge and indescribable matter sticking to it in various spots. When she looked down at herself, another long wail escaped her. She hopped several times, flapping her hands, which made her lose her footing again. Her hand shot out and snatched hold of Max, bringing them both back down into the water. Again.
As horrified as Aurelia was, a small trickle of satisfaction ribboned through her. She told herself it would be no less than Max deserved.
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sound that was part giggle and part groan. Max’s frustration was clearly writ upon his face as he struggled to his feet, hefting the widow back up with him.
The gathered crowd watched the ongoing spectacle in fascination.
Even though it was an accident, Aurelia swallowed back a twinge of guilt as the widow started sobbing, plucking at the soaking wet snarls of her hair. A chorus of gasps rippled through the crowd as one large snarl came loose in her hand.
The widow’s sobs became ear-shattering then.
“Egads! Her hair is falling out!” a man to the right of Aurelia exclaimed.
“No, no . . . it’s not her real hair,” the woman beside him explained. “Some women do that, you know. To make their own hair appear thicker.”
So much for all her gold tresses.
Everyone, including Aurelia, backed away as the two of them slogged to shore. By then Mrs. Knotgrass’s maid had arrived—no doubt hearing the commotion—and Max turned the thoroughly wrecked woman over to her waiting servant. He then turned to face Aurelia, his gaze finding her in the crowd.