My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  A knock on the front door to Bishop House covered up Brynn’s reply of, “So would encouraging his suit.”

  She knew better than to try to sway her mother. She was an ox when it came to certain matters, especially those that concerned marrying off her daughter to the highest, most affluent, and titled bidder. With the duke’s attention, she felt more than ever like a prized item on the auction block. Brynn had wanted to enjoy her season, and perhaps meet an eligible bachelor with whom she would have something in common. She had hoped to choose a husband at her own pace. She hadn’t imagined things would progress so quickly.

  Brynn met her brother by the window while they waited to see who had called upon them. She lowered her eyes to the bold headlines on the newssheet he’d set down. Ladies were not supposed to read the papers for anything more than the gossip columns. However, Brynn made a habit of sneaking the rest of the paper from her father’s study, and Gray would often leave them for her underneath her pillow. If Lana found them, she would lay them neatly on the bedside table.

  “The day is warming,” her brother said casually, even though his finger tapped a lurid headline:

  Masked Marauder Strikes Again! Assaults Man, Steals Priceless Heirloom.

  Lord Maynard had told her and Gray that night on the road leading from the Gainsbridge estate that the bandit had forced his family’s signet ring from his finger. It had graced the fingers of every ancestor for six generations and could never be replaced. The man had been raging between heartbreak and fury.

  Brynn shook her head, her body trembling as she recalled the earl’s face. He was lucky to be alive. And she…she had been so presumptuous with the bandit when her father’s carriage had been attacked. It was a miracle he hadn’t harmed her. How could her instincts have led her so far astray? The bandit’s manner had been poised and unruffled, and while she’d known him capable of striking a man unconscious, as he’d done with Colton, she’d also been certain he was far too highbrow to be a cold-blooded killer. Those eyes of his, much too intelligent and observant.

  And then, as he’d lain half delirious in that cottage a few nights later, his leg bleeding profusely, his trousers around his shins, he’d looked so vulnerable.

  Brynn shook her head roughly. What was she thinking? The bloody man killed Maynard’s horse, and here she was, reminiscing about his damned eyes and the fact that she’d seen him in his underclothes. The truth was, she’d been too hasty in assuming his genuine nature because of some disgraceful, misplaced attraction. A handsome, well-spoken man apparently could be a savage if he chose to be. Perhaps he simply did not harm women?

  She ground her teeth. There she went again, tossing morals that may not exist onto the criminal’s shoulders.

  Braxton appeared at the entrance to the salon, a black card resting upon a silver tray. “Your ladyship,” he intoned with a low bow.

  “Thank you, Braxton,” her mama said, dismissing him with a nod, her eyes widening at the ducal seal stamped on the outside of the delicate parchment. She quickly opened the note and read the card within. “An invitation from the duke himself for dinner! Tonight!”

  “Wonderful,” Gray said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Fortunately for me, I have a previous engagement. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy watching you deliver your precious daughter like a fatted lamb to His Grace’s esteemed table.”

  “Graham, enough,” his mother scolded. Her eyes once more darted to the footman, and she lowered her voice. “If the duke’s interest should turn into an offer of marriage, it will be the match of the century. Our Briannon, a duchess!”

  She gaped at her mother, the wheels in her head spinning at an alarmingly fast rate. She couldn’t conceive of anything worse than being at the duke’s residence for a dinner party. And what if his son were there? Brynn’s mouth grew dry at the thought of it. “I am busy as well, Mama. I forgot that I was to join Lady Cordelia for…for…”

  “Dinner,” Gray suggested helpfully. Brynn wanted to kick him.

  “There is nothing to be done but cancel, Briannon. I insist. Cordelia will understand. She would agree this is far more important.” Her mother tossed a disgruntled look in her daughter’s direction. “Come, Briannon, we have much to do. You must look perfect for tonight. The duke’s attention must not be diverted for one second.” She tapped her fingers thoughtfully. “Nothing you have will do. We must go to Bond Street.”

  Brynn leaped to her feet. “Mama, you are being unreasonable. You cannot have a dress commissioned in one day, far less a few hours.”

  “You can when it’s for a duke, and one spares no expense. We must find the perfect dress, one fit for a duchess. Do hurry, dear. Braxton,” she said in a firm voice. “Ready the carriage immediately. And send Colton ahead.”

  Brynn’s eyes flew to Gray’s as their mother swept from the room. “If I am to go, then you must as well.”

  “Must I?” Gray grinned. “I abhor shopping.”

  “Not shopping, you lout,” Brynn hissed. “To this blasted dinner.”

  “Careful. If you don’t hold your tongue, you’ll risk injuring His Grace’s delicate sensibilities.” He grinned wickedly. “Or mayhap you should. Mother would never live down the scandal.”

  For a moment, Brynn considered doing just that. It would destroy her mother, and though the woman vexed her, that was one thing Brynn would never do—not even to avoid the prospect of making the worst match in history. She conceded defeat with a sigh and waited for the footman to fetch her coat.

  When he arrived, she bade him to fetch her lady’s maid. If she had to endure a handful of hours at the modiste with her overbearing mother, she wanted to at least have Lana at her side. One glance at her maid’s expression would tell her which fabrics or styles were abominable and which were pleasing. Lana had a clear eye for fashion, her mother having been a modiste in Russia when she was a girl. Brynn trusted her taste implicitly.

  “You are truly the most terrible brother in the world,” Brynn said, shaking her head at Gray’s smirk. “When the time comes for you to be on the marriage block, I shall be sure to remember this.”

  Gray looked supremely unruffled by her threats. “I look forward to it.”

  Brynn made one last effort to sway her brother before joining her mother in the waiting carriage. “Gray, honestly—you cannot agree that I should encourage this suit.”

  Her brother’s laughing face sobered. He took her arm, drawing her into the front salon out of view of the hovering servants. “He is a duke, Brynn. He can offer you a life of luxury at the pinnacle of society.”

  She peered at him in disbelief. Who was this man standing before her? He deplored Bradburne. Hawksfield, as well. Though she didn’t know why that mattered, considering Hawksfield was not the one pressing his suit.

  “I thought you didn’t like him? Or his son?”

  “When it comes to marriage, liking has nothing to do with anything. Mother is right—in the eyes of the ton, it would be a brilliant match.”

  Brynn exhaled evenly. “What if I don’t want a brilliant match?”

  “It’s what every lady wants, isn’t it?” Gray forced a smile. “You’ll be a duchess, free to do as you like, free to be happy. This is what you wanted, Brynn.”

  “Is it?” she blurted out. Happiness and marriage to the duke seemed to be at opposite ends of the spectrum. She wanted conversation and laughter and friendship. He wanted to bed a young bride with a fortune. The thought made her ill.

  “I hate to sound like our mother, but you could not do better than a duke,” Gray continued. “Even one rumored to be penniless. I’m just relieved it’s not Hawksfield.”

  Brynn’s voice softened. “You used to be friends with him.”

  “As a boy, yes. As a man, he is one from whom I would caution you to keep your distance. The rumors about his ruthlessness are all true.”

  Brynn thought of the protective way the marquess had watched Eloise. The rumors couldn’t all be true. Then again, she didn’t have the inti
mate knowledge Gray had gleaned from White’s and the many gaming halls frequented by most male members of the ton, including Hawksfield.

  She came to a stop, her arm still tucked under Gray’s. She flung her arms about his neck and held him tight. “Promise me one thing?” she said.

  “Anything for you.”

  “That you will fall in love with the most wonderful woman and not care a whip for propriety and titles and fortunes. This way, at least one of us will have a guarantee of true happiness.”

  She could not imagine consenting to a betrothal or marriage to Bradburne, but she knew if she refused him, her mother would be injured beyond repair, and Brynn’s name would become fodder for the gossip columns.

  “I promise,” Gray said as Lana hurried into the foyer with her coat and hat in place, one glove on and one off. “Now, go before Mother has an outburst. Give Madame Despain my regards,” he said with an irrepressible grin.

  Madame Despain was one of the most celebrated dressmakers in London, and the fact that Gray knew her well enough to send his regards spoke volumes about how many ladies he had likely escorted there. Brynn was more than aware that her own brother had the reputation of being a rake himself and was never short of female company. Secretly, she hoped that he would make good on his promise to marry for love, but in their tier of society, such things were a rarity.

  Her mother prattled for the entire ride, considering and discarding fabrics and colors and potential necklines and waistlines. Brynn listened halfheartedly, making the appropriate sounds of agreement or disagreement when necessary. However, she spent the majority of the ride staring out the window.

  She saw a pair of well-heeled women striding along, arms linked and parasols overhead. They had their heads bowed together as they conversed and smiled. Brynn wasn’t wondering what they spoke of. She was wondering if they valued their station in society more than they did true affection. Had either one of them accepted a suit simply because it was agreeable? What an emotionless and shallow word that was. She wanted…well, more. She wanted passion. She’d felt the stirrings of it with the marquess, not the duke. How could any woman ever settle for a man who was simply agreeable?

  Hawksfield was the furthest thing from it. And his kisses, even more so. She wouldn’t use that word to describe any facet of him. Passionate, masterful, driven, yes. Certainly not agreeable. But Hawksfield hadn’t been the one to send her flowers. Or rubies. Or anything at all. Instead, he’d left her with one kiss, one that still burned her lips, binding her to him more potently than any lilies could ever do. No, he was Hades incarnate, and his gift had been a kiss of pomegranate seeds.

  The carriage pulled ahead, leaving the two women on the sidewalk behind, and Brynn surfaced from her train of thoughts. She should have never allowed Hawksfield to kiss her on that balcony. She could have fought. Could have stomped his foot or screamed or bit his lip until it bled. But she hadn’t. Like Persephone, she’d devoured those pomegranate seeds willingly.

  “Brynn, my dear, are you unwell?” her mama asked, scattering away all thoughts of the marquess and his devastating kiss.

  “Not at all,” she answered quickly, her tongue dry.

  “Good. Which reminds me, do not even think of wiggling out of the duke’s dinner with one of your episodes. I shall not believe you if you try.”

  Blast. She should have thought of that before asserting that she was perfectly well.

  Mama had sent Colton on horseback to alert the dressmaker of their arrival, and Madame Despain had gracefully accommodated them. Like her location, Cora Despain had an equally exclusive and dedicated clientele, whom she would not be able to retain if she weren’t as amenable to emergencies as she was. A petite and stylish Frenchwoman, she was known for always having the latest fashions from Paris.

  Lana stood at her side while her mother spoke with the dressmaker, her hands gesticulating wildly. “From a gentleman bandit to a dancing duke,” Lana whispered. “You are setting London on its head, my lady. Look at all these beautiful fabrics. You will be the toast of the town. The belle of the ball. The…the…”

  Brynn fought the urge to snort. “Tea at the tea party?”

  “Laugh all you want, but any maiden would switch places with you in a heartbeat.”

  “Including you?” Brynn asked.

  Something intense and secretive swept through Lana’s eyes before they returned to their usual, open brightness. “Even me, my lady.”

  Brynn was distracted from asking Lana what that meant when two assistants approached her with armfuls of silks, satin, and lace in a rainbow of colors. Madame Despain flipped through a copy of a book, her lip caught between her teeth, and then pointed to a page. “Ca y est! That is it,” she exclaimed. “It is the latest style that is sweeping Paris. His Grace will not be able to take his eyes off you, n’est-ce pas?”

  The dress she was pointing to was a Grecian-style gown that left one shoulder shockingly bare. Brynn frowned. Even from the picture, it seemed far too revealing. She was certain that her mother would select something else. But surprisingly, her mama was nodding. Madame Despain was holding up a buttery fabric that shimmered when it caught the light. Brynn stood still while the lustrous silk was tucked and pinched and pinned all around her. She stared into the tall, framed mirror before her, appreciating the dress as it came together, but dreading having to wear it.

  After nearly an hour, Madame Despain finally announced that she was content and would have the dress delivered to Bishop House later that afternoon.

  By the time they returned home and she’d had her bath, with Lana fussing over her all the while, Brynn was exhausted. The thought of dinner made her want to weep.

  But at half past seven, she slipped into the golden confection, delivered as promised just before sunset, and Lana immediately began preening over the already perfect dress.

  Catching sight of herself in the mirrored glass, Brynn sucked in a breath. While not as daring as the silver satin she had worn to the masquerade, the ball gown was unquestionably lovely. It draped over one shoulder and fell in graceful folds to the floor, golden scallops fastened with creamy roses all around the hem. A braided belt hung around her waist, also adorned with tiny rosebuds. In no time at all, Lana had swept Brynn’s reddish-blond hair into an updo at the crown with glossy curls cascading down her back.

  Lana handed her a matching gold stole and elbow-length gloves. “You look like a Grecian goddess.”

  “Dipped in buttercream frosting,” Brynn said drily. “Perhaps I should fetch my bow and arrows and channel Artemis.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” her mama exclaimed as she bustled into her bedroom. Unabashed pride filled her face. “You look beautiful. Madame Despain has truly outdone herself.” She turned to Lana adding, “As have you tonight.” Lana flushed, clearly pleased with the compliment.

  The carriage ride to the duke’s residence on Park Lane was one of the fastest of Brynn’s life. Granted, Hadley Gardens was practically a stone’s throw from Bishop House, but her nerves had made it seem as if more than just her heart was speeding. Her mother was speaking more rapidly than usual, and her father was blinking and clearing his throat more often. Apparently, they were nervous as well.

  There were a number of conveyances surrounding Hadley Gardens, and when Brynn noticed elegant couples emerging from them and approaching the duke’s front entrance, she released a long breath. Thank heavens. It was to be a true dinner party then, and not some private affair arranged just for them.

  Mama, of course, looked crestfallen as Brynn took her papa’s hand and descended from the carriage. Lord Dinsmore squeezed her fingers gently, telling her with his eyes and his unaffected warmth that everything was going to be all right. She believed him, which is why she was only slightly shaking as they were divested of their outer garments and announced by the duke’s butler.

  “The Earl and Countess of Dinsmore, and Lady Briannon Findlay.”

  Their names rose up toward the ornate ce
ilings of an exquisite blue and white salon, where the duke’s guests were gathering.

  Brynn had never been inside the duke’s London residence. She wasn’t a stranger to luxury, but this surpassed anything she had ever seen. Her dress was at home among all the gold—threading in the wallpapers, shot through the fabric of every plush chair, dripping from the chandelier overhead and glinting on candelabras placed around the large, rectangular room. Even the paintings gracing its walls captured golden sunsets or sunrises, their gilded frames of the baroque style.

  Nearly a dozen various lords and ladies were decked out in their finery and were waiting to be presented to the duke. Brynn recognized a few of the guests, including Lord and Lady Rochester, who were never far from the duke’s side, and sipped gratefully on a glass of wine provided by a waiting footman. Her eyes searched the room for the Marquess of Hawksfield, but she could not find him. Fortified, she took another sip. She may be able to endure the evening, after all.

  “Good evening, Lord Dinsmore. Lady Dinsmore.”

  Of course, she could not be so lucky.

  Her stomach plummeted at his icy voice behind her. The wine she was in the process of swallowing bobbed back up her throat. Brynn coughed but managed to swallow again and keep it down as she turned.

  Hawksfield stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin held in an imperious hike. “I am surprised to see so fine a turnout for the duke’s impromptu dinner party.”

  “Impromptu, you say? How merry. The duke is certainly impulsive,” Lady Dinsmore chirped.

  The compliment sounded hollow and forced. It was how all conversation seemed to be at gatherings like this. People on their best behavior, paying compliments even if they didn’t mean them.

  Hawksfield broke from his severe posture to take up Brynn’s gloved hand. As he bent forward over it, his gaze drifted down the front of her dress. A shiver raced across her skin at his fleeting glance, and the memories of his hand sliding under her bodice at the Gainsbridge Masquerade and his tongue invading her mouth shuttled forward. They retreated swiftly, however, at the distant look in his eyes. He could have been staring at the portrait on the wall behind her for all his aloofness.