My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Archer did the one thing he could to silence her tirade. He kissed her.

  It was a mistake. The soft contact of her warm lips was his undoing. His mouth slanted on hers, teasing that infuriating lower lip with the point of his tongue as he had wanted to do for days. Tension trembled over her mouth, and he wanted only to release it. To open her to him. But he did not simply want to be the aggressor and make her bend to him—he wanted her to want his kiss. He relented slightly, putting a hair’s breadth of space between them.

  Briannon’s hands pressed against his dinner jacket as she stared up at him. Shock clouded her expression, but something else simmered there, too. Archer read it clearly. Desire.

  He slipped his hand around her waist and drew her closer, capturing both hands between their bodies. Her fingers tightened compulsively, winding into the material as if she knew what was coming…as if she, too, craved it. He could feel her pulse racing, see the fire kindling in her eyes. Here was the response he’d sought all night.

  Archer’s mouth dipped to brush her cheek with deliberate slowness. “Is this so unspeakable to you?” he said, drawing his free hand down the curve of her jaw. Her skin was pure silk, his fingers skimming the line of her chin and neck, and dropping to where the necklace rested against her heaving chest. “Do you despise me so much that my very touch makes your body shiver with loathing?”

  A twinge of regret—for her uncensored words perhaps—crossed her face for a moment. But then she hiked her chin and stared at him with those wide eyes sparking defiance, her lip quivering. She was not afraid of him, he knew. No, this girl was not afraid of anything.

  Grasping the rubies in one hand, his knuckles grazed the tops of her breasts. Archer groaned low in his throat at the tantalizing feel of her flesh. God, he had no idea what he was doing. He had vowed to stay away from her, and yet here he was, doing the exact opposite. But once more, Archer couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see what else she was hiding, what other passions she kept under strict rein. Archer wanted to lay all her secrets bare.

  “Or perhaps you shiver with want, instead,” he murmured.

  Archer could feel her entire body tremble as his free hand slipped around her nape, tilting her chin up to his. She did not shy away. His eyes met hers, her pulse leaping wildly under his fingers. Despite her innocence, he could see the curiosity blooming in her eyes and feel her heart thudding against his through the layers of superfine and satin. Archer wanted more than anything to satisfy it.

  He lowered his lips to hers. It wasn’t swift like the first kiss, meant to silence. This one was meant to coax, to seduce. The touch was featherlight, skimming her mouth in leisurely strokes until a soft sigh escaped her lips. As if shocked at her own response, she pressed them shut again. Archer nearly smiled at her sheer obstinacy.

  “Kiss me back, Briannon,” he murmured against her. “Open for me.”

  His tongue darted hotly between the seam of her lips, and she gasped. Archer didn’t hesitate. He swept into the sweetness of her mouth, exploring the soft interior, until her hands slid up to his throat in an unconscious movement, looping around his neck. The timid acquiescence ignited something deep inside him. Groaning, Archer crushed her to him, flattening her breasts against his chest as he claimed her lips.

  He teased her, drawing her tongue into his mouth until she leaned in to him, helpless with the same shaking need that overtook him. An eternity later, he drew away. With a ragged breath, he pressed his forehead to hers. Heaven help him, he couldn’t stop touching her. His fingers stroked her cheek, his thumb running across her swollen lips.

  Briannon’s eyes fluttered shut as his fingers slid lower, down the taut column of her neck to the strand of rubies lying on the swell of those alluring breasts. Her lips parted on a sigh, and he kissed them again, his tongue plunging deep as his thumb slid past the fragile lace edging of her bodice. He expected her to pull away, but she arched against him, moaning into his mouth as the pad of his thumb grazed her nipple. The sensitive skin tightened under his touch, and his groin did the same under a deluge of instant, mind-numbing lust. Archer pulled away, rattled at his own response. He was no greenhorn still wet behind the ears, and yet, one kiss, one small exploration of her breast, had made him feel like a wild and blundering buck.

  But hell, he wanted more than this kiss. He wanted to rip open that silk bodice and settle his mouth on the luscious, swollen tips of her breasts. He wanted to torment her with his tongue and teeth and fingers, and hear her whimper with the same lust that tore through him. But he had risked discovery long enough, and putting Lady Briannon’s unimpeachable reputation into question would not be wise.

  As the moments passed, Briannon remained silent and immobile against him. Although she was flushed, her eyes, so transparent before, were now unreadable. He frowned.

  “Briannon?”

  “Have you finished?” Her cold tone was at odds with the remnants of passion still flickering across her face. “Please release me and let me pass. I’d like to rejoin my brother.”

  Surprised, he did as she asked and stepped away. She held herself ramrod straight and swept past him to the double doors. She paused long enough to throw a backward glance over her shoulder.

  For a moment, he thought she was going to ask him to join her, but her voice was low, vibrating with hostility. “If you ever try something like that again, it won’t be my brother calling you out. It will be me, Lord Hawksfield, that I promise you.”

  As the door slammed shut behind her, Archer nearly laughed at her threat. Then he remembered her skill with the boar and sobered. Lady Briannon would make a formidable enemy. She’d also make a formidable lover. He returned to the ballroom and took up residence against a nearby pillar, watching as she danced with another young man, refusing so much as to glance his way.

  Archer fought the urge to smile. She hadn’t run from the ball, or from him, like a frightened fox. She had courage and defiance in spades, choosing to stay and showing him exactly how little his insults and his unwelcome advances had meant to her. Though he continued to question just how unwelcome his kisses had been. She had responded the way he’d wanted, if only for a few scattered heartbeats.

  Their eyes met for a scant moment, and he nodded to her. Deep color suffused her cheeks. She was certainly not as unaffected as she was pretending to be. She stared him down across the crowd of dancers, her eyes still sparking with ire. Despite the rumors of her poor health, she showed no indication of weakness at the moment. No, he realized with an odd sense of pride, she held her own, staring him down as if a battlefield yawned between them instead of a ballroom floor. Archer lifted his glass in a silent toast, and she turned her back on him.

  Deprived of her company, the evening wore on at a snail’s pace. He sipped his third glass of whiskey and noticed Eloise having a wonderful time. It warmed him to see her taking to the floor dance after dance. At one point, their father stood beside her, but she could have been a veritable stranger for all the attention the duke gave her. Beneath the mask, Archer saw the burning snap of her eyes on their father before she’d turned and stalked away. The duke’s indifference was still hurtful to her, even after all these years.

  He made his way across the crowded ballroom, deftly avoiding as many matchmaking mothers and simpering debutantes as he could, and joined Eloise at the refreshment table. She sipped a glass of punch as a passing footman replaced Archer’s empty glass of whiskey with a full one.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked her.

  “Oh yes.” Her color was high, and she fairly glowed in the unusually exotic burgundy satin dress she had chosen to wear. Despite her ravaged face hidden beneath the feathered mask, her blond hair cascaded in luxurious curls down her back. Her maid had done an exceptional job tonight, and Archer told her so. Eloise blushed. “You look rather dashing yourself. Did you enjoy your dance with Lady Briannon? She has grown into a lovely young lady, has she not?”

  Considering the phantom press of Briannon’s mo
uth was still prickling at his lips, he figured an indirect reply was a safer route to take.

  “You are not much older than she. And speaking of dances, I don’t see you wanting for partners, either.”

  “By society’s standards, my dear brother, I am an old maid, and she is just making her bow.” She eyed him, smiling. “And stop trying to change the subject. Do you find her beautiful or charming? She would make you a good wife.”

  He lowered his chin in effort to stave off his sister’s barrage of questions. “I am not looking for a wife.”

  Eloise laughed. “Tell that to all the mothers currently planning your wedding at this very moment. Take that one over there,” she said, nodding to a matronly woman with two daughters at her sides, neither of whom appeared older than fifteen. Archer scowled. “She has scarcely stopped looking at you since you disappeared onto the balcony with Lady Briannon. If looks could kill when you both returned, the young lady would have met a sad demise indeed.”

  “The lady should tend to her own business,” Archer said, sending a fierce scowl in the direction of the offending mother. “And we did not disappear. Lady Briannon simply needed some air.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Eloise teased. Archer did not respond, and she threw him a knowing smile. “I can see from your response that you are not as immune to the lady’s charms as you pretend to be. I am sure Lady Dinsmore would be more than ecstatic to have you as a son-in-law. Come now, admit it: Briannon is comely, she is well-bred, and she is heiress to a fortune that most men would die for.”

  “Then you marry her.”

  Eloise laughed out loud, and the sound made a smile crack Archer’s face in response. “You do say the strangest things. I am not the son of a duke.”

  “You are the daughter of a duke.”

  “We both know I am nothing of the sort,” she said, a thread of bitterness creeping through. “It will likely kill our father to ever acknowledge me publicly.” She shrugged and turned her face away as she tucked her arm in his. Her voice grew strained. “But as long as I have you, nothing else matters. You are my family.”

  Archer patted her arm, his mouth tight. He said nothing for a moment and then decided to change the subject. Despite her nonchalance, he knew the topic of her status was distressing to her. “Speaking of matrimony, I think Lord Suffield and the Earl of Langlevit are quite taken with you. They have each danced with you a number of times now.”

  Eloise rolled her eyes. “Are you keeping count?”

  “I need to know who to call out in a secluded glen, that’s all.”

  “You may want to wait until you’re able to walk without limping,” she replied, her gaze dipping to his leg.

  It was starting to ache like hell, and apparently he wasn’t disguising the injury as well as he’d thought. “Hunting accident,” he murmured by way of explanation.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about calling either of the poor men out anyway. The earl had not officially made my acquaintance, as he has been overseas for some time. I’m sure he will hear the rumors of what lies behind my mask, and that will be that. And Lord Suffield has not yet realized who I am, despite his terrible attempts at flirtation. For now, I am enjoying the moments that I have. When morning comes, all will go back to normal, and I shall be Eloise the Recluse again.”

  Archer turned to his sister, thinking perhaps he’d see her light words were a protective shield to cover her true hurt. But there was nothing but honesty in her expression.

  “Would it be so bad if one of them offered for you?”

  “What makes you think one of them hasn’t?” She smiled in jest. “I do not wish to be wed, Archer. I am content with my life as it is. We have been through this same argument countless times. I do not have a name—”

  “But you have a dowry,” Archer interrupted.

  Eloise took a deep breath, her blue eyes shining with humor. “One that my generous brother has provided, and one that is enough to compensate for a face no man would want to wake up next to.” A stabbing sensation—part guilt, part fury—made him grimace. She placed a hand on his arm, halting his protest. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I fear it is I whom you will have to meet in a secluded glen if you persist in trying to marry me off. Now please, go enjoy yourself. Give some young lady a glimmer of hope, and leave me to my enchanted evening.”

  Archer watched as the handsome young earl approached, and with a bow, whirled his sister off into a dazzling quadrille. A part of him hoped Langlevit wouldn’t be as shallow as so many of his counterparts, but deep down, he knew that appearances were everything in the ton.

  Archer could hear Eloise’s tinkling laugh from across the room, and he let out a breath. She was so splendid, and so brave. If only his father would claim her, it would be the tipping point, regardless of her appearance. A title trumped beauty, or lack of it, every time. He glanced around the room. Take Lord Falconshire. He had the face of a boxer on the losing end of a match, but he had a title, and the gorgeous young woman on his arm was testament to Archer’s theory.

  He took a deep breath. If Langlevit continued to show interest in Eloise even after he saw what lay behind her mask, there was nothing Archer would not do to help the man along toward a proposal. Downing the whiskey in his hand and signaling for another, he strode to his father’s side. As always, a throng of admirers and a dozen of his closest friends, including Lord and Lady Rochester, surrounded him.

  “Ah, Hawksfield,” his father slurred, throwing an arm around Archer’s shoulders. “My boy.” He chuckled loudly. “He’s too good for the rest of us. Won’t even wear a mask at a masquerade. You need to let loose, learn how to dance a good Scotch reel with a bonny lass.” He winked at Lady Rochester who twittered behind her fan. “Surely we can find one for you.”

  “I assure you that I am more than capable of filling my own dance card.” Archer took a whiskey from the quick servant’s tray. “May I speak to you?”

  The duke threw back his head and laughed. “Speak your mind, boy, we are all friends here.”

  “This matter requires some discretion.” Archer took his father by the arm. “I insist. It will be only a short stroll on the balcony. You are, if I recall, overly fond of taking the air at these sorts of things.”

  Secretly he wondered if any illegitimate half brothers or sisters had been conceived on shadowy ballroom balconies or lawns. It would not shock him, if so.

  “His Grace has promised me a dance,” pouted Countess Mayfield, an aging widow who took pleasure in scandalizing the ton by taking lovers half her age. “Will you, dear Hawksfield, be an acceptable substitute as his second?” she asked with a leer.

  “Not if I expect to keep my virtue intact,” Archer teased with forced good nature. The entire group broke out into raucous laughter, including the countess. “Please excuse us. We will be but a minute. I will return him to you posthaste.”

  As they arrived on the balcony, and Archer shut the door behind them, his father’s jolly mood exploded. “What the devil do you mean by this? We are at a masquerade, son. Enjoy yourself. Be merry. Find a wife.”

  Archer knew the duke had had more than a few drinks, but he would take the risk for Eloise’s sake.

  “Your daughter is here, too,” Archer said. His father’s face immediately went a dark shade of red. Archer did not let that stop him. “It appears that the Earl of Langlevit is quite taken with her. He may even decide to make an offer.”

  “That is no business of mine.”

  Archer fought to keep his anger under control. “It is your business. Eloise is your blood.”

  “She is the daughter of a commoner. Nothing more.” His father wiped the sweat from his forehead. “She is no more my blood than any child found in the streets.”

  “Mother didn’t think so.”

  The duke sighed as if the mere thought of his late wife had sapped his strength. “Your mother’s heart was always soft. El…the girl is a ward, no more than that.
I cannot claim her, if that is what you are asking.”

  “I am asking.”

  “And I am refusing. It shouldn’t surprise you, boy. For heaven’s sake, I am a duke!”

  Archer wanted to shake his father until his teeth rattled, but they were garnering enough curious stares through the paned glass already. He lowered his voice, his rage making his words shake. “Is your title the only thing you think about? Your esteemed place in society? These people you call friends? If they knew the truth about the family finances, do you think they would flock to you as they do?” He jerked a hand toward the massive balcony doors. “Yes, Father, you are a duke without a farthing to his name.”

  His father stared at him, his mouth a thin, defiant line. They had had this same argument too many times to count. The estates were profitable after Archer’s many years of hard-won, and oftentimes risky, investments, yet his father was siphoning money. Archer was well familiar with the reasons. The duke’s excessive gambling and lush lifestyle had reached new heights. Add in the parade of weekly mistresses along with the requisite furs, jewels, and gowns, and Archer could practically see the scarlet money trail. Managing his family’s capricious incomes and keeping track of his father’s expensive proclivities had become a full-time job. It exhausted him, and right now he felt the weight of that all-consuming fatigue turning into something hazardous.

  “What would you have me do?” the duke asked. “Stay at home, die an old man in my bed? Waste away?”

  “No,” Archer said tiredly. “If Mother were alive…” He trailed off, not understanding why he was suddenly attacked by sentiment, or bringing up his mother in the first place. Between Briannon and his sister, he felt on edge and unexpectedly vulnerable.

  “If your mother were alive,” the duke said, “she would want you to be married and happy. I saw you with that young chit earlier, the Findlay girl. She’s a bit thin in the hips, but she’ll be able to give you an heir. And her father is rich…rich enough to fill our dwindling coffers, as you say.”