“I’ve wanted to touch you like this since that night on the lane to Worthington Abbey,” he said, his expert strokes bringing her higher on that swell of hot pleasure. It threatened to incinerate her. “You were so beautiful in the moonlight, so fearless. Had we been alone, I would have taken you then.”
Had her head not been thrown back in pure ecstasy, her ability to speak utterly lost, she would have told him how she had felt the attraction, too, and how every night since she had drifted to sleep with shamefully erotic dreams of him. Dreams just like this reality. Only she had never imagined it could feel this sensual and frustrating at the same time. It wasn’t just her body reaching for him, wanting more of his touch, it felt like her soul was craving him as well. Pleasured with one breath, unfulfilled with the next.
Archer’s fingers quickened, teasing and toying. His thumb rubbed the little nub at her entrance until her body strained against him. “Please,” she begged, not knowing in the least what she was pleading for.
“You’re intoxicating.” He nipped her bottom lip with his teeth before laving it with his tongue. “I want to drink you, Brynn. Consume you. I want to taste every warm, wet part of your body.”
Brynn moaned at the picture he’d just painted. Every part of her body? Did men do such things? He smiled as if knowing her thoughts.
“You’re imagining how it will feel when I take you with my mouth instead of my hand,” he whispered.
“You…your…” was all Brynn could gasp with the sweet burden inside her swelling high and hot.
“Yes. Like this,” he murmured before driving his tongue inside her mouth. He curled it around hers, tugging and stroking, promising her something she had never before fathomed.
Brynn could no longer breathe, and surprisingly, she found she didn’t need air. Just his sliding tongue and plunging fingers, and with Archer’s rapid breathing hot in her throat, pleasure broke through her. She cried out at the shockwaves of bliss and then whimpered as she rode Archer’s hand shamelessly, thrusting to claim the last ebbs of satisfaction.
As they flattened out inside of her, she exhaled. She felt as if her body had splintered into a thousand hot fragments that were now slowly piecing themselves back together. She’d never experienced anything so shattering in her life.
Archer kissed her softly, removing his hand from the damp crux of her body and pulling her bloomers back into place. Her leg, rid of all muscle and strength, fell from his hip, and Archer smiled knowingly as he straightened her skirts. She breathed heavily, though for once, being breathless felt absolutely divine.
“I cannot believe I allowed you to do that,” she whispered after a long moment.
Archer parted his lips to reply, his raffish grin promising a witty—and lewd—reply, but a knock on the study’s door smothered his grin and sent him whipping around and away from the desk. Brynn pushed off the desk and lunged toward one wall of bookshelves, a trembling hand reaching to her hair to smooth whatever damage had been done to it.
“Enter,” she said in a voice far more composed than she felt.
Braxton cracked the study door to find Archer near the hearth and Brynn at the shelves. If he sensed anything amiss, his emotionless face did not betray it.
“Lord Northridge has returned, my lady, if His Grace still wishes for an audience.”
Archer turned from the hearth, his shoulders squared, his back straight as an arrow. “Thank you, but I have other business to attend to. I will see Lord Northridge at another time.”
Braxton bowed and retreated, though Brynn noticed he did not close the door all the way.
She let out a shaky breath, watching as Archer strode slowly across the room. At the door he paused and turned to face her. His sultry stare was gone, but she was glad to see his more familiar cold and distant expression had not replaced it. Instead, Archer looked at her with a kind of searching wonder. The same way he had the night before when she had arrived in the ballroom.
“I must leave,” he said, the abrupt words not matching the deeply possessive glint in those storm-swept eyes.
“Of course.” What else could she say? She could still hardly breathe from the last few minutes of relentless pleasure his hands and whispered seductions had brought her.
After another awkward pause, Archer lowered himself into the deepest bow she had yet seen him make, and took his leave.
Exhaling slowly, Brynn stood at the bookshelves, her legs still weak and her core still throbbing from his ministrations. Sanity and reason came back in a slow, inexorable rush. Hot shame was swift to follow. Good god, what had she done?
Chapter Twenty
“Hawk,” Stephen Kensington, the Earl of Thorndale, said with a lazy smile, “at least leave some of our money on the table if you’re not in the game. That’s the ninth hand you’ve won, yet you are a thousand miles away.”
Archer drew the pile of chips from the middle of the gaming table toward the already significant stack lying in front of him. Despite his social elevation to the Duke of Bradburne, the nickname among those who knew him had stuck. Thorndale was one of the few men he tolerated—liked even—amongst his peers. He had always struck him as a fastidious but generous man. Archer knew for a fact that he had donated a large part of his own fortune to build a new wing for a struggling hospital on the outskirts of London, an act largely due to his new wife, whose father was a local physician. Thorndale was one of the few not targeted by the true Masked Marauder.
Archer collected his cards for the next round, checking the single one lying face down beneath the king in front of him. An ace. A natural. He pushed a handful of chips toward the large pile as the others did the same. “Lady Luck is with me tonight, it seems.”
“Luck of the devil, you mean,” Marcus Bainley muttered sourly. Archer shot the young man a level look but did not respond. Of the five other men at the card table, Bainley was the youngest. The son and heir of the aging Marquess of Bromley, he was a society dandy with a reputation for gambling, profligacy, and gossip. With a massive fortune at his disposal, he cared nothing for expense and flaunted his money with the delicacy of an elephant in a tearoom. Which was why he’d been the Masked Marauder’s first victim. Archer couldn’t fathom how Bainley was such a favorite within the upper crust of London society. He made a mental note to divest the fop of more of his coin at a future date.
The other three men he knew only by association. Helmford Monti was a handsome Italian ambassador with a penchant for whiskey and women. He and Archer’s father had had a lot in common. The Duke of Bassford was an elderly man who spent so much time at the tables that he was rumored to have his own suite of rooms in the upper level apartments of the club, despite having several properties in London and multiple sprawling country estates. His fifth wife was younger than his oldest son and heir. Unbeknownst to him, Archer had stripped the lecherous old bastard of a significant sum in Cheshire the previous autumn during hunting season.
The last player, Viktor Zakorov, was a man Archer had never met before but had disliked from the start. Thorndale had introduced him as some important Russian diplomat. Something about the man seemed slippery. His austere face hid secrets, and Archer had enough experience with those to know that Viktor Zakorov was not who he seemed. Archer didn’t mind taking his money, however.
He had never been fond of gambling, but tonight he had made an exception. White’s, the exclusive gentlemen’s gaming club to which he had belonged since his days at Cambridge, was crowded, and Archer was grateful for that fact. He glanced around at the sumptuous decor. Sparkling chandeliers, plush, deep blue velvet carpets, and rich mahogany furniture surrounded by priceless paintings gave off a feel of unsurpassed luxury. For many men of the ton, it was a well-cherished home away from home. They ate and drank their fill in the supper rooms and moved on to play a relaxed hand of vingt-et-un or bet entire fortunes on a roll of the dice in the game rooms until the wee hours of the morning. Though the club was designed exclusively for males, there was no shorta
ge of female company should such diversions be required.
The soft hum of voices and the constant sweep of cards kept Archer’s innermost thoughts at bay. He wanted nothing more than to be distracted by anything other than the three things plaguing him—his father’s killer, exposing the impersonator, and deflowering the lovely Lady Briannon, the last of which kept him in an uncomfortable state of perpetual arousal. Normally, Archer would find a suitable companion with whom he’d engage in a meaningless dalliance, but he knew that only one woman could sate the raw ache within him.
Her natural, artless sensuality drove him to distraction. Earlier that morning in her study, Brynn had opened to him, trusting him as she had never trusted any other. Despite the sweet torment of his own unfulfilled desire, he would gladly repeat the act endless times just to savor the delighted surprise in her eyes as her body found its release.
Archer knew they were flirting with disaster. They weren’t truly engaged, and to continue on as if they were was simply inviting destruction upon both their heads. But he couldn’t help himself when he was around her. He became a besotted fool.
He also knew that he was being selfish. Archer had every intention of breaking the engagement once the duke’s killer—and the man impersonating the bandit—was found. They were one and the same, Archer was certain of it. The handwriting on all three of the notes was unmistakably the same. When he found the killer, he would find the impersonator as well, and then Archer would set the marauder’s reputation to rights.
Brynn may now know the truth of the crimes he’d committed, and to what purpose, but she would not stand aside and be complicit while he continued his mission—the single-minded duty that had driven and satisfied him for years. But for the first time Archer could remember, he desired something for himself, something far more satisfying than the gratification of repurposing the ton’s wealth. He wanted Briannon Findlay. But where would that leave her? If he did what he truly wanted to do, she would be ruined for any other man.
A surge of wild jealousy ripped through him at the thought of Brynn’s naked body wrapped in the arms of anyone else. He shoved the unexpected emotion away with a low growl. He had never let a woman get under his skin the way she had. And it wasn’t just about losing himself in her. Archer enjoyed their verbal sparring. He liked hearing her real thoughts as they flew, unedited, from her tongue. He liked seeing her upon a horse and watching her across a dinner table. He especially liked knowing she belonged to him.
“She doesn’t,” he muttered to himself. She was not his, not truly.
“She doesn’t what?” Thorndale said with an elegantly raised eyebrow. “Something on your mind, Hawk? A special someone, perhaps? Care to elaborate?”
“No, I do not.” He frowned fiercely and signaled to a hovering server to refill his drink, ignoring the knowing smile on Thorndale’s face.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he said, toasting him. “This is the easy part. Wait until the wedding nears. The insanity has only just begun. Have you set a date yet?”
“No,” he snapped.
“His Grace is to be married?” Viktor asked, his thick accent distorting his words.
Thorndale tucked a cheroot between his lips and lit it, clearly enjoying Archer’s plight. “It was announced only this week, and to the lovely Lady Briannon Findlay no less.” His eyes brightened. “Speaking of, here is the lady’s brother himself. Northridge, wonderful to see you, old chap,” Thorndale said and gestured to the last open seat at their table. “I see you are back for another sound whipping.” At Archer’s raised eyebrow, Thorndale grinned wolfishly. “Northridge made the mistake of coming here before your engagement ball last night. I doubt he will remember much of it, other than leaving with sadly empty pockets.”
Archer looked up and nodded a curt greeting to Brynn’s brother. He hadn’t quite forgiven the young man’s foolish outburst the night past, but what was done was done. Northridge looked wan and worse for wear, although he still cut an impeccable figure in his dapper evening clothes.
His grin was sheepish. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I’ll favor the dice tables tonight.”
Perhaps it was Northridge’s arrival or the fact that seeing him made him think of his sister, but Archer lost the next hand. And the next four after that. He was just about to throw it in and take his leave when he realized Bainley had asked him a question.
“Rumors abounded that you would never marry, Bradburne. Why the change of heart? Or is it your change of fortune?”
Bradburne. No one had called him by his father’s title until now, and it hung like a pall in the air. His name had always been Hawksfield, and hearing his father’s name applied to him now, alongside the young man’s sly, baiting question, made him thirst for a fight.
Archer did not respond in the way Bainley expected. Calling him out would only draw more attention to himself, and after the unfortunate article in the Times, he didn’t need any more of that.
He lounged back in his chair and tossed a few more chips onto the pile in the center. “Why, the love of a good woman could induce the devil himself to court a lady.”
“So it’s love, then?”
“I don’t know,” Archer said smoothly. “Is that what the rumors are saying?”
The men at the table broke out in laughter, and Bainley turned red. Archer hadn’t insulted him by calling him a gossip to his face, but the underlying insult was there just the same. Bainley stood, darting a seething look in Archer’s direction, collected his remaining chips, and left without a word.
Thorndale won the next hand and smiled in satisfaction. “It’s about time.”
“Hawk,” a man’s voice said. “May I join you?”
Archer looked around to see Brandt standing there. His longtime friend was immaculately dressed in a moss green coat with gold buttons and gray pantaloons. It had been a game of theirs early on to pass Brandt off as a gentleman in the ton, inventing outlandish double identities for him, particularly during the season, but they hadn’t done it for some time.
It had amused them to no end that no one ever recognized Brandt. The privileged had a way of behaving as if their servants were invisible. Archer nodded to the proprietor of the establishment who had escorted Brandt to their table, vouching for the newcomer’s arrival. Though Brandt was not a member, Archer knew the owner would not risk alienating the new Duke of Bradburne.
Archer hid his surprise. Perhaps Brandt had simply wanted a change of scene. “Mr. Brockston,” he said casually. “When did you get back into town?”
“Just today.” Brandt’s bored response could rival any English peacock’s. “Sorry I missed your engagement ball. I heard it was the crush of the season.”
Brandt endured the other men’s curious stares. An invitation to Hawk’s engagement would only mean that he was a close friend of the duke’s. Archer nodded for him to take Bainley’s vacant seat. Brandt placed a stack of chips on the green felt of the table as Archer introduced him to the other players. “Mr. Brockston is a friend of mine from Essex. He is in the export business and manages some of my international investments. He travels frequently, so he is not often in town.”
Brandt settled in like a natural, and play resumed for another hour with Thorndale and Brandt taking most of the hands. Archer was forced to concede that his luck had run out. Or perhaps he wasn’t focused enough. Brandt’s arrival had made him more inclined to stay, but he was considering asking his friend to retire with him to Hadley Gardens and take on the better part of a bottle of aged brandy when a whispered comment at the table beside them stopped him cold.
“Dowager Viscountess Hamilton was attacked…”
He turned and saw Lord Everton holding the men at his table transfixed with the news. “She was attacked?” Archer interrupted. “Where?”
The young lord was eager to share the gossip. “In her home. By the Masked Marauder. Last night. She was beaten severely.”
Archer frowned, exchanging a swift glance with Bran
dt. Viscountess Hamilton had pleaded illness and had not been at the engagement ball.
“What kind of animal would attack an old lady?” Thorndale said, disgust coating his words.
“How is she?” Archer said.
“Recovering, but Dr. Hargrove says that she is lucky to be alive. My mother is the viscountess’s cousin.”
“This scoundrel has to be stopped,” Bassford growled. “He attacked my carriage several months ago. No one was hurt, thank goodness, but it appears he is becoming more vicious in his attacks. Lady Hamilton is ancient.”
No one remarked that she and the late duke were the same age, but the news certainly dampened the previously jovial atmosphere in the club. Cards lay forgotten on the tables as conversation grew agitated with everyone weighing in on the identity of the bandit, his burgeoning list of crimes, and his newfound passion for violence. Archer felt sick to his stomach.
“Any more news on the duke’s killer, Hawk?” Thorndale asked. “Do they think it’s this masked bandit?”
Archer shook his head. “Bow Street has their suspects, including him.”
“But no leads?” Monti asked, watching him with interested black eyes.
For a moment, something in the man’s tone bothered Archer, and he wondered whether Monti or someone else here could be the imposter. It was certainly plausible.
His body grew rigid. He met Brandt’s stare and knew that he had arrived at the same deduction. Perhaps that would explain the stable master’s presence here. He had come to scope out possible suspects. Archer felt something take hold of his body as his gaze perused the room, meeting familiar and unfamiliar faces in turn. Could someone here know his secret?
The dark downturn of the conversation along with his luck made Archer signal a footman to call for his carriage. He made his excuses and left, silently beckoning for Brandt to follow him at a later juncture.
As he entered the foyer at Hadley Gardens ten minutes later, an annoyed-looking Heed met him. “What is it?” Archer asked him, frowning.
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