“Is that all you think about?” Archer seethed. “Women and money?”
“That, my boy, is what you should be thinking about, instead of driving me mad with these questions regarding an illegitimate ward. Bed a woman—the Findlay girl if you are so inclined. Marry her.”
Archer drew his hand through his hair. “I do not want to marry her.”
His father grinned and smacked his lips. “It would be asinine to waste such a connection. If you’re adamantly against her, well then…perhaps I should have a go. You think she’ll have me?” Unmindful of the deadly expression on his son’s face, the duke nodded, slurring his words. “That will solve all our problems. Marriage is a damn bore, but I would do it if it meant you’d stop pestering me about finances. Yes, I would. She is a sight in that dress tonight, that she is.”
His father turned to peer through the glass panes of the balcony doors, his tongue still licking his lips as if he’d just been presented with a juicy cut of beef. Archer knew what he was looking for, however. No. Whom he was looking for. Briannon.
“She would never have you,” he said, barely contained fury pulling his voice into a near whisper.
“Of course she would. She’s as silly as the rest of these chits, being paraded around the ballroom by their mamas, dreaming of landing a title for a son-in-law.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “Can’t do better than a duke, now can they?”
Archer ground his teeth and clenched his fingers around his glass of whiskey. His vision pulsed. He rolled his shoulder and threw off his father’s fingers, which had started to dig into the fabric for purchase. The duke was too fogged by all the liquor he’d consumed to be able to hold up his own arm for more than a couple of seconds.
“You’re pathetic,” Archer said, before starting for the ballroom doors. He stopped, though. Insults had never gone far with the duke in the past. He seemed to care as much about his son’s reproaches as he did his “ward,” Eloise.
Archer turned back to find his father chuckling as he sipped his whiskey. Just as he’d supposed. The duke had already dismissed his son’s disapproval.
“You will stay a far step from Lady Briannon,” Archer warned.
Bradburne paused, his glass still at his lips. He finished off his drink in one fell swallow and tipped his glass at Archer. “And you, my boy, will either marry her, or stand aside and say nothing while I attend to the matter. There is no question Lady Dinsmore wants a match with the Bradburne dukedom, and it’s immaterial to me whose bed the girl ends up in.” His father hopped onto the balls of his feet as if getting ready for a jig. “Though I certainly wouldn’t loathe my husbandly duty of getting her with another legitimate heir.”
Archer stood as rigid as steel, an image taking form in his head. That of a luscious, naked Briannon pinned underneath his gluttonous father. Once there, it burned his imagination as splashes of acid might. Archer held his breath, his disgust for his father so great and vast, everything else—the darkened balcony, the glittering ballroom beyond, the voices of the guests, and the stringed instruments churning out a reel—went quiet. They disappeared. And the only thing Archer could see was the perfect target of his father’s jaw.
He tossed his whiskey aside, the glass shattering on the balcony floor, and struck his target with swift precision. Bradburne’s head snapped back, his grunt of surprise muted by another shattering glass of whiskey. Had the duke not been stewed off his arse, he might have been able to right himself despite the blow. However, considering he was indeed well lit, he landed on the balcony stones like a stunned fish. He groaned and writhed, and almost instantly, Archer felt the sickening arrival of remorse.
“You bastard,” the duke hissed, attempting to sit up and lift himself from his humiliating position. Archer heard the tinkling of glass, and more shards scraping against the stone floor. His father sucked in a breath and swore again, cradling his hand. Blood, stained black in the moonlight, welled up in his palm.
Good. The pathetic son of a bitch deserved more than a single punch anyhow.
“I’m sure you wish I were,” Archer said, reaching for the white cravat at his neck. He yanked at the simple mail coach knot Porter had fussed so earnestly with earlier and unwound the starched linen, tossing the whole thing to his father, still seated on the balcony floor. It landed on his leg. “Had I been born a bastard, you could simply ignore me the way you do Eloise. You certainly wouldn’t have me to contend with.”
Bradburne snatched up the cravat and wrapped his bleeding hand. “You are no match for me, boy,” the duke spat, struggling to stand without slicing himself on the broken glass again.
The balcony doors flew open and a collective gasp of alarm fountained up behind Archer. Lady Rochester and Countess Mayfield rushed past, their voluminous skirts brushing Archer’s legs and hips as they parted around him, toward his father.
“What the devil has happened?” Lord Rochester boomed from the doors, and another burst of concerned voices closed in on the balcony.
Archer and Bradburne maintained their locked glare as the ladies twittered over the duke’s bleeding hand and the streak of blood dripping from his nose. Countess Mayfield eyed Archer, her lips bowing in curious amusement, while Lady Rochester flat out scowled in his direction.
“The Dancing Duke took a misstep,” Archer answered. “I fear he may be out of the game for the rest of the ball. Ladies.” He bowed to them before sweeping off the balcony and into the ballroom.
There were more gasps of surprise as he stalked the perimeter of the dance floor with his neck bared to every last delicate eye. Without his cravat, he could no longer remain in attendance. An unexpected boon, he figured, and he set a course for the exit. He kept his focus straight, refusing to search the crowds for a glimpse of Briannon and the dress that had induced his father into scheming his way into her bed. Archer would never allow that to happen. Never.
Briannon would never allow it, either. She had rejected Archer’s kiss. Why in the world would she accept the likes of Bradburne? Even without having to ask, he knew she wasn’t after a title. Or marriage, for that matter. She had told him herself that any union between them would be “ghastly.”
Then what was she after? Attention from a dangerous bandit? She’d worn the rubies for him. A thought that made Archer remember how they had rested on the soft curves of her décolletage. And that thought made him think of their kiss. Briannon had, for a good handful of moments, responded to his touch, his kiss, and hell, if she hadn’t turned into a winter morning the way she had, he might have lost control of himself. He may have even drawn Briannon down the balcony steps and into the seclusion of Lord Gainsbridge’s lawns.
Something he’d just mentally accused his father of doing multiple times with multiple women.
Bloody hypocrite.
Archer fled the ballroom, tensing and releasing the fingers on the hand he’d used to pummel his father. If Archer could strike himself, he’d do so. His father was the lusty, thoughtless bastard, not him, and he’d be wise to remember that. The sodding Duke of Bradburne was exactly the sort of privileged, upper-crust swine Archer took pleasure in relieving of their worldly goods. If the duke had two farthings to rub together, Archer might even attempt to swoop down upon his carriage. Then again, he’d likely recognize his own heir.
He gathered his coat and hat and called for his curricle. His leg ached as if to remind him of his many transgressions. Though Archer longed for some sort of satisfaction tonight, acting as the bandit when his temper was in a furor was not a wise decision. He’d simply return to Worthington Abbey and attempt to douse the fires the masquerade had ignited with a stiff drink and a cold bed.
Chapter Nine
A quarter hour had passed since the Marquess of Hawksfield had stormed out of the Gainsbridge ballroom, and the guests were still humming with excitement. The Duke of Bradburne and his heir had apparently been engaged in fisticuffs on the balcony—the balcony where, just moments before, Hawksfield had swept Brynn into a completely ina
ppropriate, utterly scandalizing, and undeniably shattering kiss. She couldn’t believe the liberties he had taken, sliding his thumb against her breast in so wanton a manner or the deeply intoxicating plunge of his tongue. The recollection made her simmer anew.
She stood with her mother and Gray, and a handful of other guests, in a tight circle on the edge of the dance floor. When Gray had met her near a column after she’d come in off the balcony, she’d expected her brother to see the flush of her cheeks and the pulsing of her burning lips. Her breathing had been uneven, and her legs a little untrustworthy. She was certain everyone, especially Gray, could see evidence of sin trailing in her wake. Her lips and breasts burned with the stain of it.
Perhaps a wandering eye had peered through the balcony doors at just the right moment and witnessed the ignominious embrace. If that were the case, the gossip would have already worked its way around the ball. The rumor of a kiss would have happily attached itself to the new scandal of Hawksfield and Bradburne coming to blows. The fact that it hadn’t been mentioned once gave Brynn hope. She didn’t want a scandal involving the marquess. Her mother would have clucked and crowed and demanded Lord Dinsmore and Gray approach Hawksfield about a proposal.
And what would Brynn do then? Marry the brute? Twice now since meeting again after so many years, he’d been insensitive and vulgar. Yesterday morning in the woods he’d been difficult and brusque, but…warmer. More generous and less prickly. He’d even made Brynn laugh. This evening, however, his whole demeanor had gone back to what it had been at the Bradburne Ball: rigid and fractious.
Until the balcony.
And the mask.
She couldn’t get it out of her mind. Brynn listened to the women around her chattering like magpies, condemning Hawksfield for his surly attitude. He was always such a sulky lad, the Dowager Monteith had put in no less than four times. Countess Mayfield had fanned herself, chastising him for having the impudence to waltz through the ballroom sans cravat—as though he were undressing for bed! All the while, Brynn was thinking only of how familiar those quicksilver eyes staring out at her from behind the silk mask had been. But Hawksfield seemed much taller than the bandit. Then again, last night at least, the bandit had been flat on his back, so she couldn’t be sure. She was starting to doubt herself and questioning whether deep down she wanted Hawksfield to be the bandit.
When Hawksfield had pulled her to him on the balcony, and when they’d ridden Apollo, their thighs rubbing against one another, his touch had been scorching, just as the bandit’s touch had been as he’d removed her grandmother’s pearls and then, that morning in the small cottage in the woods, drawn her across his half-clothed body. But her responses to both didn’t mean the marquess and the bandit were one and the same.
Her head spun with the chaos of it all. She didn’t know what to think. The bandit had been charming and lively, while Hawksfield was…well…stony.
Not when he’s kissing.
Brynn banished the traitorous thought and turned away from Countess Mayfield and Dowager Monteith. She immediately caught her mother scowling at the rubies and concealed her sigh. She was sure to receive a strict dressing down as soon as they all returned to Ferndale. Brynn pushed a smile to her face and pretended to be interested in the dancing. Though she did not look forward to her mother’s tirade, she did wish to leave. However, she also did not want to risk chancing upon the marquess on the route home by following too closely in his wake.
Brynn fingered the rubies at her throat. She perused all the masked faces surrounding her, but none of the men seemed to be the right combination. One was the right height, but not the right coloring. One was too old. Another was dark, but stodgy in size. A fourth seemed perfect until she noticed his rather large hooked nose. No, her bandit was not here.
And neither was Lord Hawksfield.
She, like the rest of the crowd, had noted the marquess’s rapid departure with curiosity. She recalled the mussed waves of his previously immaculate dark hair and the hard set of his jaw as he’d left the masquerade. He’d been angry, but Hawksfield seemed too austere to engage in such a public display with his father. He was not reputed to be a man given to emotion, unless it was chilling coldness. Except with her. She seemed to inspire nothing but his disapproval.
Or his lust.
His lips had been so warm, so tender. His fingers surprisingly rough as they delved inside her bodice. The small caress had made her cry out, and had he chosen to draw her farther into the shadows of the balcony, or perhaps out onto the lawns, she would have followed. The rugged stroke of his thumb over her nipple had rendered her mindless.
She hadn’t been able to speak, and truth was, she hadn’t wanted to. Though now, with her thoughts well back in check, Brynn had little doubt that she had been the recipient of a kiss from someone expert in seduction. No doubt his ego had taken a beating when she’d rebuffed him. That would account for his foul mood.
Brynn almost laughed at her inane reasoning. The marquess would never let some foolish girl allow him to drop all social graces. It may have been her first passionate kiss, but clearly, it had not been his. She’d experienced a stolen peck when one of Gray’s friends during his days at Eton had paid a visit to Ferndale, but it’d been nothing like Hawksfield’s kiss.
For a moment, Brynn imagined whether the bandit would kiss as well. The thought of her mysterious highwayman doing what Hawksfield had done made her blood simmer to dangerous levels. Lord, it was ridiculous how a desperate imagination could eclipse reality, and sanity. Fancying a criminal? Brynn fanned herself vigorously and decided that it was time to go home. She’d had far too much champagne, and far too many thoughts about kissing entirely unsuitable men.
She had just turned to her mother when she noticed that Eloise and the earl who had been paying her unquestionable interest all evening were approaching.
“Lady Briannon,” Eloise said, proceeding to make the necessary introductions. The Earl of Langlevit found himself in conversation with Brynn’s father, and the two young women decided to take a stroll to the refreshments table. “Are you enjoying the masquerade?”
“Yes, it’s been a lovely time. And you?”
Eloise flushed. “I am.” Her eyes darted to her escort, and Brynn couldn’t help following her gaze. The Earl of Langlevit was certainly handsome with his sandy-colored hair and warm amber eyes. Gray had mentioned something about him being stationed overseas and that he had only just returned. They used to be at Eton together, but while Gray had moved on to Oxford, Langlevit had gone into the military. The pair exchanged a glance, and Eloise disappeared behind her fan.
It had been years since she had had more than polite conversation with Eloise, but the girl seemed different this evening. Normally, she hid from high society, preferring the solitude of Worthington Abbey. She wasn’t much older than Brynn, only by two or three years, and by no means a spinster. When they were children, she and Brynn had often trailed after their two older brothers, but after the accident and the tragic death of the Duchess of Bradburne, Eloise had withdrawn into herself. Brynn couldn’t blame her. She’d seen the damage with her own eyes—the raw burns, the shiny scar tissue, the pronounced dip of her right eye. God had seen fit to spare only the bottom third of her face, leaving her forever changed.
Her body had escaped the worst of it, but Eloise would never be well received by the beau monde, not without whispered comments and pity trailing her every step. Not even the protection of her fierce and intimidating brother could change that. And so she had retreated from society, her appearances at crushes like this one over the years few and far between.
Tonight, though, it seemed as if the flame of life burned anew within her. Brynn told her so.
Eloise laughed, tossing her golden curls. “I do so love dancing. I had forgotten how much I adore it. As it seems, it is a trait I have inherited from my father.” Something like contempt thinned her lips before it was eclipsed by a bright smile. “Did you enjoy dancing?”
> “Why, yes,” Brynn said, grinning back. “Although Lord Filbert gamely attempted to massacre my toes in the last set. Do not tell him so, but he is sorely in need of some lessons.”
“And Hawksfield? He is a capable partner, is he not?”
Brynn breathed deeply and kept her voice steady. “Lord Hawksfield is indeed capable.” More than capable. She remembered the competent glide of his body beside hers in the waltz, and the light press of his hand at her waist. He could sweep any debutante in this room off her feet with a few precise steps and a few well-placed caresses from his expert fingers. Brynn cleared her throat. “Speaking of, he left quite suddenly. Was something amiss with the duke? I heard they…fought.”
“Gossip travels faster than a foxhound,” Eloise said and then leaned down to confide in her. “Those two are more alike than either of them cares to admit. Stubborn and inflexible to the core. They are always disagreeing about something. Bradburne stumbled and fell. Nothing to fret about, it will all be forgotten by the morn.”
Inflexible. It was a word Brynn could understand. She could see it in every line of Hawksfield’s demeanor, but the duke? He was always smiling, always jesting. Even now, despite his altercation with the marquess, he was the center of attention with his group of peers. Brynn studied the duke over her fan as Eloise exchanged greetings with the Dowager Monteith. Though he was handsome, his son did not resemble him, except for his nose and well-shaped lips. With their similar coloring, Eloise favored him more than Brynn suspected the duke would care to admit.
Hawksfield looked more like his late mother, whom Brynn remembered as being a charming, willowy brunette who always had a kind word for anyone, from a scullery maid to highborn ladies. She supposed Eloise learned that from her. Kindness, unlike hereditary predisposition, was something that could be taught.
Brynn drew in a sharp breath as her gaze collided with the subject of her focus—the duke himself. He inclined his head slightly, his drink arrested halfway to his lips.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 13