“Lady Briannon,” he said, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I notice you’ve chosen to match the duke’s favorite color this evening.”
It was not a compliment, and she felt her skin grow heated under the golden silk dress. She should have considered the fact that she would appear like a giant coin. Hopefully not as round, though. Perhaps Mama had thought of it. She’d certainly given her approval swiftly, ignoring the dress’s one bared shoulder design.
“It is a coincidence, nothing more,” she replied brightly, feeling like a dolt nonetheless. “I do not usually attempt to match the interior decor.”
A glint of humor lit his eyes as he straightened his back, but the amusement snuffed out as soon as he stood tall again. She couldn’t understand the man. If he wasn’t kissing her, then he was insulting her. If he wasn’t insulting her, he was treating her with acute disregard. Brynn turned to peer into the crowd, refusing to let his current mood sour hers.
She almost didn’t hear it when, his voice pulled low, Hawksfield whispered, “Your beauty casts it, and everyone else here, into the shade.”
Brynn snapped her eyes to him, startled by what sounded like a genuine compliment. “Thank you, Lord Hawksfield.”
Her mother and father had been drawn into an introduction to a foppish looking man Brynn did not recognize, leaving her at Hawksfield’s side for the moment.
They stood without conversing, and yet neither of them moved away. She peered at him while pretending to look around his shoulder at the other guests. He was quite handsome in stylish and superbly tailored dove gray trousers and coat, his pristine white cravat tied in a ballroom knot at his neck. Hawksfield, she was starting to notice, wore formal clothes with a casual sort of elegance, as if full dress were as natural and comfortable as undress. His jacket fit just snug enough over his wide shoulders to display his masculine form, and his trousers encased slim, yet muscular, legs. She turned her gaze away, ashamed of the thoughts making her body uncomfortably warm.
What on earth was the matter with her? She was turning into a complete wanton, first undressing strange men, and now imagining Hawksfield much the same way. That louse of a bandit had ruined her morals. Stained them in some way, especially if she was turning her ribald thoughts to the marquess.
Brynn fought to remind herself that this was the same man who had not only insulted her at the masquerade, but had also manhandled her person. And that kiss…she had to stop thinking of that damned kiss. Her instinct was to push him away with some sharp comment, but of course, given he was Bradburne’s son, she could not give him a direct cut.
And then a frenzied giggle bubbled in her throat at a horrifying thought: should the duke propose, and should all her morals and pride vanish, inducing her to accept, Hawksfield would be her stepson. She choked down the hysterical laugh, drawing a concerned glance.
“Do you spy something amusing, Lady Briannon?”
She stifled her mirth. “Of course not.”
Hawksfield accepted a squat glass of whiskey from a passing server. “That is good. It would be a shame if the next Duchess of Bradburne found her future home worthy of laughter.”
Brynn blanched then flushed as she watched him take a cool sip of his drink. The glass of wine in her hand trembled. “I do not understand what you mean.”
He smiled into his drink. The cad!
“Come now, Lady Briannon, playing the naive debutante doesn’t suit you. My father has been sending you flowers since the Gainsbridge Masquerade. He intends for you, and you are well aware of it.”
Of course she had known it, but hearing the words from the marquess’s own lips made her go cold.
“It is absurd. We have never conversed. Never danced,” she whispered, angling herself away from her parents so Mama could not glance back and read her lips. “He is far too…mature in years.”
Now it was Hawksfield stifling his mirth. “He is a duke. Those things do not matter.”
“They matter to me,” she hissed, then remembered her previous realization. “And I do not desire you for a stepson.”
The noise level inside the salon rose drastically, and Brynn assumed the duke had joined them. Hawksfield turned to her, leaning slightly too close to her ear. Bradburne’s arrival had seemed to capture everyone else’s attention. But it was Hawksfield’s warm breath on her bared shoulder that captured hers. “Trust me when I say I do not desire you for a stepmother.”
He lingered another prolonged moment near her shoulder. This close she could hear him inhale through his nose, as if scenting her skin.
She had no response. The only thing that came to her mind was the well-explored memory of Hawksfield’s mouth pressed urgently against hers, the warmth of his tongue tracing her lips, and his hands tensing around her waist and hips, hooking her closer to his body.
Brynn was fairly blushing when the duke finally found them. Bradburne’s eyes went first to her breasts, second to her face, then third, to her father.
“Dinsmore!” he boomed, clapping her father on the shoulder as if they were old friends. “Wonderful to see you, old chap.” Her mother beamed when the duke kissed her hand and murmured that he could see where her daughter got her beauty.
Brynn’s throat closed off as the duke then turned to her. His eyes roved her from head to toe, a satisfied smile touching his lips.
Beside her, she could feel coiled tension emanating from Hawksfield’s body. If she wasn’t mistaken, the marquess had slid a step closer to her side.
“How good of you to welcome our guests, my boy,” the duke said with false brightness. “I did not expect to see you tonight.” The change in the marquess had not been lost on him.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” his son murmured.
The dinner bell rang, and Hawksfield, still made of stone, did not raise his elbow for Brynn to take. The duke pounced, his elbow shooting toward her at alarming speed.
There was nothing to do but accept the invitation to be led to dinner on his arm. Instead of gold, the dining room was a muted bronze theme. The scores of candelabras, chandeliers, and tapered candles cast Brynn’s golden dress in sparkling contrast to the bronzed metal sconces, the wood paneling, and burnished copper ceiling.
The duke delivered Brynn to a seat several places down from the head of the table where he would sit. Lord Rochester took the seat to her right, and as the footman behind her was tucking her chair closer to the table, the guest who would be seated to her left glided soundlessly into his chair. She didn’t have to look. She could scent the spicy orange and clove of his cologne.
“Are you supposed to be sitting there?” she whispered to Hawksfield, who had waved away the footman after murmuring to him. The footman dipped into a stiff bow and hurried away to set an additional place.
“Of course not. The duke would like to keep me as far from your side as possible, I would think.”
As if on cue, the duke noticed where his son was sitting, and all the jolly humor that usually lit his face fled. He flared his nostrils, and a muscle jumped near one distinguished jowl.
Far down the table, Brynn saw the footman catch the attention of the foppish man her parents had been introduced to, and politely gesture toward a chair. She balked at the marquess’s impropriety.
“And why should you like to do otherwise?” she asked, watching as the seats were filled. Her parents were placed across the table, separated by other guests. Mama, however, noted Hawksfield beside Brynn with pursed lips.
“We must speak,” he murmured.
“What of?”
Hawksfield canted his head and met her stare, one full dark brow propped up.
Oh. The kiss.
“Certainly not here?” she said. It was hardly appropriate dinner conversation, and nearly every ear would be piqued for whatever the marquess had to say.
“No. Elsewhere,” he answered.
“I don’t think there will be a moment—”
“We will find a moment,” he said, his voice so low it
was for her ears only. “In private.”
She stared at him, ready to refuse, but the soup course was promptly served, and Brynn was nudged into conversation with Lord Rochester. She answered his questions about which balls she planned to attend, but her mind was stuck on the infuriating man to her left. And now, every time her mind landed on the Marquess of Hawksfield, she could think of one thing: that soul-splintering kiss.
The logical side of her knew she shouldn’t meet him anywhere in private. After all, there was a distinct possibility that he would kiss her again…or caress her as he had on the balcony. No, she should refuse. Being alone with the marquess would be inviting disaster.
But the other side of her—the scandalous one his kiss had awakened—craved his touch. She longed to feel his mouth against hers, his hands on her skin. Brynn’s breath faltered at the scorching memory of his expert fingers delving past her bodice to her breast. Her nipples tightened beneath the silk of her dress at the imagined touch, and Brynn stopped breathing altogether.
There was no denying it—she wanted more.
Chapter Twelve
Despite the lively buzz of conversation at the table, Archer was acutely aware of Briannon sitting beside him—her every inhale, the sleek rustle of silk against her body, the elegant lift of her hands, and the precise movements of her fingers as she tended to the silver cutlery. He’d breathed in her scent before in the salon, and each time she moved, it wafted toward him in subtle, teasing bursts.
He was equally aware of his father’s dark mood, undoubtedly caused by Archer’s presumptuous rearrangement of the seating. But as soon he had heard of the dinner party, he had ditched his planned evening of cards and whiskey at White’s, which had, in reality, been a weak attempt to forget the arrival of a second anonymous note.
It had been among the many calling cards awaiting him and the duke that morning in the silver salver at Hadley Gardens, this one set apart by its odd size—smaller than a typical lady’s calling card, and yet larger than the ones men carried in their breast pockets. Also, this card had been sealed and addressed informally to “Hawksfield” in that same scratchy, near illegible script.
Once Archer had slit the envelope and removed the card in the privacy of his own rooms, he’d read four more words, these decidedly threatening: Your time is up.
Whomever it was had followed him to London. The knowledge had placed a hard knot in his gut and the intense desire to occupy his thoughts with drink and gambling. Not that either of those things would solve his problems, including the one involving Lady Briannon possibly having recognized him as the bandit. Archer had abandoned White’s the moment he’d heard of his father’s dinner, knowing it would be far easier to get a private audience with Lady Briannon here than it would at a crowded ball. His father and his preposterous attentions be damned.
Engaged in conversation with Lord Rochester once more, Briannon’s body was angled away from his but for her bare shoulder and the ruched fabric lying along her flawless skin. Archer imagined nudging that golden seam aside and exploring the jutting rise of her shoulder blade beneath it. The smooth expanse of skin would no doubt be as perfect as the sample laid bare. He suspected it would taste as good as it looked, and the thought inflamed his senses. His body grew uncomfortably tight, and he shifted in his seat just seconds before Briannon turned her head and focused her attention on him.
“Is your sister not joining us this evening?” she asked.
Archer had barely touched the succulent duck a l’orange on his plate, and at the mention of Eloise, he set his fork down and reached for his glass of wine.
“She isn’t in London,” he answered.
Lord Rochester, with a mouthful of roast duck, interjected, “I am told the girl has chosen to stay at Worthington Abbey for the season.”
“Oh,” Briannon said with what sounded like genuine disappointment. “I am sorry to hear that.”
Archer recalled the way Eloise had beamed while dancing with Earl Langlevit at the Gainsbridge’s Masquerade, and how the earl had returned the attention in kind. It didn’t make sense for Eloise to sit out the season—unless the earl had seen what lay beneath her mask and had cried off, as Archer had suspected would happen.
He had hoped Langlevit would prove himself different from the rest of society. A misguided hope, it seemed. The urge to hunt the earl down and thrash him had Archer strangling the stem of his wineglass. His sister’s hurt was his own, and as always, it settled heavy in his chest.
“Speaking of the gaming tables,” Rochester was saying, already well into his fourth glass of wine. “What of this bandit tearing through London?”
The subject made Archer freeze. It was certainly not polite conversation for a dinner table, but the participants pounced upon the morsel of gossip with unabashed relish, including the duke himself.
“Poor Lord Maynard,” Lady Rochester twittered. “He is still recovering from the shock. I heard the bandit attacked Lady Emiliah, Lord Perth’s eldest daughter, too, although she was saved from the scoundrel by an angel in disguise.”
“I’ve heard the girl is prone to exaggeration and hysterics,” her husband interjected, his eyes narrowing across the table. “Lord Dinsmore, didn’t the terrible fellow attack your coach?”
Dinsmore nodded. “Yes, although no one was injured. It all seemed rather civilized, not at all what happened with Maynard. The thief did exchange words with my daughter.”
“He spoke to you?” Archer asked.
Briannon visibly stiffened. She nodded, satisfying the curious faces around the table. “The rogue wanted my grandmother’s pearls. I was not amenable at first,” she explained. “But he was very persuasive. I did fear for my safety.”
“That sounds like a terrifying ordeal,” he said.
She blinked, and her stare shifted to her plate, as if she was overcome. “It was.”
“The gall of this upstart,” the duke spluttered. “He should be hanged.”
Archer thought of the way Briannon had stood up to him, her eyes flashing and imperious. She hadn’t cowered, not for one instant, not even at the point of a pistol. He couldn’t imagine his father appreciating that amazing spirit of hers. If she married him, Archer knew it would be only a matter of time before her unique spark would wither away and die.
“Eh, Hawksfield?”
Archer looked up, realizing Lord Rochester was directing a question at him.
“Did you get the chance to run the hounds this past winter?” Rochester repeated. “I thought the duke’s new foxhounds were magnificent, though I didn’t see you out on the hunt when I was there.”
“No. I had business to attend to,” Archer responded.
The duke laughed, derision underscoring his words. “Didn’t you know? Hawk finds running the hounds boring and pointless.”
“I hunt for game, not for sport,” Archer said, rising to his father’s challenge. “As a matter of fact, I was tracking a rather large boar roaming between our country estates some days past.” Archer sent a sidelong glance to Briannon who fastidiously avoided looking at him.
“Egad, Hawk, how large was the boar?” someone asked.
“A five-hundred-pound beast with piglets to defend.” He did not elaborate, and though he could see by Brynn’s sharp exhale that she was grateful that he had not, he couldn’t resist baiting her. “Do you enjoy the hunt, Lady Briannon?”
“On occasion, my lord, but only at Ferndale,” she answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I do enjoy a good ride.”
The fop whose seat Archer had taken made a noise that sounded like a spluttering croak. “I must say, the thought of a woman in the hunt is as disagreeable to me as women at the gaming tables. Most scandalous. Women have no place there.”
“And why is that?” Briannon challenged, drawing every eye at the table, including the alarmed, censorious one of her mother’s. “Lord Atherton permits his wife to ride, as do many other nobles. I know for a fact that Mrs. Wilson rode in a hunt two winters pas
t, and no one deemed it a scandal. I, for one, enjoy the hunt.”
Lady Rochester and Lady Dinsmore gasped in unison, one with an expression of astonishment and the other one of horror. “Surely not?” Lady Rochester said with a look of pure disdain.
Archer fought back a grin, thinking of her in those indecent breeches and her faultless command of Apollo. She could likely outride any number of men he knew in the hunt or otherwise.
Lady Rochester bristled, turning purple. “Mrs. Wilson…is…is…”
Archer could have sworn that Briannon was holding back a laugh at Lady Rochester’s choked expression, although she was avoiding looking at her mother, whose face was as sculpted as paned glass.
Aurelia Wilson was a notorious American widow who did as she pleased, when she pleased, including taking and flaunting lovers before the ton. She was also one of the best riders he had ever seen mounted, man or woman.
“A complete disgrace,” finished Lady Rochester. Her opinion of Briannon appeared to be falling by the second. For a moment, Archer wondered whether Briannon was doing it on purpose and toasted her silently. Then again, it was common knowledge, with the exception of Lord Rochester, that Lady Rochester warmed his father’s bed, so it would be natural that she’d see the young woman as competition.
“I seem to recall you on the hunt several years ago, Lady Rochester,” Archer said in a mild tone.
Her gaze slid to his and she flushed. “In a carriage. It is not the same as a gently reared woman racing astride a horse and jumping all manner of obstacles. Mrs. Wilson is a complete scapegrace who should be shunned by all decent society.”
“Forgive me, but I hardly see participation in a hunt as something that warrants being shunned by polite society,” Briannon interjected.
“Briannon,” Lady Dinsmore hissed.
“I, for one, do not mind women on the hunt,” the duke interjected, with a lascivious laugh that made Archer’s fists curl. “Women who ride have a certain appeal.” The sexual innuendo was blatantly clear, and though Archer found it to be in excruciatingly bad taste, it was his father’s table and his father’s friends. As such, nervous laughter broke out, and the moment passed.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 17