The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

  The crowd went silent for a breath in an almost comical pause. Reed would’ve laughed, but there was no humor in this moment. The simple truth was, Nigel Mitchum was ruining his life.

  Ainsley would lose everything if he didn’t fight. And she would never forgive him if he did.

  There was no way to win at all.

  * * *

  The scene at Sterling’s was a foul nightmare of perspiring men pressed together, shoving, shouting, and cursing. Ainsley could hear grunts and the sickening wet slaps of hand to body blows.

  Men were already chanting. “Hit him, Sterling! Give him a solid facer.”

  While many others were cheering for Mitchum to “Bloody ’is nose—that’s right! Crack ’im in the ribs!”

  She tried pushing through the crowd, but never got far enough. Thankfully, she spotted Mr. Finch towering over everyone else. She flapped her arms to get his attention.

  “You should not be here, Mrs. Sterling,” he said when he came to her side.

  “I have to stop this madness before it’s too late.”

  “It isn’t a sight that any woman would want to see.”

  “Well, it’s good that I’m not just any woman, then. I’m his wife,” she said proudly. “Now take me to him.”

  In order to get through the crowd, Finch had to pick her up like a child, an arm locked around her waist. By the time he pushed through to the ring and set her down, Reed was bloodied and bruised. And in his expression, she saw resignation. He seemed to be holding back.

  Nigel took advantage, pummeling him, blow after blow.

  “Stop this!” she shouted. “Stop this at once!”

  No one heard her. She kept trying, pushing in front of the cheering horde, waving her arms. But Reed didn’t even look her way. She had to get his attention.

  Desperate, she swept under the ropes and into the ring. Yet standing at the far side, he still didn’t look at her. Which, she supposed, was for the best since he had someone hitting him. But she had to tell him before it was too late for her words to make a difference.

  So she did the only thing she could think of—she rushed up to the fight.

  Confronting her own nightmare, she tried to pull Nigel away, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. But he didn’t even budge, or seem to know she was there at all. She shouldn’t be surprised. He never had before. The only thing that mattered to Nigel was Nigel. She’d always hated that about him. His poor little fragile ego couldn’t bear to think about anyone other than himself, his appearance, and how everyone saw him.

  If only she had a large mirror to put in front of him. It would distract him for hours. Aside from that, humiliation was the only other way to defeat a man like—

  Her breath caught on an epiphany. Suddenly, she knew just what she had to do to stop the fight.

  Stepping back, she drew in a deep breath for courage, and then . . . pulled down Nigel’s trousers. Since his arse was so flat and flabby, it took little effort.

  The crowd exploded in laughter. Nigel stumbled back, legs tangled. It was just the opportunity she needed.

  She skirted in front of Reed and took his battered face in her hands, blood seeping from a cut on his brow and another from his lip. “What are you doing?”

  Reed blinked a few times then grinned at her, almost drunkenly. “I’m not fighting, highness. Not really. You see, I listen to every word you say.”

  “The first time you decide to do as I ask and this is what I get? Insufferable man.”

  She growled, tears flowing down her cheeks while simultaneously drying up in the steam of her exasperation. Stripping a handkerchief from her sleeve, she began to wipe his face.

  “It was the only way I could win the prize I really wanted. You, just you.”

  Ainsley wanted to throttle him. “And now you’re bleeding. Didn’t you think for a moment that, perhaps, the reason I didn’t want you to fight was because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being hurt?”

  “I have a hard head. Did you like the teapot?” He smiled wider, causing his lip to bleed more.

  “Stop that,” she said, fussing over it. “Weren’t you thinking about what you’d be leaving behind if something worse happened to you before I got here? Take Seymour, for instance. Who will look after her?”

  “I imagine you’ll do a fair job of it.”

  Ainsley wasn’t getting through to him. He still looked dazed. So she tried a new tactic. “And I suppose you’d expect me to raise little Lancelot all on my own.”

  His breath caught and he blinked, his eyes gradually clearing. “You are not naming my son Lancelot.”

  “With you gone, who would’ve stopped me, hmm?”

  He shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face, and eyed her reprovingly. “Your own good sense, I should hope.”

  “Well then, what if my second husband would have been a gamester, spending your fortune before being carted off to debtor’s prison. Where would I be then?”

  Reed took her by the waist, jaw tight. “What second husband?”

  At last, he was back.

  “You don’t actually believe, now that you’ve awakened me to passion, I could simply bury all my desires. I would need a man who . . .”

  He crowded her, his feet on either side, her skirts bunching between them. “What kind of man, highness?”

  “You, just you,” she said fiercely, using his own words. “I love you far, far too much to ever give you up.”

  Then, rising up on her toes, she kissed him. The sea of men watching cheered and bawdy comments ensued, along with a few whistles. Her reputation as a respectable matchmaker might be in tatters by the time she finished, but that didn’t matter.

  “Now,” she said, drawing back on a breath, “I want you to fight him. And, more importantly, I want you to win.”

  Reed was about to say something—an argument by the look of his flattened brow—but then Finch shouted.

  “Sterling! Get down!”

  Ainsley turned as Reed grabbed her. In the same instant, she saw Nigel holding a flintlock dueling pistol. And when the shot rang out, she screamed.

  Chapter 36

  “What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had brought out!”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Reed dove to the floor with Ainsley curled beneath him, the shot ringing in his ears.

  He clung to her, his hands roving over her back, her arms, her torso. She was doing the same, her soft hands clutching him. He studied her face, her tight grimace, hearing a pained groan from her lips.

  No . . . no . . . no. Not her. But where was she hit? He started his frantic search all over again.

  Then softly she said, “You’re so heavy.”

  He stilled over her, panting every breath. “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. Are”—tears flooded her eyes—“you?”

  “No.” Though the truth was, he wasn’t sure.

  Every sense was solely focused on her. She was so small beneath him, so fragile. He grasped her hands, kissing them. Then the sounds of the club started to filter in. Dozens of shouts merged together.

  Raven’s voice penetrated the melee. “He’s down!”

  Then Finch bellowed, “Take the pistol!”

  Reed slowly turned his head, and he saw who was hit.

  Savage was down, gripping his shoulder, blood pooling on the floor. He scowled at Reed, growling, “You’re a pain in my arse, Sterling. Don’t you even know how to win a fight when all my coin’s on you?”

  The crowd started to close in to aid Savage, obscuring Reed’s view. Flicking a glance past them, he saw Finch wrenching Mitchum’s arms behind his back. Normally, Finch’s meaty grip and strength could subdue any man. But Mitchum was wild-eyed and writhing like a madman, sinking lower and lower to put the giant at a disadvantage.

  Trouble was brewing.

  Reed started to rise, keeping Ainsley tucked beneath him.

  Then all at once, Mitchum leapt up, hittin
g Finch in the chin, knocking him off balance for a second.

  But that was all it took.

  He slipped free, darting to the outskirts of the room toward the door.

  Without hesitation, Reed sprang to his feet. Barreling through a line of patrons, he cut across the room.

  They faced off on either side of the stairs. Then Mitchum came at him on a yell, shoulders down to charge.

  Reed set his feet apart, hauled back, and landed one single punch.

  That was all it took.

  Mitchum stopped cold. The whites of his eyes rolled to the back of his head and, stiff as a board, he fell to the floor.

  * * *

  Later that night, and standing near the washstand in her bedchamber, Ainsley fussed over Reed, dabbing the wet toweling over the cuts on his face. “This one on your brow has closed. However, if you don’t stop smiling, the one on your lip will never heal.”

  And because he was such a compliant and patient man, she rose up to press a kiss there. He responded by edging closer, his hands gripping her hips, aligning their bodies.

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that,” he said, trailing his mouth to the underside of her jaw. “This is the best prize I’ve ever received from a fight.”

  “Which part, being bludgeoned or nearly shot?”

  It had been hours since the fight, but she still shuddered to think about it all.

  She was thankful that Lord Savage had only been grazed in the shoulder and stitched up by a surgeon. But even more grateful that Nigel had been carted off in leg shackles and irons. At the very least, he would be transported for his crimes and she could finally put it all behind her.

  “You forgot to mention having kissed me soundly in front of an entire gaming hell. Surely, that was breaking a rule.”

  “I was forced by circumstance.”

  He grinned again. “I hate to tell you, but your actions today have ruined your chances for ridding St. James’s of Sterling’s. Those who thought my wicked character might be tainted by a prim and proper wife now believe it is the other way around. My patrons are more loyal to me than ever.”

  “A strange tale, indeed, for I heard the opposite—that the Bourne Matrimonial Agency has secret ways of bringing devilish rogues to heel. My clients are more loyal to our cause than ever.”

  When he reached that sensitive place beneath her ear, she abandoned the bath for the moment, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “But that isn’t even the prize I meant,” he said, nuzzling.

  “It isn’t?”

  “I was talking about you. You’re all I’ve wanted from the first moment.”

  “Hmmm . . . You’ve been reading my uncle’s poetry,” she teased.

  Pulling her flush, his lips pressed softly to her temple, her cheek, then her lips. He lingered sweetly in a familiar way that made her think he was telling her a secret. And when he looked at her, that secret was also in his eyes.

  “One day, nearly two years ago, I looked out the window and saw my new neighbors moving into the townhouse across from me,” he began, holding her gaze. “I wanted to laugh at all the fuss and bother, but then I saw this woman lift her face to the rain. It only lasted an instant, but there was something so fragile and serene in her that she called to me like nothing else had ever done before. I couldn’t explain it at the time but I felt a gnawing emptiness inside. I’d worked hard for everything I’d possessed, and yet I’d never absorbed a single moment completely the way she had done. And I was captivated by her.”

  Ainsley’s heart began to race, her lips parting. “Who . . . who was she?”

  A slow smiled curled his lips, telling her to be patient. “I knew that if I could get close enough to her, she could teach me how to absorb every small moment. And I was right. Whenever we met, time slowed down, noises faded, the constant driving voice in my head went quiet, and all that was left was her.

  “And she’s smart, and adamant about the rubbish on her doorstep,” he continued, his low drawl burrowing deep inside her. “She can flay a man alive with one lash of her tongue. And she’s so beautiful that it makes me ache to stand close to her and not touch her.” His hands skimmed down her back, loosening the fastenings of her dress, exploring her skin with unfathomable gentleness. “And even from the first day, whenever she looked at me, her eyes would go dark as coffee and I wondered for the longest time if she was feeling the same way, but hiding it better.”

  “She was,” Ainsley whispered, tears clogging her throat, blurring her vision. “It sounds as if . . . as if you loved her.”

  He took her face in his hands, collecting her tears, kissing them away. “And I will for all the days of my life.”

  She sniffed and threaded her fingers through his hair, fitting her body against his. “Pretty words, Mr. Sterling. But a man proves himself with his actions.”

  “Then perhaps I shall employ lengthy measures to prove myself.”

  Tilting up her chin, he took possession of her lips, the kiss unfolding slowly, leaving no part of her unclaimed. His hand roved down to her bottom, lifting her, seating her against the hard ridge beneath the fall front of his trousers. And she arched, cradling the hard ridge of his sex with the softness of her own.

  “I love you. Every part of you,” she whispered fiercely, sliding her mouth along the ridge of his jawline, taking his earlobe between her teeth. “The tender parts. The fighting parts. The maddeningly patient parts . . .”

  “The wicked parts?” He rocked against the low, liquid throb in her body.

  A tremor rolled through her on a gasp, a promise of the quake to follow. “Especially the wicked parts.”

  Wasting no time, he crossed the room to the bed and set her on her feet, deftly stripping her out of her dress and undergarments.

  His hungry, mismatched eyes roamed over her naked body and he breathed in deeply. “Lie back, highness. Let me have you.”

  She did so without hesitation, her arms above her head. “What are you going to do with me, Mr. Sterling?”

  The nick on his upper lip winked at her when he grinned.

  Epilogue

  “What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him!”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Seven Years Later

  August

  Matthew slouched down on the grass and sighed with the exhaustion only a six-year-old could feel when being kept from the new pony at the stables. “Why are we giving flowers to Mum? You already gave her one this morning, like you do every morning.”

  “Because they make her smile,” Reed said, tousling his son’s brown hair. “Now, pick one of those pink stonecrops by your feet.”

  “I’m bringing her a perfect violet,” Arthur said, his blue eyes squinting at the petals of the flower he just picked before tossing it to the ground and reaching for another.

  Reed glanced down to the carnage of not-quite-perfect blossoms and chuckled. “Those are geraniums. And your mum likes them even if they’re rough around the edges, son.”

  Apparently, Arthur disagreed and tossed another to the ground.

  The twins were identical in every way except demeanor. Their natures were split evenly between those of their parents. Where Matthew was rowdy, Arthur was reserved. Matthew would occasionally sing a bawdy tavern song—which he may have overheard purely by accident—while his brother could not carry a tune in a two-gallon pail but could win any card game with his eyes closed.

  Together they could argue the bark off a tree. But they could also conspire mischief like master criminals. The twins were a force. And no children had ever been loved more, Reed was certain.

  “The only reason Arthur called them violets,” Matthew said in singsong, “is because he thinks that’s the color of Arabella’s eyes.”

  “Do not.”

  Reed looked from one to the other. “Do you mean your Uncle Raven’s daughter?”

  Matthew answered for his brother. “He wants to marry her. He even wrote her a poem, the way
Granduncle does for Grandmum.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so. I saw it tucked beneath your pillow. You compared her eyes to violets and her lips to strawberry tarts.”

  Arthur stiffened and faced Reed, pointing a finger at his smirking brother who lounged back on the grass with his arms folded behind his head. “Dad, as the eldest, I demand my own bedchamber. I will no longer endure the nonsense of this child.”

  “I’m only twenty minutes younger.”

  “And clearly, an entire lifetime of wisdom apart.”

  Knowing this was serious to his eldest child, Reed did his best not to laugh. Resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, he said, “We’ll talk to your mother about it. Come on then, let’s go inside. Matthew, do you have a flower yet?”

  Grunting, the younger twin swiped absently at the low shrub before he slowly lumbered to his feet as if he were six hundred years old. “I still don’t see why Mum needs more flowers when it’s the perfect day for riding the pony.”

  “Because she deserves something special to press in a remembrance book.”

  “But why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Inside, Reed quietly opened the bedchamber door and peered inside. Soft golden light spilled through the window over Ainsley, sitting up against the bolster pillow. Her face glowed, her chestnut hair falling in a plait over her shoulder. And when she smiled at him, his heart beat in a contented rhythm. It happened each time without fail.

  Every day, Reed marveled at how much he loved her, then the next day he would love her all the more.

  Crossing the room, he pressed his lips to hers, breathing in the sweet scent of her skin, her soft hand caressing his cheek. Then he bent to kiss the tiny forehead peeking out from the bundle on her lap, and wondered dimly if a man could die from such happiness.

  “Are you ready for visitors, highness?”

  “Of course,” she whispered, her voice a little raspier than usual after the long morning’s efforts.

  Their boys came in a slow procession, both of them holding their flowers outstretched in their fists.

  “Come and meet your sister, my loves,” she said, peeling back the blanket just enough to reveal the tiny head covered in dark, wispy curls. “What do you think of her?”