My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Please excuse me,” she said weakly. Archer’s eyes fell on her. “I won’t be a minute.”

  As she turned to leave for the nearest retiring room, her palms grew clammy, and it felt as if the soles of her feet were sticking into the floor. She could hardly lift them. Her legs were like iron posts, and a huge weight pressed down into the center of her chest. The whole room started to spin, closing in on her, a noose around her neck. Brynn’s breath caught like a vise in her throat. Oh no. Not here. Not now. Hot white stars popped in her vision, and she cursed her stupid, pathetic lungs. Her numb fingers reached for Archer’s arm, struggling to keep her balance. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Brynn?” Strong fingers grasped her shoulders, cradled her chin. Archer’s voice seemed terribly far away, and his eyes even more so. Soon they both faded, and the only thing she could see was darkness.

  …

  Archer knew the instant that something was wrong. One minute she was exchanging pleasantries beside him, and the next she was stumbling away, her skin ashen. He’d caught her before she could collapse, and now Briannon hung in his arms like a ragdoll. Not caring a whit for respectability, he scooped her up and strode to one of the adjoining salons. A path cleared for him, the music beginning to grind to a halt.

  “Poor thing, she is overcome…”

  “It is to be expected. It’s far too soon after the duke’s death…”

  “She always was a sickly girl, was she not?”

  Archer nodded for the musicians to continue to the next set, and as the strains of a vigorous quadrille began to play, those closest to them moved toward the dance floor and chatter resumed.

  Brynn lay like a dead weight in his arms, her labored breaths shallow. Eloise would know what to do. He searched for his sister, but she was halfway across the ballroom and smiling up at Langlevit. The earl had drawn Archer aside earlier and asked for a meeting to discuss his intentions, and he didn’t want to disturb his sister now. Archer’s gaze fell on, and just as quickly discarded, Lady Dinsmore—he did not want that scene, either.

  He glanced at Heed, already standing at attention in the salon’s entrance. “Summon Dr. Hargrove immediately. Show him in the minute he arrives, and make sure we are not disturbed by anyone else. And send for her maid at once.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He slammed the heavy French doors behind him and set his bride-to-be on a chaise lounge. Fetching her some water, he held the glass to her lips and spun around as someone pushed open the door.

  “Forgive me, my lord, I am Lana, Lady Briannon’s maid.” Without waiting for his response, the girl rushed to Brynn’s side, nearly shoving him out of the way. He rocked back onto his haunches and watched her take charge, pulling a cool compress from the pocket of her dress and pressing it to her lady’s face. She smiled reassuringly at him.

  “Her lungs need a little help from time to time,” she explained. “It won’t take a minute. No need to worry.”

  Archer cleared his throat, relief pouring through him. “Does this happen often?”

  “No, Your Grace, but she has been under more stress of late.” Her gaze darted to his, and Archer flinched at the tiny note of accusation in her voice. He set his jaw, instead of reprimanding the servant as he should have, and poured himself a stiff brandy. It was his fault that Brynn had collapsed. Self-disgust surged within him.

  Lana straightened her mistress’s gown and tucked a tendril of hair back into place as Brynn’s breathing leveled and grew more even. “There now,” she murmured. “Easy, my lady.”

  After a few more moments of breathing in the aromatic compress, Brynn’s eyelids fluttered. Archer opened the door and spoke a few curt words to the waiting footman. “Do not let anyone past this door,” he said, before striding into the crowded ballroom. On his way to Briannon’s parents, a dozen concerned guests who had witnessed Lady Briannon’s near collapse waylaid him. He forced a smile to his face and reassured them that the lady was fine.

  “Lord Dinsmore,” Archer addressed Brynn’s father, keeping his voice low. “Everything is well, but Briannon needed to take some air. The heat in the ballroom caused her to swoon. Her maid is with her at the moment, and there is no cause for alarm. I have sent for Dr. Hargrove as a precaution.” Archer knew he was being duplicitous, but the last thing he wanted was for Lady Dinsmore to cause a scene, and from the look on Lord Dinsmore’s face, he was arriving at the same conclusion. He nodded, and Archer made his way back to the salon.

  When he entered, Brynn was in a seated position and sipping a glass of water. Her maid had removed her gloves and was fanning her gently. A hint of color was coming back into her cheeks. She dismissed the maid with a grateful look, and the girl curtsied and stepped several paces away.

  “I am so sorry,” Brynn began, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “My attacks are not as frequent as they used to be but do tend to come on rather suddenly.”

  “No, I am the one who should apologize,” he said. He could feel the maid’s curious gaze center on him, but he did not dismiss her. He could tell that her presence soothed Brynn, and that was more important than his privacy. “This has all happened so fast, and I didn’t stop to think of the effect it would have on you.” He sat beside her and noticed she had taken off his grandmother’s diamond necklace. She flushed, her eyes darting to the pile of jewels atop the side table.

  “They were rather heavy,” she whispered, her hand lifting to her throat. Archer’s gaze followed the movement, and his own breath caught at the bare expanse of creamy flesh swelling there. He cursed himself in the same moment—she was ill, and all he could do was think of her breasts and divesting her of that dress. The effect she had on him was unimaginable. A wan smile lit her face. “I much prefer rubies, as you know.”

  Archer’s glance darted to the maid, who had suddenly busied herself at the far end of the room, opening the doors leading out onto the terrace. Fresh night air blew into the room and cooled the back of his neck. “I shall endeavor to remember that,” he said softly. He took the slight softening in her manner toward him as an invitation. “Brynn, I know that this has been difficult for you, and tonight was no exception. I apologize for whatever part I have had in that.” He slid his fingers between hers. “Regardless of how we came to be here, we are in this together. So I beg you to forgive me. Shall we restart this unfortunate evening?”

  “I should like that very much.”

  He raised her ungloved hand to his lips and stared into her green-flecked eyes. “You are a vision tonight, Lady Briannon. Any man would be honored to have you at his side.”

  “Thank you,” she said, warming to their game. “You—”

  The door flew open, crashing into the wall behind it and interrupting her sentence. Her brother stormed into the room. Archer could tell that Northridge was already well into his cups, if only from the reek of whiskey that accompanied him. He looked utterly disheveled with his cravat nearly undone and his face mottled. “Where is she?”

  Heed bustled into the room behind him, his face apologetic. “I apologize, Your Grace. He would not be deterred.”

  “Fine, Heed,” Archer said in a clipped voice, his eyes never leaving Northridge. “Leave us.”

  As Heed closed the doors, Brynn half rose out of her seat but sank back down, her breathing once more agitated. Archer stood, but before he could take one more step toward him, the maid had crossed the room, positioning herself between them and Northridge. “She is upset enough, my lord.”

  Northridge’s eyes flicked to his sister. “Get out of my way, Lana,” he slurred. “Or I will remove you bodily, so help me.”

  “I will not allow you to make her worse,” she said, throwing her hands onto her hips like she was addressing a misbehaving lad. Archer’s eyebrow flicked up a notch at the girl’s courage.

  Northridge hesitated, his hands clenching at his side. “I am not here to endanger my sister,” he gritted out. “Now let me pass.”

  “You are drunk.” />
  “And you forget your place.”

  “Do I?” A silent battle of wills ensued that had Archer frowning. Perhaps the Dinsmores were more lenient with their servants than he was.

  “Lana, please,” Brynn interjected weakly as if she, too, could see the angry sparks flying between them. “Wait outside.”

  The maid shot her mistress a concerned glance, but did as she was told, her lips compressed into a tight, furious line. She raked Lord Northridge with a disparaging stare worthy of any highborn lady as she stalked past him.

  Brynn turned to her brother. “Gray, I know you’re upset, but this is not the time or the place.”

  “It is the perfect time,” he countered, his words crashing together.

  “You’re foxed,” she said, eyes widening. “His Grace and I—”

  “His Grace,” Northridge mocked. “The man has looked down his nose at all of us for years, preferring to spend his time in a stable than in his own house.” He eyed Archer, who stood motionless, his body tightly leashed. A muscle jerked in his cheek at the man’s insults. “It was a surprise to everyone at large that his father claimed him out of all his other bastards.”

  “That is enough!” Brynn gasped, her eyes flying to Archer’s.

  “I won’t give you the thrashing you deserve,” Archer said in a dangerously quiet voice. “If only out of respect for your sister, soon to be my wife. I will offer you the chance to leave of your own free will.”

  “Your wife,” Northridge echoed, spit flying from his mouth. He swayed. “What did you do to get her to agree to your proposal?” He choked on his words, and Brynn’s fingers flew to her mouth. “She would never marry you. Did you compromise her honor? Did you?”

  “Gray! Stop this. He did no such thing.” But her scruples betrayed her. She flushed guiltily, which seemed to make her brother’s drunken temper skyrocket.

  “Name your second, you bastard.” Northridge took a swing at Archer and missed as Archer sidestepped him, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar.

  Without a word, he stalked to the end of the room toward the open terrace doors and tossed the younger gentleman out. Glancing over his shoulder at Brynn, Archer smiled reassuringly and closed the doors behind him. Once out of her earshot, however, he drew a ragged breath, fighting the inclination to beat Northridge to within an inch of his life. The man sought only to protect his sister. In truth, Archer would have done the same if their positions were reversed. “Go home. You’re drunk, and you’re making a scene.”

  “I demand satisfaction,” Northridge shouted, his hair falling into his face as he fought to regain his balance. His voice echoed in the deserted gardens. Archer hoped no amorous couple was out taking a stroll just then. “Do you hear me, Hawk? At the point of a pistol. You forced my sister into this. She is obviously terrified of you. So terrified that she nearly fainted in your arms at the thought of sealing this betrothal. Don’t you think she knows that you were questioned for the late duke’s murder? Everyone knows that you are no gentleman.”

  “Enough,” Archer said, trying to control his mounting fury. “Or you will have exactly what you want. I assure you, I am an excellent shot, and where will that leave your beloved sister? Without a brother?”

  “Without a bastard of a husband.” But the words were said without any real force behind them. Northridge’s eyes drifted to the doors and peered through the glass panels, to where Brynn still stood, her face distraught.

  “I assure you my parentage is as unsullied as yours,” Archer said in a gentler tone, not missing the flash of regret that swept Northridge’s face. “You may dislike me, but I am still marrying your sister. And unless you are truly willing to die to stop this wedding, I suggest you return to Bishop House and sleep it off. This is what she wants. What we both want.”

  “You will only hurt her,” Northridge whispered. “Everyone knows of your proclivities—you could never be faithful. It would break her, and she doesn’t deserve that.” He hiccupped, his fingers clutching the iron railings behind him as his bluster abruptly faded.

  Sodding hypocrite, Archer thought. His proclivities? As if Northridge was an innocent and hadn’t had his own share of dalliances and more dependable mistresses. Archer had heard whisperings, unproven of course, of illicit rumors involving Northridge, a well-heeled courtesan, and a scandalous sum of money two years before. But nothing more had ever come of it. Perhaps that was the very reason he so despised Archer. Perhaps he thought he knew, based on his own actions, what it was his sister was facing down. A man she couldn’t trust.

  Northridge slumped against the railings, and Archer took pity on him. “She deserves a chance to be happy,” Northridge muttered.

  Archer swallowed and ran a hand through his hair, the anger draining from him like an outgoing tide. “You are right. She does.”

  The two men stared at each other in silence; the common thread between them was the woman peering at them through the glass panes. Something unfamiliar and deeply protective unfurled inside Archer at the sight of her. He had always known that Brynn was different. Despite her temper, she had a purity of spirit that only one other woman had ever possessed—his mother. It was a rare gift, and Archer knew that as surely as he knew his own name. She had come into his life with the ferocity of a summer storm, and fake betrothal or not, he had no intention of hurting her.

  “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure it.”

  At the quiet vow, the tension seemed to slip from Northridge’s shoulders. “Brynn’s heart is special. I want your word as a gentleman that you promise to do right by her.”

  Archer nodded and reached down a hand to his almost brother-in-law. “You have it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Archer pinched the bridge of his nose as the coach rattled over the streets toward St. James’s Square. It was an ungodly hour. Not even noon. Most of Bishop House would still be abed. Lord Northridge was likely out cold, his head pounding from the copious amount of alcohol he’d consumed last night.

  Archer had every intention of waking the bloody fool up with a fist to the jaw.

  That morning’s copy of the Times lay crumpled on his lap. The paper had likely been delivered to Lord Dinsmore’s home as well, but Archer wanted it in his possession when he approached Northridge. He wanted to press it into his future brother-in-law’s face and pummel the drunken lout with it until he cowered.

  Archer blamed himself, too. He should have been more careful. Someone had been in the gardens last evening and had tipped off the press. At the time, he had been thinking only of protecting Brynn by taking Northridge outside onto the terrace. He should have known that journalists from the Times or the Gazette would be lurking around, attempting to write a piece about the engagement or some part of the ball. He cursed himself for the hundredth time. Those who reported on the doings of the ton were like rabid dogs, and now that they had scented blood, it would be near impossible to deter them.

  His fury at a lurid new headline about the latest attack from the now notorious Masked Marauder in Leicester Square had been eclipsed by the society pages. Archer had read the first few sentences of the gossip piece an hour before, as he’d taken his first sip of black tea. He’d promptly spit it out all over his desk and the edges of the newssheet. He looked at it now, and the words still stabbed his gut.

  Scandal is afoot! From the mouth of her own brother, the lovely Lady B is terrified of becoming duchess to a murder suspect! Is she being forced into marriage? Lord N certainly seems to believe so.

  Everything Brynn had sacrificed—everything they had both sacrificed—to protect each other from Bow Street’s eagle eyes was now at risk.

  The moment the coach stopped, Archer leaped from his seat and out the door without waiting for the set of steps to be set in place by his groomsman. The moment Thomson read this column—if he hadn’t already—he would be back at Hadley Gardens and Bishop House, sniffing around just like before. The man probably had barely believed this ridiculous false be
trothal to begin with.

  And now that Archer and Brandt had spent the last week planning ways to trap and capture the man impersonating the Masked Marauder, he most certainly did not need Thomson’s beady, inquiring eyes pinned on him.

  Their butler, Braxton, opened the door shortly after Archer pounded on it. He stepped aside to allow him in, and Archer entered the foyer.

  “Your Grace,” Braxton said, dipping into a bow.

  “I am here to see Lord Northridge.” His eyes traveled up the red-carpeted steps to the second floor. The house was still and quiet, as he had expected.

  “His lordship is not present.” Braxton’s reply took Archer by surprise. He’d figured the brat would be sleeping in and nursing his hangover. “He has taken the air to clear his head.”

  Finely put, Archer thought, his scowl still locked into place even though the wind had been sucked from his sails.

  Now what?

  “I would like him to call at Hadley Gardens as soon as he returns,” Archer said, not bothering to leave his card or hear their butler’s reply before starting back for the door.

  A voice from the top of the stairwell stopped him.

  “Your Grace?”

  He turned and saw Brynn on the second floor landing, her hand upon the banister. She looked soft and sleepy, her pale blue day dress extraordinarily simple compared to the luxurious gown she’d worn last night. Her hair was up, though not severely.

  “My lady,” he murmured, stepping away from the front door and closer to the bottom of the stairwell.

  She licked her lips and started down, her eyes coasting back up to the hallway behind her. Checking, he was certain, for any signal of her mother or father’s presence.

  “Braxton, please call for tea in the morning room,” she said, but before the man could bow, Archer put up his hand.