He would throttle her.
It was Max’s sole thought as he trudged up the hill, his feet squishing in his soaked boots as he escorted the widow across the park to her waiting curricle.
She wept the entire way. And no small, delicate feminine weeping either. She wailed like a lowing cow, exclaiming over the state of her appearance, drawing all eyes their way. He resisted the impulse to shush her. She was embarrassed over what had transpired, to be certain, but her howling only attracted more attention.
He told himself he should not be so surprised. He knew Aurelia was capable of outrageous behavior. It was clear that she wanted him to think it was an accident. Ha! She wanted to punish him for burning her drawing. Even without that discord between them, she would go to any lengths to annoy and pester him. He could almost excuse her for this—he was accustomed to their skirmishes, after all—but the Widow Knotgrass had been innocent in their little war.
Innocent? She had not exactly kept her claws in check with Aurelia. He winced as he cast her a glance. She was murdering his ears with all her caterwauling. His perception of her as an enticing, soft-spoken lady was now shattered.
The maid trotted behind them, holding the widow’s discarded parasol and pieces of her lost hair. Max tried not to look at the mangled chunks of hair that resembled slaughtered rodents, but he couldn’t help his lip from curling. Again his thoughts returned to Aurelia and the ear-blistering he would give her when he caught up to her. It was bad enough she was the reason he had sought out the widow in the first place. He’d thought a good tupping might take his mind off Aurelia and her stupid quest for a husband. He thought it might help him forget the devastated look on her face when he flung that scroll into the fire. At the very least he would exorcise his lusts so he would stop getting so inconveniently aroused in Aurelia’s company. At least that had been his reasoning.
“My lord, you’re hurting me,” Widow Knotgrass complained, tugging on her arm.
“My apologies.” He quickly loosened his grip.
She sniffed, looking mollified. “And you’re walking much too fast. I cannot keep up.”
He sucked in a breath, reaching deep inside himself for patience as he slowed his pace to a crawl. Aurelia was likely fleeing for home already. From the one glimpse he’d had of her face—her wide eyes and sagging mouth—he knew she was afraid of him. And rightly so. His jaw clenched. He was not finished with her. Not by any means. He merely needed to free himself of the weeping woman at his side so that he could track down his quarry before she locked herself in her bedchamber and hid from him for the remainder of the Season.
She’d have to come out eventually, he assured himself. She was intent on winning a husband, after all. For some reason, this only made his mood darker. His free hand flexed at his side in anticipation of unleashing his ire on her.
“She should be horsewhipped,” the widow complained between gulping sobs, stepping high and holding out her soggy skirts. “She deserves no less. You should call on her brother and see that she is punished.”
He stared straight ahead, struggling to slow his stride for her dragging pace. A prickly feeling swept over his chest as he listened to this woman disparage Aurelia. “It was an accident,” he heard himself say, defending her.
“She’s a menace. That one should be kept on a tight leash,” the widow complained. “Her family should put her in a sanitarium.”
He released a long-suffering breath. “Come now. That’s a trifle extreme, don’t you think?”
She blinked at him. “I am serious. It’s done, you know. For women of her mercurial temperament.”
He shook his head. The chit was abhorrent. He could not hide from that reality any longer. He’d prefer sharing a bed with a diseased monkey. He wanted nothing more than to deposit her in her curricle and be rid of her for good. She tempted him no more. He supposed he could thank Aurelia for giving him the opportunity to see her true colors . . . but he rather resented the fact that she had provided him with that insight.
Max enjoyed his bed sport. He didn’t need great insight into the character of the females he enjoyed. He took his pleasure, gave it in return, and then moved on. Aurelia had made that impossible in this instance and he entirely blamed her.
“Camden,” the widow whined. “You’re still walking much too quickly.”
He slowed his pace yet again, convinced that if he went any slower he would be standing still.
His gaze scoured the far edges of the park, searching for a glimpse of Aurelia in the rolling green. He knew she was fleeing for home not a far distance from where they were. She enjoyed her walks. She would not have made use of a carriage or mount on so short a length. He would overtake her on horseback.
He dragged a bracing breath deep into his lungs. No more of her pranks. This had gone far enough. No more of her sharp tongue. It would end this day. Once and for all.
Reaching the curricle, he assisted the widow up into it and closed the door after her. He had tied his horse to the back of the conveyance earlier so that they could ride together, but his only goal right now was to reclaim his mount and go after Aurelia. His blood pumped harder at the thought of delivering her a much deserved set-down.
“Lord Camden! Where are you going?” Mrs. Knotgrass demanded from where she sat, her hair hanging in wet tangles around her. For some reason he had a flash of Aurelia’s hair . . . the dark mahogany flowing freely over her shoulders. He blinked, banishing the mental comparison and focused on the woman before him. There was not a man who would turn from the invitation in the widow’s eyes. And yet he did not want her. Bloody hell.
He bowed smartly. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Her face reddened. “We did not even yet have our picnic . . .”
He motioned to his person. “I am hardly in a fit state.” It would be ungentlemanly to point out that she was not either.
She moistened her chattering lips and pouted. “But we had been having such a lovely time.”
Had they? He recalled their interaction before they happened on Aurelia. He’d been going through the motions . . . flirting, praising her beauty, entertaining her with empty conversation. And he had never been more bored. Not that he was one to share anything of himself with his paramours—but she had not asked a single thing about him.
She reached out and covered his hand with her own. “No need for it to end so soon. We can retire to my house. My servants can see to your clothes . . . while we make ourselves more comfortable in my rooms . . .”
There was no mistaking her meaning. It was what he thought he wanted from her. He slipped his hand free and moved to untether his mount from the back of her carriage. She watched him, her eyes narrowing in clear affront.
“I appreciate the kind offer, but I could not impose on you. Recently widowed . . . you’re too vulnerable. And I must think to your reputation.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.
From her bewildered expression, she did not believe he cared one whit for her reputation. “This opportunity, my lord,” she said tightly, “will never come again.”
He shrugged lightly, still smiling. “I will suffer the regret.”
Her lips compressed into a hard line. She leaned back in her carriage and called for her driver to move.
Max did not linger. As far as he was concerned, he had already dallied too long. He mounted in one smooth motion and turned in the direction of the Merlton town house. Digging his heels in, he set off at a gallop across the park.