All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue (The Debutante Files #2)(3)

She stifled a sob as she gazed at the rendering. She had fashioned Max into a beautiful angel, his strong profile hallowed in divine light. She snorted at her fancy.

The sight of him, even on paper, hurt. He wasn’t this angel. He was human. A man flawed like any other. She knew about flawed men. Her father preferred spending time away from home. He ignored her. Looked at her blankly whenever she was in his presence—almost as though he did not know her. He was little better with Mama . . . ignoring his own wife in favor of the gaming hells.

She dashed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffled. So she was learning early. Getting a taste for disappointment now. Brilliant. With a strangled sob, she flipped the pad to a fresh page and fished her pencil out from her pocket. She was never without pad or pencil. Mostly due to Camden. It was he who first encouraged her to nurture her talent. Called her talented and smart and funny. He’d made her feel special . . . her ability special.

Her fingers flexed around the edges of the pad. She had been so eager to show him her latest drawings. She had practiced a great deal over the last year. Plenty of people observed her laboring over her pad, but never inquired. Watercolors and sketching were a common enough pastime for most girls. Only Max knew the true extent of her passion. He’d listened and offered suggestions and encouragement as though he cared.

All her hopes, all her dreams . . . gone. Burned to cinders. She wiped furiously at the hot spill of tears. What a fool she was to think he would see her this time. But what did she expect? That he would look across the room and observe she was no longer a child? No longer a duckling but a swan?

Without thinking, her pencil flew over her sketch pad. She drew through a blur of tears, her fingers working from memory, from some hidden instinct—or impulse. She didn’t know. She wasn’t thinking. She worked until she felt purged, and when she finished, she dropped the pad facedown beside her.

Her head fell back against the tree and she closed her eyes, waiting for the tumult of her emotions to subside.

She wasn’t certain how long she remained like that. The chill of morning melted away and the tears dried on her cheeks. The rush of blood in her head faded to a dull pulse at her temples. There were only the distant sounds of the staff as they finished the final preparations for the impending party. She’d have to go in soon. Mama would expect her to begin preparing.

She wondered how she might excuse herself from attending. Even as the worst of her hurt and anger ebbed away and a numb sort of calm stole over her, she didn’t feel ready to face the world. Especially not Camden.

Considering how much she had begged Mama to let her attend the garden party—and to allow her to discard the trappings of girlhood—she would have to invent a very good excuse indeed. Nothing short of a raging fever would convince Mama that she was incapacitated.

“Aurelia!” Her eyes opened at the first sound of her name. The second cry had her pushing up from the tree and scanning left and right, searching with eyes that ached from recently spent tears.

She would cry no more for this day’s events. Or for him.

Looking up, she found Mama standing on the second floor balcony. Brushing off her skirts, Aurelia quickly stepped from the canopy of the tree and pasted a brittle smile upon her face.

“Ah, there you are, Aurelia!” Mama waved her hands with clear exasperation. “Look at you. What happened to your hair? You’re a mess. We’ve much to do to prepare you. Inside with you now. Quickly!”

“Yes, Mama.” Nodding, she hastened inside, her empty hands still brushing restlessly at her skirts.

Fortunately, no one stopped her as she moved through the house, reaching her chamber undetected. Once in her room, she moved to her dressing table and expelled a great breath. The girl who stared back at her was a wretched creature. Eyes red and puffy, nose swollen, her olive complexion waxy and sickly green. Her dark hair hung in tangled skeins around her shoulders.

She didn’t like the hapless creature in the dressing table mirror. She vowed never to be her again. Never so naive. Never so foolish as to love someone incapable of loving her back. Shaking her head, she turned and gazed listlessly out the mullioned panes of her window.

Turning back to face her reflection, she picked up her brush and began attacking her hair, determined to set herself to rights—to rid herself of the evidence of the foolish girl she had been, harboring a tendre for a man who had no interest in her, who merely humored her childish infatuation.

Lowering her brush, she glared at herself, wishing she never had to clap eyes on Max again. Only she knew she would. There was no escaping him. As her misery ebbed, anger took its place. Anger at herself for being so foolish. Anger at Camden for being such a cad. She stirred her ire, swirling it around inside her, drawing strength as the fire in her heart died. She vowed she would be better for it. Smarter. Stronger. Immune to any handsome gentleman whose kindness masked a lecherous nature and faithless heart.

Never again would her heart burn.

From then on, her heart was encased in ice.

The garden party was no small affair. Not that he should have expected otherwise, Max thought. Lady Peregrine was not one to go about anything in small measures.

He glanced up at the sun and cloud-dappled sky. It was the most sunlight he had seen since summer. He would not be surprised if Lady Peregrine had negotiated with the Almighty Himself for this fine spring afternoon. The lawn was a verdant green dotted with linen-draped tables, livery-clad servants, and ladies in bright dresses, parasols angled demurely over their faces lest they freckle.