The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

“I don’t know what else you’d call it. Every morning I see you gazing at my building, and at night you skim over each window before locking your door. Well, it’s as clear as the pert nose on your face that you can’t stop thinking about me. All day long. And doubtless all night long as well.”

  He studied her closely, challenging her to reveal something in her expression. But there was nothing to see. She made sure of it by holding perfectly still. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t flutter a single eyelash.

  Even so, he grinned wickedly as if he’d caught her stuffing cards up her sleeve. “Don’t worry, Your Highness, it will be our secret.”

  Then, without warning, he lifted his arm.

  She only caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she flinched, her hands raising in defense, the ghost of an old wound emerging from the crypt.

  Reed Sterling went utterly still.

  He frowned once again, his brow furrowed into corrugated rows. Then he took a step back and carefully opened his hand. And there—still unharmed in his grasp—was the tender primrose.

  Mortification slapped her hard, stinging her cheeks with heat. She wanted to die right then and there. Disappear. Put the rubbish bin over her head and pretend she was invisible. But all she seemed capable of was to stand there and hope he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

  His gaze held hers with almost brutal intensity as if he were peeling away the layers of her memories and he could see them for himself. Then, all at once, those mismatched eyes lit with keen understanding. And there was no mistaking the quick flash of pity that followed.

  No, no, no. She hated the tremor of vulnerability that tumbled through her, dropping like a wind-battered nest from the highest branch of a tree. And she couldn’t leave it this way—with him believing he knew something about her. With him having the upper hand.

  Ainsley needed to regain a sense of control that had slipped.

  “I detest primroses. Simply abhor them, if you must know. And filthy street primroses, well, they’re even worse.” Waspish lies tumbled out of her mouth in a rush as if she possessed Jacinda’s talent for bending the truth, and perhaps even a flare for the dramatic like Briar. She only hoped she was putting on a convincing show. “You weren’t about to give that wretched thing to me as a sort of . . . peace offering between us, were you?”

  He remained quiet, her comments turning stale in the air between them. In that moment, she thought she’d failed.

  Then he inclined his head and tossed the flower aside.

  Wiping the palm of his hand against his coat, his gaze swept over the façade of the townhouse as if it were a puzzle to solve. “Peace between us? Not likely. We’ll be at odds until our dying breaths. Then I’ll go to my gate and you to yours, and we’ll finally be free of each other.”

  He might have been reading the words from a poorly written script for all the bland intonation they held. The necessary hard edge that such a declaration demanded was absent.

  It left her unsettled.

  She preferred to keep them always on the same footing—abhorring each other. So she quickly added, “Oh, I don’t plan to wait that long to be rid of you, Mr. Sterling. I have every intention of running you out of business within the month. It’s something I should have done from the very start.”

  This time, it was just the right nerve to flick.

  Those eyes swerved back to her, his jaw tight. “And how do you propose to do that, Miss Bourne? Call upon your new brothers-in-law, the duke and the earl? Have them do your fighting for you while you watch from the window, eating sugared grapes?”

  “Of course not. I need no man’s assistance to succeed,” she said, ire prickling as she crossed her arms. “Just wait and see.”

  “And now you’ve confirmed my suspicions—you do like to dream of me. In fact, you’re dreaming right now.”

  He gave her a once-over, that smug grin of his returning. She hated the sight of it.

  His low chuckle was the last straw and she narrowed her eyes. “I loathe to shatter your grand illusions, but I only think of you when I find rubbish on my doorstep.”

  “Well then, that doesn’t give me an incentive to have it cleaned up, now does it?”

  He gave her a mocking bow, pretending to doff a hat he wasn’t wearing. Though if he had been, she would have delighted in stripping it from his grasp and stomping on it.

  She watched him strut away, heedless of the traffic that had to swerve around him. And soon he was on his side, and she on hers.

  Normally, she would be content with that. But not today.

  Reed Sterling had seen her flinch. What were the chances that he would simply forget about it?

  Chapter 2

  “. . . and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it for the world!”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Reed stormed into Sterling’s and slammed the door with enough force to cause a thunderclap to echo around him. The resulting gust stirred the burgundy brocade drapes that swathed the windows on either side and, for an instant, bright morning light gilded the hell’s dark interior. It shimmered in the haze of acrid cheroot smoke lingering like a fog in the black-marbled foyer. Then the fabric settled, entombing him in the familiar shadows that matched his current mood.

  Ainsley Bourne was the most provoking . . . impossible . . . and bloody maddening woman he’d ever met!

  Fists clenched at his side, he strode into the main hall. The gas lights were turned low, the eerie blue light flickering over the paneled walls, empty tables, and upended chairs. He stalked toward a long serpentine mahogany buffet where a tray with a single leftover glass of whisky waited.

  One of his men must have been distracted by a woman and neglected to take this to the kitchen.

  Oh, the enticements of the fairer sex. Every man’s ultimate downfall, Reed thought bitterly as he downed the biting liquor in one swallow. He hissed from the burn of it, then expelled a pent-up growl. “Do I look like a man who would strike a woman?”

  Apparently so, for Ainsley Bourne had cringed when he’d lifted his hand. There’d been no mistaking it.

  “Hardly. Then again, I know you better than most,” a gruff, incongruously cultured voice said.

  Reed turned to see his man-at-the-door emerge from the narrow corridor that lead to the hazard room. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  Ambrose Finch was a giant of a man, forced to walk in the center of the arch or else knock his block-shaped head against the filigreed plaster molding. He kept his black hair trimmed razor close, while sporting a full soot-whiskered beard. Though justifiably heavy-footed, he did not lumber, but moved with efficiency and confidence. And it was well-known that, in his fighting days, a single blow from his ham-sized fist could lift a man out of his boots and fell him like a tree.

  He was an intimidating specimen, to be sure. Yet, in order to maintain Sterling’s exclusivity, it was imperative to have such a formidable man guard the door.

  Finch bit down a yawn. “’Tis the nursemaid’s day off. With the little one still teething, my wife and I have an agreement that I nap for one hour, return home, then she naps for four while I watch the girls.”

  “You could always hire another nursemaid with the money we earn here.”

  “Quite true, but Trudie prefers to live without extravagance. She fears that I would step back into the ring if anything happened to Sterling’s.”

  Reed chuckled at the absurdity. “She needn’t worry. Sterling’s will be here for ages, even long after we’ve gone.”

  “Regardless, she frets over seeing me hurt again.” He flashed a grin and pointed to the gap where his upper canine tooth had once been.

  Reed had done that during their last bout, knocking him flat. It was his first step toward the fortune he now possessed and the legacy he would leave behind one day. “She’ll never forgive me for that, will she?”

  “Oh, she likes you well enough, I suppose. After all, we bot
h gained our prizes during those exhibitions. You won money by the fistful, and I won her. It was after that very match when I asked her to marry me.”

  “And you’ve been moonstruck ever since.”

  “It is a fortunate man, indeed, to be stricken by such madness,” Finch said, eyeing Reed with the shrewdness of longtime friends. “’Tis certainly preferable to finding it at the bottom of a bottle.”

  Reed set the empty glass upside down on the tray. Having experienced what men were capable of after a few too many drinks, he never had trouble limiting himself to one every now and then. But he certainly didn’t mind it when his wealthy patrons were lost in their cups, and loose with their purse strings.

  “It’s late for me, as you know. I’m usually abed by dawn and this might help me sleep before we open again this afternoon.”

  “And does your belief that you will be unable to sleep have anything to do with your encounter with Miss Bourne?”

  Reed slid a glance to his all-too-perceptive friend. “Watching through windows, were you?”

  “Merely drawing the curtains closed,” Finch replied, lifting his heavy brows in mock innocence. “It sparked my curiosity to see you crossing the street to her, when it is usually the other way around—her haranguing you for the filth, the noise, or something along those lines.”

  “I was ready for it, too. Ready to shock her with my plan to hire young Billy to see to the rubbish each day.” Reed had imagined seeing her tight, scornful mouth fall slack with astonishment and her diatribe to sputter to a halt. He would have relished that moment. He’d even shaved for it, put on a fresh shirt, too. And made sure to leave his cravat behind because he knew it would get under her skin to see him without being properly attired. “But then she turned away and set about the chore herself.”

  “Robbing you of the satisfaction.”

  Reed shrugged. “I just went for a stroll. That’s all. We exchanged glancing verbal blows as we always do, goading each other. But then she”—he scrubbed a hand over his jaw, worrying the pad of his thumb over the nick—“looked at me like I was going to . . . As if I was capable of . . .”

  He couldn’t finish. The words were too abhorrent to speak aloud.

  As a boy, he’d witnessed his own mother getting a drubbing by her second husband, a prig of an aristocrat with a sense of entitlement. And Reed had always felt responsible for the suffering she’d endured. After all, it was because of him that she married Lord Bray in the first place.

  A new widow, Mum had been managing the tavern on her own. Still considered the fairest beauty in the county, there was a line of men wanting to step in and help her by way of marriage. But she never gave any of them the time of day.

  Lord Bray, a regular traveler to the inn, saw this as some sort of contest. He flashed his charlatan’s smile and offered a fine future for her son and any other children she might have during their arrangement.

  Doubtless, Bray expected accolades for being a magnanimous noble. A regular hero of the moment. But Mum didn’t see it that way. Refusing to be any man’s mistress, she gave him a flat setdown in front of a roomful of sniggering men.

  Then, for reasons known only to Bray and the many pints he’d drunk, he’d offered to make her his wife instead. And she’d accepted.

  Reed’s stomach still turned at the thought. He’d never forget the way that Bray smiled as he beat her, leaving her to cower in the corner as he reminded her that he’d married beneath his station.

  Reed had been a runt at the time and too scrawny to do much about it, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying. Usually he got a slap across the face before the blighter went off somewhere else to get pissed. But the last time Lord Bray had something else in mind.

  The servants were off for the afternoon on St. Stephen’s Day, and the carriage house was empty. Bray had caught Reed feeding a stray puppy, which he’d kept against orders to the contrary. Enraged, his stepfather started kicking the helpless, yowling creature. When Reed tried to stop him, Bray turned his fury on him. And for a fop, he’d sure known how to land plenty of rib-cracking blows.

  Reed had been doubled over and spitting up blood when Lord Bray reared back to kick him, too. That was when Finch showed up—an orphaned stable boy, big as a man at ten years old—and knocked Bray onto his entitled arse.

  But Bray had taken exception to the assault on his noble self and reached into one of the carriages for a loaded pistol kept under the bench. Reed had had just enough time and strength to push Finch out of the way.

  They’d saved each other’s lives that day. As a prize, Reed had won a friend for life, and a scar on his shoulder where the ball had grazed him.

  The puppy had not survived, however, and neither had Lord Bray. That very day, he’d left for his mistress’s house only to find her with another man—her husband, as it turned out. Bray had been killed in a field of honor the following morning.

  Honor, indeed.

  Even after his death, Mum’s spirit had been so broken by the abuse that she’d rushed into two more abysmal marriages while Reed had been away at university. And his own beatings hadn’t stopped with Bray.

  The sons of aristocrats had taken exception to him sharing the same room and board with their lofty selves, and thought to teach him a lesson. Every single day.

  But Miss Ainsley Bourne didn’t know any of that. No, she’d sooner believe that he was a monster, capable of striking a woman. And why, because he was a commoner and former prizefighter? Because he offered lessons and sparred to keep fit? Did she think that because he ran a gaming hell, he lacked any semblance of right and wrong?

  “Whatever Miss Bourne thinks, it matters not,” Reed said to Finch.

  His friend made no effort to conceal his dubious expression. “Clearly.”

  “All that concerns me is the future of Sterling’s. I wouldn’t waste my time thinking about some hoity-toity matchmaking agency.”

  Reed was still trying to leave his mark and amass a fortune. If there was one lesson he’d learned from his father’s untimely death, it was how quickly dreams could end. Not only for oneself, but for everyone who depended upon you.

  “And yet, here you are, with your thoughts on—” Finch’s reply was cut short, his wary gaze darting down to the floor.

  Reed followed his gaze and saw a white-and-gray piebald cat. “And what are you doing out of my rooms?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if that devil’s spawn picked the lock,” came Finch’s contemptuous response. “I caught her in the kitchen earlier. The instant I told her to jump down from the worktable, she looked directly at me and then nudged a glass off the edge, shattering it on the floor. I’m convinced that she knew precisely what she was doing.”

  Winding a trail of pale fur over Reed’s dark trousers, the cat lifted her head and blinked one green eye as if to say she was completely innocent. Her other eye was a cloudy blue, bisected with a diagonal scar that ran from the top of her fist-sized skull to her jaw. Part of one ear was gone as well.

  He’d found her a year ago, half-starved in the back alley. She’d scratched him up good for the first few months, daring only to show her face when he brought food. But he’d been patient, and gradually she’d warmed to him enough that she’d come inside, and even slept beside him most days.

  Still, she was a skittish thing, finicky when it came to allowing anyone to pet her. So he always waited for her signal, which she gave him now. Stretching up with a single paw, she sank her claws into the leg of his trousers. And into his flesh as well.

  Chiding her with a tsk, he reached down to dislodge those razor points and scooped her up into the crook of his arm, running a hand down her silky length.

  Tucked against him, she purred contentedly. “Surely not. My clever cat would never cause mischief. You must have frightened her.”

  When his friend rolled his eyes, Reed laughed, knowing the truth. She was a wicked little minx when she wanted to be.

  “Perhaps if you gave her a name, we c
ould scold her and train her.”

  “The last time I tried that, she didn’t come near me for a week. Has a temper, this one,” he said, scratching behind her good ear. The weight of her head fell slack with bliss in his palm. “She prefers ‘Cat’ to anything else. And besides, she’s already trained. Fetches all manner of things and brings them to my office.”

  “Dead things,” Finch said, frowning with distaste. “Yet another of those disgusting traits cats have.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t treat her like some misbegotten stray then she’d warm to you, too.”

  Abruptly, she leapt out of Reed’s arms and landed directly at Finch’s feet, pausing there to clean her paws, or ready her claws—one could never be too sure.

  “She’d sooner scratch out my eyes.”

  When she twitched her tail, Finch took an automatic step back, watching warily until she sauntered off.

  Issuing a malcontented grunt, he walked to one of the door panels hidden in the walls. Behind it was a narrow corridor, meant for keeping watch over the patrons at the tables. Finch also kept his overcoat in this one. He shrugged into it as he added, “Though you should take some of your own advice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Miss Bourne. You treat her as if she is the sole representative of the class you abhor so much.”

  “And why not? She sees me as nothing more than a common-born brute, who’d dared to infiltrate society and rub elbows with the upper crust.”

  “Though you’re not concerned in the slightest what her opinion of you might be.”

  “That’s right,” Reed said with a hint of warning.

  Finch chuckled and reached inside to remove his hat from one of the pegs. And for such a large head, it was a considerable hat. “Though it could be that her reaction had little to do with you in particular. She might have been uncertain about standing next to any imposing man on the pavement. It’s happened to me more often than not.”

  “She’s never shrunk away from me before. Never been afraid to confront me about the rubbish. Never been afraid to speak her mind, either. No, this was different. This was . . .”