All The Ways To Ruin A Rogue(61)

            “What happened, Aurelia?”

            She shook her head. “Who can say? It just became so natural, you know?”

            “What did?”

            “Being enemies.”

            Nodding grimly, he exhaled as though her words had served as some sort of reminder. He took several steps back, holding himself stiffly. She breathed a little easier with the added space between them.

            “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” he finally asked. “We can’t . . . perhaps it’s for the best.”

            She frowned. “What do you mean?”

            “We need to remember who we are.”

            If possible, her frown deepened. “And who are we?”

            “You’re Will’s sister. And I’m a man not looking to get married.”

            Pain knifed inside her. “That works out exceedingly well.” She lifted her chin, digging deep for her pride. “Because I’m not looking to marry you.”

            He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something more, but then he shook his head and instead said, “I need your word that you will never step foot in Sodom. I care for you. And I worry. As Will’s sister—”

            “Oh, rot!” He worried for her? A moment ago he couldn’t stop kissing her, but now she was back to being Will’s sister again.

            She shoved at his chest, catching him off guard and finally getting around him. She held her skirt up with one fist, her slippered feet racing down the damp path. There was a certain degree of déjà vu. She running. Max in pursuit. At the door, she stopped and glanced back at the empty path. She gulped a breath. He wasn’t coming this time. Of course. That would be foolhardy. The hour was late. The last thing he would want was to be discovered in her company. Especially with her attired in a gown like this. That would complicate matters.

            As they had agreed, Cecily had left the door unlocked. Aurelia hurried through the kitchen, still warm and smelling of the bread that Cook had baked for the following day.

            She made her way up the back stairs and emerged onto the second floor, pausing when she thought she heard a sound. A creaking step on the servants’ stairs.

            Fearful that a servant had returned, she rushed down the corridor and plunged into her bedchamber.

            Once inside her room, she locked her door. Her heart beat like a drum inside her too tight chest. She gulped for breaths, admitting to herself that she was half afraid he would follow her. And half hopeful.

            Stupid. She knew better. He had wrecked her evening, told her he would never marry her, kissed her to an inch of her life and then told her she worried him. The man infuriated her.

            She pushed off the door. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t dare do something so inappropriate. He would keep her firmly at arm’s length from now on.

            Moving to the foot of the bed, she started to struggle out of her gown. A difficult task without Cecily’s help. It was wretchedly tight, and the buttons so tiny at her back, impossible to grasp. With a groan, she fell back on the bed, staring up at her canopy.

            She felt trapped, and the restrictive gown was only partly to blame for the sensation. Her gaze flitted ahead unseeingly into the shadows. Her mind worked, searching, groping for something.

            There would be no more sneaking out to Sodom. She winced. No regret there. No more kisses from Max. She winced again and ignored the stab of regret.

            Finding a husband . . . Struan Mackenzie . . . was her only hope left.