The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

  His words trailed off, his thoughts quick to recall the way she’d recoiled and raised her hands.

  Could it be that her true opinion of him had finally slipped through the cracks? Or was there more to it?

  There had been an unmistakable flash of fear in her eyes that he’d never seen before. And damned if it wasn’t eating at him to know the reason.

  Reed didn’t like the dark suspicion that began to brew in his mind. It left an acidic taste on the back of his tongue.

  “I know that look, Sterling,” Finch said, pausing at the door. “You need to stop right there before it goes any further. She isn’t another stray you need to rescue.”

  His friend teased him often about the people Reed hired to work for him. Most were those who didn’t have anywhere else to go, or those who’d been kicked in the teeth one too many times. But this wasn’t the same.

  Reed stared back at his friend, keeping his expression impassive. “I know that better than you. Miss Bourne is as domesticated as they come. An uppity, headstrong, little pampered housecat.”

  Proof of that was in the way she’d turned her nose up at the primrose. What made it worse was that he’d actually intended to give it to her.

  What a fool he was! She would have tossed it directly into the gutter.

  “Be sure you remember that.” Finch opened the door to the blinding morning light. Then, from the pavement, he hailed a cab and headed home.

  As the dingy yellow coach rumbled out of view, Reed’s gaze drifted to the Bourne Matrimonial Agency, already forgetting his friend’s warning.

  * * *

  Ainsley sagged against the door inside the white-marble foyer. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her pulse hammered at her throat as if she’d just escaped the Tower of London with the crown jewels.

  Yet it wasn’t The Sovereign’s Scepter in her grasp. It was something far more damning, should anyone discover it.

  Warily, she looked down and opened her hand, unfurling one finger after another. And there, lying against her palm, was the discarded primrose.

  Whyever had she picked it up the instant he was out of sight?

  A mere whim? Laughable. She wasn’t an impulsive sort. In fact, she mulled over things quite fixedly, as the corner of her thumbnail could attest.

  A keepsake, then? Ludicrous. Ainsley hadn’t pressed a flower in ages.

  Though . . . it was tempting. At one time, it had been her favorite hobby. She’d often collected flowers alongside her mother, who’d told her that every perfect blossom was a gift to be admired.

  When she was young, Ainsley had agreed. She, too, always looked for perfection, especially in herself.

  Yet as she’d grown older, she discovered that the most beautiful ones were different from the others—not quite symmetrical, missing a petal, or even bruised and trampled underfoot. She believed those deserved admiration just as much as the others. Perhaps even more. And by the time she’d reached four and twenty, she’d had quite the beautifully bedraggled collection.

  Then, one day, that had changed.

  The reason still managed to chill her skin, so she chose not to think about it. She was a firm believer in shutting the door on painful events and unpleasant memories. Even so, her heart still ached when she thought about the day she’d thrown out most of her collection. Nearly every bloom, every memory of warm, sunlit afternoons with Mother . . . Gone.

  In fact, the only one she’d kept was a single bluebell pressed between the glass frame that hung on the wall in her office upstairs—the flower she’d picked the day Mother had died.

  And now, a stray primrose.

  Tracing the fragile nick in one of the petals, she did her best not to recall how perfectly sheltered the blossom had been in Reed Sterling’s hand.

  She failed miserably.

  How could such a hand have been so tender? It didn’t seem possible. Prior experience had taught her that men who dabbled in pugilism were seldom gentle. And it was that ingrained knowledge which had resurfaced, against her will, this morning.

  She’d flinched, and she wished she could shut out this memory as well, but she couldn’t this time. Because Reed Sterling had seen her.

  Now, every time she closed her eyes, she could see him staring back at her, suspicion and curiosity sharpening his gaze. Missing nothing.

  It worried her that he would think on this more than was necessary. The same way he had with her fichus. Honestly, what man notices such a trifling thing?

  Her pulse gave another panicked jolt. She didn’t want Reed Sterling puzzling over anything regarding her, especially not from this morning. The secret she and her uncle kept was so damning that it would ruin the agency’s reputation, not to mention her own.

  Though it was clear that her neighbor had been just as surprised by her reaction as she. After all, there hadn’t been a single instance when confronting him on his own doorstep that she’d ever acted afraid of him.

  Because she wasn’t, not really. Though admittedly, she was a cautious person in general. In her opinion, no matchmaker worth her salt should trust too readily.

  Therefore she was going to do what any sensible person would do. She was going to forget about the primrose.

  Then she was going to do something to ensure that Mr. Sterling never thought about this morning again. In fact, she would do whatever she could to rid her life of Reed Sterling and his unsavory establishment altogether. The only problem was, she didn’t know how.

  At least, not yet.

  Chapter 3

  “She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “You’re dawdling again, Ains,” Nigel huffed in exasperation. “We can never go on a walk without you stopping to pick flowers.”

  “But you know it was something I always did with my mother.”

  “Perhaps when you were a little girl and given to childish flights of fancy.” He chided her with a reproving chuckle, brushing the posies from her grasp as he placed her hand on his sleeve. “There. Now you’re all grown up, just the way a man expects his betrothed to be.”

  Ainsley frowned down at the blossoms lying in a tangled heap on the path. Yet, knowing that Nigel’s mood tended toward petulance without the slightest warning, she tried to be understanding.

  “Cannot a newly betrothed woman enjoy the sight of pretty things?” She laughed lightly and slipped free of his grasp to retrieve them.

  He made a sound, something between a hiss and a growl. Then with a quick jerk of his hand, he reached out and snatched her wrist, yanking her upright.

  She gasped. “Nigel—”

  “I told you to leave them.” His features were hard, his complexion blotted the bright red of the berries on the maythorn hedgerow lining the garden. “Don’t try to make a fool of me by disobeying. The only flowers you’re going to have are the ones I give you. Do you understand?”

  No, she didn’t. Her main concern in that moment was in trying to pry his fingers from her wrist. But he only gripped tighter, cutting off the blood flow to her hand. Her fingertips felt as if they might explode from the pulsing pressure. “You’re hurting me.”

  He looked down, and his expression altered again. A disconcerting smile curled his lips as he peeled his fingers away, one by one, revealing the red-violet impressions he’d left behind.

  “Look what you’ve made me do, Ains. All those boxing lessons must have made me stronger than I thought. But if you would have listened and done the proper thing, then none of this would have happened. And look at my sleeve. You’ve stained it with your flower stems. Am I supposed to take care of your mistakes now, in addition to putting up with your disrespect? Is that how my life is going to be?”


  He was so convincing in his ire that Ainsley felt a renewed rush of panic and confusion. Had she caused this by thinking only of herself? By being childish?

  “Forgive me,” she said in haste, eager to put their relationship back to where it was a moment ago. “I’m sure I can brush that out and there won’t be a stain.”

  He tsked her, almost fondly, and lifted her hand to press a kiss to the marred flesh. “There’s a good girl. Let’s put all this behind us. It’s my own folly that I’m so fond of you, for no other man would put up with your immaturity. Then again, I’ve always had a good deal of tolerance for imperfection. But don’t worry, Ains, by the time we wed, I’ll turn you into a right proper wife.”

  Ainsley gasped awake. She clawed at the coverlet, kicking to be free. To escape.

  Everything was dark around her and it took a breathless moment to orient herself.

  Then she heard the sounds from outside—the crunch of carriage wheels on cobblestone, drunken singing, revelry, and laughter—and suddenly she knew where she was.

  Sitting up in bed, her heart pounded so hard she thought it would escape the cage of her ribs. She curled her knees to her chest, telling herself it was just a dream.

  Then she shook her head in self-derision. “So much for believing you could shut out those memories for good.”

  She knew exactly who to blame for this, too. Reed Sterling.

  If it wasn’t for him, then she never would have done the unthinkable.

  The unpardonable.

  The very thing she’d warned herself against.

  She’d pressed the primrose.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Ainsley found herself pacing the floor of her office.

  Normally, the Pomona green room was a place of solace. Surrounding her were the furnishings from the Hampshire cottage where she’d lived with her mother and sisters for sixteen years. The cream-upholstered chairs from the parlor. The rosewood table from the hall. The oil landscape above the mantel from the morning room.

  On any given day, she could look around and feel a sense of permanence—of sameness—that both comforted and grounded her.

  This was especially true of the book lying in the center of her blotter. Emma had been Mother’s favorite, and she’d gifted a different volume of the strong-minded matchmaker’s story to each of her daughters shortly before her death. Ainsley kept it here, where she spent most of her time, and it always served as a good reminder of her purpose.

  Until this moment.

  Now, the book was a veritable Pandora’s box.

  Knitting her fingers, she slid a wary glance to the red leather tome. A fringe of vellum peeked out from between the pages, tempting her to have one more look of the butter-yellow petals. But to do so might unleash all manner of chaos in her life.

  No, it was best to leave it alone. Or to get rid of it for good.

  Yet just as she reached out to slip the vellum free and toss it into the fire, she heard a cheerful greeting from the doorway. “Good morning.”

  Guilty, Ainsley jerked her hand back. She swung around to see her youngest sister skirt sideways into the office, carrying a tea tray just above the slight swell of her midriff. “Briar, you shouldn’t be carrying such things in your delicate condition.”

  “Fear not, mother hen, it isn’t heavy,” she tsked, her cornflower-blue eyes rolling toward the ceiling. Clearly, she was still unaware that worrying about the family came second nature to Ainsley.

  Abandoning her own task for the moment, she hurried across the rug. “Here. Let me have this.”

  Briar expelled an exasperated puff of air that displaced the pale curling tendrils from her forehead. Even so, she relinquished the overladen tray. Then, taking a step to the glossy maple wood bureau, she lowered the hinged platform. “I cannot manage to leave or enter a room without someone offering their assistance. With four months to wait until the blessed arrival, I’m not ready to retire to the country. Yet I suppose I must. Especially if everyone sees me as an ungainly elephant plodding around in a day dress.”

  “Hardly. You are the portrait of beauty and grace as always. It’s simply that you have far too many people who love you and want to dote on you.”

  Briar grumbled as she arranged the cups and saucers. “Even Nicholas is forever offering to rub my feet if I so much as walk ten paces, and I always give in. Anyone would if they knew how exceptional he is with his . . .” Her words trailed off, a pink blush coloring her cheeks.

  “Oh, the trials you endure,” Ainsley said with a small laugh, hoping to hide the reprehensible—but unmistakable—twinge of jealousy that speared her.

  At one time, she’d had dreams of such a husband who would care for her and offer support whenever it was needed. But those had turned to nightmares with Nigel.

  When their betrothal had ended, she’d been left with the irrefutable knowledge that she would never marry because she would never be able to trust again. Not even herself. After all, it was her own mind that had foolishly led her astray.

  “My first husband was just the same when I was in a delicate way,” announced another voice from the door. “Wouldn’t think a rake could be so gentle and sweet, but . . . ah . . . he was the finest of men. My very own knight in armor.”

  Ainsley and Briar turned to see Mrs. Teasdale saunter into the room as if she belonged there. As if she were a member of the family. Yet Rosamunde Teasdale was merely a client of the agency’s. One day she’d shown up with her knitting, stating her desire to find a bride for her son and a new husband for herself, and never left.

  That was nearly a year ago. Since then, she’d become something of a fixture, much to Uncle Ernest’s dismay. At any given moment during the three days a week the agency hung the knocker on the door, one might catch a glimpse of her wandering the halls, trailing yarn behind her. This was usually accompanied by Uncle Ernest darting into rooms to avoid her and her garish attire.

  Today’s frock was a bright ocher color that any woman of fifty—and a widow four times over—wouldn’t dare. Though somehow it matched her brash personality and highlighted the sorrel brown of her hair, detracting from the heavy threading of silver.

  “No knitting today?” Ainsley asked, steering the conversation away from the topic of Mrs. Teasdale’s perfect first husband. Even a matchmaker could stomach only so many romantic tales of marriage in one morning.

  “Left it in the parlor. I’m making tiny booties for Briar’s little lord of the manor, and for—”

  “You think it will be a boy?” Briar interrupted, a hand splayed over the tender protrusion.

  “Of course,” she said with a matter-of-fact nod, gesturing with the teacup and saucer that Briar had just handed to her. “You’re all in front, the same way I was with my boy. Girls are in the hips, the way your sister carried her little Emma. I’ve made a pair of booties for her as well.”

  “I’m sure Jacinda will be delighted,” Ainsley lied. Those knitting creations were often perplexing and as mismatched as . . . well . . . as Reed Sterling’s eyes.

  At the thought, she felt an unwarranted rush of heat climb to her cheeks. She averted her face to avoid notice, but just in time to see the middle sister—the most observant of the three of them—enter through the connecting door of the adjoining office.

  Though thankfully, Jacinda appeared distracted. Not to mention a trifle winded.

  With the back of her hand, she pushed a lock of auburn hair from her brow. Her robin’s egg–blue eyes glowed with warmth, her cheeks flushed. “And why, precisely will I be delighted?”

  “Because I’m making booties for Emma.”

  “Oh, lovely. Something to look forward to, then.” Jacinda turned to take her cup of tea from Briar and all but swallowed it down in one gulp.

  Ainsley scrutinized her sister, taking note of her unusually wrinkled green taffeta. “Why are you so out of breath? If you are feeling unwell and that is the reason you are late, then—”

  “Never been better,” s
he answered with a secret grin before helping herself to a scone. “Actually, I’ve been here for a spell. But Mrs. Darden wanted to see Emma and time must have gotten away from me.”

  “Your sash has come untied,” Briar said, tugging at the loose end of the dark gold ribbon.

  “Has it?” Jacinda glanced over her shoulder and, catching sight of it, her ears colored. “Well, I did step away from the kitchen for a moment to fetch something from the linen closet and since it was on the very top shelf . . . Crispin had to assist me.”

  Briar hiccupped a laugh, her eyes bright and knowing. “Husbands are quite helpful in closets.”

  “Indeed, they are,” Mrs. Teasdale agreed with a dreamy sigh. “Why else would I have been married four times? Though none were quite as passionate as number one. Reformed scoundrels make the best husbands.”

  At seven and twenty, Ainsley was not clueless about the subject matter. She knew that married couples engaged in certain activities that resulted in children, but the subject did not hold her interest.

  She’d never been a particularly passionate person. For the most part, she kept her emotions subdued as well.

  As the oldest, she’d never had the luxury of being brokenhearted when Father abandoned them, or scared when Mother never left her bed again. No, for she had sisters who needed her and a house to manage as well. From the age of twelve she was seeing to household matters that her melancholic mother could not. Living in London and traveling abroad, Father had stopped sending money to pay the salaries for the servants, forcing them to find other positions. This also left Ainsley, her younger sisters, and Mrs. Darden to see to the house and gardens. There had not been time for daydreaming.

  Much later, after they’d lived with Uncle Ernest for a number of years, Ainsley had met Nigel.

  Even then, she had not been plagued with any ardent hungers. She’d simply been looking forward to having someone help her look after the estate and her sisters. And during the few stolen kisses she’d shared with him, he’d expressed greater fondness in criticizing her efforts than in the intimacy itself. It did not take long before she’d lost all desire to engage in the activity.