Max was not certain what he was doing in the crowded ballroom of Lady Chatham’s house. Perhaps it was to prove to his friends that he could walk the line of respectability and they needn’t fear having him around their families like some manner of infectious ailment. Even so, he hugged the shadows, sticking close to the potted ferns, where he could avoid being coerced into dancing with one of the several eligible young ladies in attendance.
“Come, Max, you did not attend simply to skulk in shadows, did you?” Someone queried behind him.
He turned and forced a smile for Declan’s wife, Rosalie. She eyed him with a twinkle in her eye. “I am quite certain there is at least one young lady to tempt you.”
“Oh, there are lovely ladies aplenty, to be certain, but none so lovely as you, Rosalie.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “I prefer to stand here and pine for the one that I let slip through my fingers.”
She rolled her eyes. “Poppycock. As though I would have tempted you from your steadfast bachelor status.”
He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his nape. “Well. No woman is capable of that, I fear.”
“Oh, I do not believe that for an instant. There is someone for everyone.”
What was it about those happily wed that made them hell-bent for everyone around them to wed as well? He held up both hands in mock surrender. “I would never be so disagreeable as to argue with a lady.”
She laughed. “And yet you argue with Aurelia. Incessantly.”
“Ah, yes. Aurelia. Well. We have a special relationship.” There was a gentle euphemism.
“Hm,” she murmured, lifting her drink to her lips and giving him a sly look. “We are in accord on that. Quite special, I think.”
He frowned, not liking the suggestive lilt to her voice. Especially after last week, when he had backed Aurelia into that wall, pushed his hips against her as though she were an eager tavern maid and addressed her so crudely. He had avoided her since then but had not forgotten the look on her face, the sound of her tiny gasp . . . or her tempting shape beneath that filmy night rail. It was not his custom to deny himself. Any other woman he would not have hesitated to touch. To kiss. If she had been anyone else, he would have had that night rail up around her hips in two seconds flat. The very notion was starting to make him hard with lust.
Even more problematic was that he’d decided to forgo Sodom that night and instead returned directly home. He had stroked himself to satisfaction, all the while envisioning her face. A decided first and a new low. Much could be said of him, but it was not his practice to debauch untried girls. Especially when they were the sister of his best friend. If he ever had a doubt, he no longer did. He was going to hell.
“We thrive on discord,” he said now, as though Rosalie needed to understand what he meant by special. He wasn’t going to explain their complicated history, but he’d been around enough matchmaking mamas to recognize a conniving mind, and he didn’t want her to get any ideas when it came to Aurelia and himself. Now that would be a disastrous match. They would likely kill each other within the first week.
“You know what they say of enemies and lovers . . .” she said, looking at him archly . . . almost as though she could read his mind. “It’s a fine line between the two,” she elaborated.
“Your romantic nature is running away with you.”
“Ah, speaking of Aurelia. There she is.” Rosalie nodded toward the ballroom floor. “She’s looking exceptionally fine tonight, is she not?”
A familiar tightness lined his shoulders as he braced himself, preparing for the sight of her . . . the moment their eyes would meet and she would give him that cool, dispassionate look. The empty smile. As though he were nothing. Simply a subject to be sketched in her pad, torn down, and reduced to something of ridicule.
He followed Rosalie’s gaze to Aurelia. She did indeed look exceptionally well. He swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. Like a Mediterranean princess. A sultry red rose in a sea of pale English primrose.
Her hair was swept up in a mahogany mass atop her head. A single long ringlet draped over the smooth expanse of her naked shoulder. She wasn’t wearing the usual ruffles and flounces. No, she was garbed in a sleek amber gown with simple lines that fit her torso tightly before flaring out at the waist. Her gaze was trained on the gentleman waltzing her about the floor—a man who seemed equally attentive to her as well. Bastard.
“What’s she wearing?” he muttered beneath his breath. Her partner’s hand rested not on her dress but on the bare skin of her back above the dress. He glared at the man’s pudgy hand on that smooth, olive-toned back, wanting nothing more than to wrench it free of her. He told himself this was because she was Will’s sister, that he felt protective of her for Will’s sake. Nothing more. That flash of desire he’d had for her last week was an aberration. An anomaly. Thrust him alone with a half-dressed woman and tell him she was off-limits and he would react the same.
“Isn’t the dress stunning? Much more flattering than her usual gowns.”
“What was wrong with her usual gowns?” he grumbled.
“They weren’t precisely memorable.”
This dress was memorable. Or rather, Aurelia in this dress was memorable. The waltz came to an end and another gentleman was already there, waiting for the next dance.
“Aurelia is memorable no matter what she’s wearing,” he murmured, watching her closely as she drifted into the arms of her new partner.
“That’s kind of you to say,” Rosalie said, sounding surprised. “You should tell her that.”
No he shouldn’t. And he wasn’t trying to be kind. Her saucy mouth made her impossible to ignore. That was all he meant. Presently, he simply did not care for the looks she was getting in her gown. Her display of cleavage did not go unnoticed.
Rosalie continued, “I think Aurelia was hoping to attract a little more attention for herself tonight.”
“Why?” He frowned. For some reason, he didn’t like the notion of Aurelia attracting suitors. He’d gotten accustomed to her role as Will’s unwed sister. He’d assumed she would remain just that. A fixture in Will’s household for the years to come, there to quarrel with him whenever he visited.
Rosalie ducked her head evasively. “I should not speak on her behalf. Perhaps you should ask her yourself.”
He returned his gaze to the ballroom floor, stiffening the moment he spotted Mackenzie cutting a direct line for Aurelia. What the hell was he doing here? He’d seen the man around Town, and he knew his reputation. The Scot was ruthless. He was also big. Muscular like a dockworker. He owned several gaming hells and other questionable establishments in Edinburgh and Glasgow and had recently begun expanding into England after he won a popular hell in the rookery.
There was much scandal attached to his acquisition of Rapture. Rumors that he cheated abounded. He had heard the former owner was deep in his cups at the time of the card game, and several people questioned Mackenzie’s right to claim Rapture through such spurious means. Of course, no one challenged him directly. It was said the man carried the vouchers of too many noblemen.
It was also rumored that the Scot’s ruthlessness extended to the bedroom. He was purported to enjoy bed sport of the rough variety. Max’s hands clenched as he thought of Aurelia beneath the burly Scotsman.
And aside from all that, he recalled hearing something about Mackenzie being on the hunt for a blue-blooded bride to give him an added stamp of legitimacy among the ton. He watched grimly as the Scot cut a path for Aurelia, thinking only one thought. Hell no.
Mackenzie stopped before her and bowed over her hand. Surely she would not think him an appropriate suitor. There was a brief exchange between the two and then she was suddenly swept up in the Scot’s arms and waltzing around the room. Senseless chit. He glanced around, searching for Will or Dec, determined that they put a stop to this at once. Only they were nowhere in sight.
“Oh, see there. He’s a handsome gentleman, is he not?” Rosalie commented. “They make a fine couple. She with her dark looks, and he a fair Viking.” He glared briefly at Rosalie. She stood on tiptoes to whisper up at him, “They would make such beautiful babies, do you not think?”
She had lost her bloody mind. Until that moment, he had quite liked Dec’s wife. Now he could toss her out the nearby French doors. If she thought Aurelia and Mackenzie would be making babies together, she was sorely mistaken.
He returned his attention to the dancing couple. At that particular moment, Aurelia tossed her head back and laughed at something Mackenzie said. Clearly she did not know the manner of man with whom she danced. Nor the way that action pulled the bodice of her gown lower, revealing more of her delectable décolletage. Of course, Mackenzie noticed. With her head thrown back, every man in the room feasted on the sight of those impressive breasts.
Max growled low in his throat, wondering at the surge of aggression he felt.
He suddenly lost sight of them among the couples and had to step to the side, searching for them among the whirl of bodies. His tension eased only marginally when he identified Mackenzie again. Fortunately, the Scot stood taller than most of the other dancers, so he was able to spot the man’s dark blond head.
“He’s not eligible,” Max muttered.
“No? What’s wrong with him?”
Was Rosalie still here? He had forgotten about her. He looked down at her, still irked with her earlier comment. She watched him keenly, waiting his explanation. “Everything.”
Rosalie frowned. “You dislike him that much? If he’s truly ineligible, then perhaps I should fetch Will to—”
“No need. I’ll take care of it.” Max started off through the crowd, cutting across the ballroom floor, ignoring the people staring after him, who doubtlessly were marveling that Lord Camden had not only graced the ball of a very proper dame of the ton, but was actually on the dance floor.
He dodged a lady that reached for his arm in an attempt to drag him into conversation—or perhaps a dance. He walked with single-minded purpose toward Aurelia, ready to save her from herself.
No, he was not going to wait for Will to put an end to her flirtation with the likes of Mackenzie.
He was going to end it himself.
Aurelia exhaled in relief when the waltz came to an end. Of all the gentlemen who had danced with her tonight—and there had been a record high number, thanks to her new gown—Mr. Mackenzie was the only one whose stare made her decidedly uncomfortable.
His green eyes were as sharp and cutting as glass, peering into her as though he were trying to evaluate her and decide her worth. Those all-seeing eyes made her feel naked. She almost thought he knew the changes that she had wrought within herself over the last week.
She had taken control of her wardrobe. A long overdue duty perhaps. Gone were the pastels and flounces and ribbons that did nothing for her shape. A necessary change to avoid a fate of spinsterhood. She needed gentlemen to forget everything they had ever heard of her and want to court her.
As the waltz came to an end, Mr. Mackenzie stepped back very properly and performed a quick bow. “Thank you for the dance, my lady.” His Scottish burr rolled over her, and she had to admit that it was rather attractive. Truthfully, the man himself was attractive . . . if not a little overwhelming. He was nearly as tall as Max, but burly, not lean. Unlike Max, he looked as though he had spent half his life plowing a field.
Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. Must she compare every man to Max?
“You’re welcome, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“Perhaps I might call on you?”
Aurelia considered him for a moment. Here was a man who could probably rescue her from her fate—the move to Thurso, the loss of her drawings. Marriage to him could solve everything. And yet she hesitated at the notion. She recalled the feel of his hand at her back. So big it had felt like a giant’s paw.
“I should like that very much,” she said, telling herself she simply had to grow accustomed to the idea. She had to be open to it . . . to him.
He inclined his head, the barest of smiles touching his lips. “Very good, then. Until we meet again.”
She watched as he departed, slipping seamlessly through the crowd. He was handsome. Wealthy. He spoke with an enticing accent. She should be thrilled.
“You do realize Mackenzie is highly unsuitable.”
She stiffened at the sound of Max’s voice. She looked over her shoulder at him and sucked in a small breath. He looked startlingly handsome in his dark evening attire. His too long hair was brushed back from his forehead, but she knew it would not take much to ruin the effect. The first moment she exasperated him, he would drag a hand through the rich brown locks and send it feathering back down over his brow in an artful mess.
Blast, why must she notice things like that? She had known him all her life. His good looks were merely a shell.
Without bothering with a greeting—he had not, after all—she answered, “He cannot be that unsuitable. He was invited here this evening. Lady Chatham would never allow someone unsuitable through the doors.”
“The man has deep pockets. Deep enough to gain him entry to any ballroom.”
“So that makes him unsuitable? He’s rich?” She flicked him a glance of disdain before looking back out at the dance floor as if vastly interested in the view. If he was rich, then all the better. He might be able to help save her family from its impending ruin. So what if he was as big as an ox? She would not let that intimidate her.
Fortunately, at that moment she recognized a familiar face. Young Buckston was heading her way, the gangly youth’s Adam’s apple bobbing almost in rhythm with the music. He was one of the rare few to always beg a dance of her over the years. Even without encouragement, she knew she could rely on him. She smiled, confidant she was about to be rescued from Max’s company.
“I’m certain a conversation with your brother will save you from any future association with Mackenzie,” he said, the threat unmistakable. “He would not approve after I tell him what I know of the man.”
She whipped her gaze back to him and pasted a smile on her face. “Do not meddle in my affairs, Camden.”
“If I see you engaging in reckless behavior, it’s my duty to intervene.”
She resisted the urge to stomp her foot. He would not thwart her. Not when she had finally come up with a plan for her future.
Buckston was closing in, ready to claim his dance. She breathed her relief and shifted position to greet him, feeling quite smug as she turned her back on Camden. The vexing man could be left staring after her in the middle of a dance floor for all she cared. She refused to allow him to stick his nose into her life. She already had a brother and cousin to look out for her. She didn’t need him, too.
Buckston gestured to the dance floor in invitation, that ridiculously large Adam’s apple of his bobbing as he opened his mouth to request his turn with her.
She inclined her head with a smile and extended her hand, ready to place it in his waiting palm, reminding herself to be amenable. Buckston was no longer a kindly dance partner, he was a prospect she must consider.
Suddenly, she was whirled around and pulled into Max’s arms. He swept her past a scowling Buckston and whisked her out onto the dance floor.
Aghast, she stared up at his smug face in astonishment. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Waltzing with you.”
“You don’t dance. With anyone. Ever.”
He frowned momentarily, as though realizing the truth of this reminder. Then he shrugged. “Clearly, I do.”
Furious heat crept over her face, and she tried to pull away.
He tightened his grip on her hand and pressed her closer to his chest. “Stop pulling away from me. People are staring.”
“Because of you,” she hissed. “You are dancing.” She cast a look about the room, her gaze stopping on Rosalie and Violet. They both wore curious expressions as they watched her and Max. Even they knew that Max did not dance.
“You’re Will’s sister. He’s my best friend. No one will think anything of it as long as you stop wiggling to get away. And rid yourself of that sucking-lemon expression while you’re at it.”
“Oh!” She forced herself to relax in his arms. Smiling was a harder feat to accomplish.
He pulled her even closer. “Much better,” he praised.
Her breasts brushed his chest. Her face flamed hot as she remembered the night in the corridor, an encounter that she had been trying so very hard to forget. “You’re a cad. I promised this dance to Buckston.”
“Buckston’s a peacock.”
“He’s a gentleman.”
“Don’t waste your time on him,” he advised.
The man drove her mad. “Mackenzie is unseemly. Buckston a peacock. Is there anyone on this earth good enough for me?”
He didn’t reply, and she risked a look up at him to find him staring down at her. His stormy eyes gazed at her in an unfathomable way that made her chest tighten to the point of discomfort.
She looked away, glad that he did not answer that question . . . but also wondering why he did not.