“Leave that to me. I do have some suspicions of my own, which I will investigate.”
“Do you think it was the Masked Marauder?” Eloise asked in a small voice. “I have heard that he is in London.”
Archer and Brynn exchanged a swift glance.
“It bears looking into,” Archer said. “But we must be vigilant. It could be anyone, and we don’t know that the duke was the target. The target could have been me, and the duke was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why would it have been you?” Eloise asked, frowning, and Archer realized that he had almost slipped up.
“His Grace has also been particularly vocal in his efforts to find the masked bandit, particularly after the attack on Lord Maynard,” Brynn interjected. “Perhaps the killer simply wanted to put an end to a possible threat.”
“That makes sense.” Eloise’s face scrunched up, her hands trembling. “What if he comes back? To finish what he intended to do?”
The imposter had put that terror in his sister’s eyes. It made Archer want to catch the bastard even more. “He won’t have another chance. You are safe here.”
“Promise me you will be careful. I can’t lose you, too.”
Archer reassured her with a fond smile. “I promise.”
“I should be getting back,” Brynn said. “Before my absence ruins any chance of this scheme being launched.”
“Allow me to escort you home,” Archer said, standing. “I will attend to your father, if possible, at the same time just in case he is questioned by an overexcited Thomson.”
“I’d rather return alone and prepare myself. Perhaps you can arrive in time for dinner.”
Archer nodded, watching the two women leave the room. It would be better if he called upon Brynn as a gentleman, instead of returning her home in some sly, scandalous fashion. He couldn’t help feeling that his life suddenly seemed as if it were no longer his. On the other hand, he wanted her, and she wanted him. He curled his fingers around his glass, his body tightening at the memory of her dewy skin and how it had tasted. He was glad that the glass was thick crystal or it would have shattered in his hand.
Disgust and lust spiraled through him like twin demons. He lifted his drink and drained the contents, silently toasting his last few hours of uncomplicated freedom.
Chapter Eighteen
Brynn was already at Hadley Gardens when the guests started to arrive. She waited in a guest room on the second floor, perhaps even the one she had dipped into that awful night one week prior. She listened now as muffled voices drifted from the foyer.
“This is never going to work,” she muttered.
Lana stood behind her, placing the last of the pins in Brynn’s upswept hair. The set of four had been delivered to Bishop House the day before from the exclusive Rundell and Bridge, jewelers to the crown. Inside the box, the hairpins had been nestled on a bed of lapis blue silk, each one topped with a diamond-crusted bird, the wings on all four in a different position.
The accompanying note had brought a sad smile to Brynn’s lips.
Make certain you do not fly away before the ball.
Archer must have known how desperately she wished to fly away, and that had made her smile. But knowing that he, too, likely wanted to fly away had brought on a wave of sadness. It underscored the pretense. Deep down, Brynn knew that his gifts and little notes were all part of a show for her parents and brother. For anyone who might be watching closely.
It had been a whirlwind of a week, starting with a funeral and now ending with an engagement ball. Even another attack on a side street off Piccadilly by the Masked Marauder had not dampened the ton’s excitement swirling around the new Duke of Bradburne. That attack had left the driver of the carriage with a broken arm and the lady riding within, not a peer but a member of the gentry, scandalized. The papers had run the story saying she had been riding alone and that the bandit had “handled her person” with all the care of “a wild boar.” It seemed that the imposter was growing bolder and more vicious with each attack.
“Don’t fret, my lady,” Lana whispered, closing the box from Rundell and Bridge and primping Brynn’s hair once more. “It is going to work.”
She had told Lana everything—except for the truth about Archer being the masked bandit—and like always, Brynn had not felt judged by her in the least. Brynn had wanted to tell Gray the truth, as well, but his reaction to the marriage banns the day after Thomson’s questioning had stopped her from confiding. He hadn’t been at all pleased by the turn of events.
“He’s not good enough for you,” Gray had stated flatly. “How could you possibly accept him?”
“I know it’s difficult to understand,” she’d tried to explain, the rest of her excuse still unformed.
“It’s not difficult at all. He is now a duke, is he not?” Gray had replied, his gaze searching hers and looking disappointed in what they saw. “I know what I told you. That a duke could offer you luxury at the pinnacle of society… I just never thought you would be so shallow as to take it.”
The accusation had been gutting, but she couldn’t fault him for thinking it. Nor could she confess it was a sham. She knew that Gray was simply concerned for her well-being, but his response had hurt. Brynn hated remembering the aghast look on his face and had attempted all week to forget it by focusing on the plans for the engagement ball. The season had barely gotten underway, and already the prized bull—the new, young and handsome Duke of Bradburne—had been whisked off the marriage mart. Everyone, it seemed, had so easily forgotten his reputation as the brooding and ruthless Marquess of Hawksfield. The cold, unsmiling recluse had been touched by tragedy and now love, and along with his new title, had a new following of admirers.
The announcement of their betrothal had created a flurry of activity as she had expected, with invitations to every possible social event appearing on their doorsteps. They had had to decline more than they could accept, but it seemed everyone wanted to celebrate their forthcoming nuptials. Between planning her own ball and entertaining a constant stream of visitors and well-wishers, Brynn was already overwhelmed.
It made the farce all the more horrible to bear. Because Archer had not changed in the least. Like a proper doting fiancé, he sent her jewelry and flowers, and he smiled whenever he was in the same room as Brynn’s mother and father, but that same distant chill was present whenever someone wasn’t looking. He didn’t attempt to hide it from her, no. He blasted her with that wintry expression nearly every time they saw each other, as if she were the scheming mastermind of some hideous plot to trap him into marriage. Brynn fumed. He’d be the last person on earth she’d choose, even if his touch made her forget herself.
For the most part, he’d kept his distance as promised, and thankfully, they had not been alone since that afternoon in the library, when Archer had peeled off her glove and kissed her wrist…when he had trapped her against the wall and thrust his hips against hers, divulging his arousal. She’d imagined, all too vividly, of course, what she’d glimpsed by the firelight of that small forest cottage.
The memory of his searing kisses in the library and his touch made her weak-kneed. His kiss—his mouth—had branded her to the bone. No man had ever made her feel the way he did, as if her entire body lay at the center of the sun. Even now, her lips tingled. Brynn’s breath came in quick spurts, shame flooding her cheeks with hot, violent color.
“Do you feel ill, my lady?” Lana asked with a concerned look, rousing Brynn from her disturbing thoughts.
“No. It’s a little warm, that’s all,” she said, fanning herself vigorously.
“Well, you look lovely with some color in your cheeks,” Lana commented.
Brynn grimaced. If Lana only knew what had caused her to flush so, she would be shocked. She stood up from the vanity and felt the dress she wore pull on her shoulders as if it had been made of lead and not layers of deep green satin with a black lace overlay. The square-cut bodice hung low, and wide bell sleeves trimmed in black
lace edging extended down to her wrists. Tapered in at her waist and falling in graceful folds to the floor, the gown was exquisitely made. She should have felt beautiful wearing it, but Brynn felt only hollow.
“I feel like such a fraud,” she said, her gloved fingers touching her neck where a necklace of priceless and gorgeously set diamonds rested. “As if I am not here at all.” She sighed and adjusted the stunning tiered necklace at her throat.
“Well, I can see you, and you are lovely,” Lana replied. Then, after studying her with a critical eye, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she said, “The rubies would go so well with this gown. Much better than those diamonds, I think.”
Brynn stared at her maid. Lana certainly had proven to have an eye for turning out the perfect pairing of gowns and jewels, but sometimes Brynn caught a hint of something else—Lana spoke as if she were personally familiar with such adornments, which made little sense, Brynn knew. She’d have to agree with her in this instance, though. She would have chosen the rubies over the diamonds herself. They made her feel bold and confident, and she needed that feeling tonight more than ever before.
And Archer had given them to her.
He had given them to her with far more honesty than he had these ridiculous heirloom diamonds. The necklace itself felt like an immense jeweled shackle, unlike the rubies that he had sent her under another guise. It was as if Archer were two different people—the aloof duke with a stone heart and the bandit rogue with a velvet touch. And she seemed to be trapped directly between them. It still did not feel real, and with every passing day, the confession he’d made to her felt more and more distant. They could not discuss it, of course, until they were alone again.
And being alone with him had its dangers.
“The diamonds are truly stunning, though, my lady,” Lana said. She had been tiptoeing around Brynn all week, especially after Brynn’s quarrel with Gray. She must have guessed how awful it was for her to not be able to confide in Gray…how much it was tearing her apart to keep secrets from him.
“They’re too much, and you know it,” Brynn replied, catching a look from Lana in the mirror. She was smothering her grin and trying to hide behind Brynn’s frame.
They were Archer’s grandmother’s diamonds, and there were plenty of people among tonight’s guests who would remember the spectacular necklace. They were, after all, quite…unforgettable. But they weren’t hers—they were the belongings of the past Bradburne duchesses, a role that she was now expected to step into. Brynn swallowed, her hand fluttering to her side. The diamonds winked in the light, and their icy color made her miss the fiery rubies all the more.
Lana squeezed her shoulders, bare thanks to the low cut of her gown. “It’s time,” she whispered. Brynn’s entire body felt numb all over, and Lana shot her a fierce look. “Hold your head high, my mother always used to say. Don’t let them see what you do not give them permission to see.” She smiled at Brynn’s blank expression and tilted up her chin so that her profile became instantly regal. “Like so. You are to become a duchess. Let them see the duchess.”
Brynn frowned at Lana’s unexpected and thoroughly profound advice, but couldn’t dwell on it, as she was ushered from the room in a swish of skirts. Archer and her parents would already be downstairs, mingling with the first wash of guests, and Brynn was expected to make a grand entrance before too long a time had passed.
She walked through the hallways until she came to the set of Palladian stairs that led into the ballroom. She stopped at the top of the stairs and drew a strangled breath, glancing down. The ballroom had been transformed into a magical paradise. Guests wearing gowns of every imaginable color twirled on the dance floor with their equally impeccably dressed partners. Thousands of shimmering candles in gleaming chandeliers cast the ballroom in an ethereal glow, while bouquets of fresh flowers dotted the room and dewy rose petals littered the floor.
She exhaled. This was it.
Lana handed her a stunning jade and obsidian Venetian mask, and mouthed be the duchess once more. Brynn nodded, her gloved fingers resting along the cool marble of the balustrade. She tilted her chin as Lana had demonstrated and took the first step.
Heads in the ballroom below swiveled upward as she descended. Her eyes sought those of her family at its base—her mother’s proud ones, her father’s already misty ones, Gray’s accusatory ones—before searching for those belonging to her unwilling fiancé.
Archer’s back was to her. He appeared to be in conversation with a young man she recognized behind his demi mask as the handsome Earl of Langlevit, and Brynn was inordinately grateful for the reprieve. Her breath calmed, and she relaxed her death grip on the curving handrail. As she descended, conversation in the room slowed and stilled, and as the earl inclined his head in an admiring bow, Archer finally turned.
She stood frozen on the last step, her emotions swelling in her chest. The sight of Archer took her breath away. He was not wearing a mask, which made her smile. It was so like him to go against convention. Dressed in immaculate superfine, his midnight-blue tailored evening clothes fit his broad frame superbly. The snowy white cloth of his cravat and shirt contrasted sharply with the tanned skin at his throat. But it was his eyes that held Brynn immobile. They glinted with unmistakable possessiveness, claiming ownership with a single sweeping glance that made her treasonous body tremble from head to toe. She steeled herself—it was an act, she knew.
To everyone else in the room, the duke appeared to be gazing at his bride-to-be in fond, proud appreciation. But Brynn knew better. Only she could see the layer of ice that lay behind those eyes. It is all a pretense, she reminded herself. Remembering Lana’s words, she jutted her chin and pushed a radiant smile to her lips.
As if a spell was broken, Archer strode swiftly to her side and offered her his arm. She placed a gloved hand upon it, and cheers broke throughout the ballroom. Brynn’s breath caught as he bent his head toward her, a waft of his spicy cologne tickling her nose. Even if it were an act, the full dazzling force of his charm made her legs feel unsound. She peered at him from behind the mask she held aloft inches from her face, wondering for the hundredth time what she had gotten herself into. “You look lovely tonight, Lady Briannon, but I am sure you are aware of that fact.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured as they strolled around the ballroom, accepting congratulations and bidding greetings to close family and friends. Her mama hugged her, her face already streaked with tears, and her father looked like he was on the verge of the same. She searched for Gray, but he had disappeared. Although his absence made her heart ache, she determined to find him later. Her brother would have to get used to the idea or risk embarrassing them both. He was truly too stubborn and protective for his own good, but Gray had to trust that she was a grown woman capable of making her own decisions, especially where matters of the heart were concerned.
Brynn almost gasped at her own gaffe. This charade was nowhere near a matter of the heart. It was a business agreement, nothing more.
Guests raised their glasses in toasts to their future health and happiness, interspersed with sadder ones that expressed how tragic it was that the late duke could not be here. Archer took them all in stride with unfailing courtesy.
Eloise approached and greeted Lord and Lady Dinsmore before turning to her. “Lady Briannon, you light up the room with your presence.”
“As do you.” Brynn smiled and embraced her friend. Eloise’s color was high, no doubt due to the Earl of Langlevit, who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She was radiant in a silver dress that shimmered with every movement. A sheer white silk mask covered her face with glittering sequined plumes wound into her hair. She fairly sparkled. “You’ve outdone yourself, Eloise,” Brynn told her, waving a hand at the whimsical and elegant decor. “This is truly magnificent.”
Eloise leaned in, pride in her handiwork evident. “I meant what I said about wanting you for a sister. I wouldn’t have gone through this much effort otherwis
e.” Brynn’s stomach clenched at the thread of hope in her voice. But Eloise’s hope was a fruitless one, as was hers. This ball was as real as Archer’s proposal.
She darted a glance up to the implacable man at her side who was in conversation with Viscount Carlisle, and exhaled. His face could be chiseled from the same marble as the elegant staircase. A smile was fixed on his lips, but it did not touch his eyes. Those remained detached and indifferent as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Brynn had to remind herself that this was an inconvenience to him. She was an inconvenience to him. The awareness of that made her feel small and acutely insignificant.
After a moment, Archer signaled to the musicians to begin, and he led her out for the first waltz of the night. His hand slid around her waist, resting like a brand against her back, and Brynn trembled. She stared at his neck cloth, her feet automatically taking the steps. “Damn it, look at me,” he hissed. “At least pretend that you want to be here.”
Her eyes met his, fury sparking at his unprovoked attack. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “As you’ve done thus far?” she snapped back.
She gazed over Archer’s shoulder and finally saw her brother. He stood on the periphery watching them with ill-concealed misgiving. He, too, was not wearing a mask. For Gray’s sake, she pasted a bright smile on her lips.
“Happy now?” she muttered to the man leading her with effortless and expert ease. A muscle ticked in his jaw as if he weren’t in the least bit happy. But then again, neither was she.
They finished the set in silence, tension stretching between them despite the matching painted smiles on their faces. She scanned the room, noticing that her parents were deep in conversation with the Rochesters. Gray was once more noticeably absent. He was avoiding her, she knew.
Bowing stiffly, Archer escorted her to the refreshment table and handed her a glass of champagne. Several loud rounds of toasts ensued as Brynn drained the contents of the glass. It did nothing to calm her rattled nerves. She plucked another off a tray and did the same. Her face hurt from smiling so much, and she felt dizzy, laughter and conversation slamming into her on all sides. Suddenly, the room seemed to shrink, and she wanted nothing more than to escape.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 26