Page 11 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Brynn flushed again and took a deep breath. “Truly, Gray. That was all. Though I should have chucked Grandmother’s pearls into the woods rather than give them over.”
Gray winced. He knew how special the pearls had been to her. How much she’d loved Grandmother and Grandfather. He held out his arm to her, his face grim. “Whoever he is, I hope he rots in hell.”
Brynn, eager to lighten the black mood, linked her arm through his. “Speaking of thieves…what of Lady Cordelia? Rumor has it she’s stolen your heart and an engagement is in order.”
“Not likely. Unless you want an ice queen for a sister-in-law.”
“Gray! That’s not a nice thing to say in the least. Lady Cordelia is lovely,” Brynn said.And as frosty as anything, she silently agreed. That wasn’t fair, of course. Cordelia was one of Brynn’s friends and had adored Gray since they were children. Despite her exceedingly prim and proper nature, which some could consider cold, she had the pedigree and the wealth to make Gray an excellent match.Great heavens.Her thoughts were starting to sound like Mama’s.
“If you say so,” he muttered.
She inspected her brother with a critical eye. With his blond waves and the classic lines of his nose and jaw, most ladies would consider him handsome. He would have his pick of women when it came time for him to take a wife, though Gray didn’t appear at all interested in the prospect of marriage. She smiled, resting her cheek against his sleeve just before they turned the corner into the day room.
“I’m glad you’re home, Gray,” she murmured. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too, moppet,” he said with a fond smile, rumpling her hair. “Now come on, let’s go in before Mother sends a runner from Bow Street to hunt us down.”
They were both grinning like a pair of idiots when Gray stepped inside the day room. Mama looked up, her face folding into a frown at the sight of Brynn’s flushed cheeks and Gray’s amusement.
“Briannon! Why is your gown in such disarray? And your hair! Absolutely dreadful. You two haven’t been out riding again, have you?”
Brynn sighed—her mother’s eagle eyes missed nothing. She stayed silent as her mother’s tirade shifted to her brother. Better him than her. “Graham, how many times must I remind you of your sister’s condition?”
Gray bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Of course, Mama, which is why we went for a light stroll instead.”
Brynn bit back a giggle at Gray’s bald-faced lie. He winked at her, and Brynn had to duck her head to hide her answering grin.
“Well then,” their mother said, all smiles now. “Come sit with your mama and have a spot of tea. Brynn, you can work on your needlepoint.”
“While I would love nothing more than the pleasure of your company, Mother, I do have a previous engagement,” Gray said, eyes twinkling as he looked to his sister. “And as much as I am in awe of Brynn’s talent with a needle, I shall leave you ladies to it.”
Brynn wanted to stick out her tongue at him. Her light mood disappeared as Gray took his leave—she’d give anything to be off with her brother somewhere instead of cooped up in this stuffy old room. She sat upon a slipper chair and picked up her embroidery hoop. She stabbed the needle violently through the canvas, feeling the heat of her mother’s censorious stare.
“Come now, darling,” she said. “Small stitches.”
“I loathe needlepoint,” Brynn grumbled as she made another precarious stab.
“It is an art, my dear. And an accomplishment for any suitable wife,” her mother countered.
“I don’t see how small stitches will win a man’s heart,” Brynn muttered. The needle tip went through the open weave canvas and poked the pad of her thumb. She paused, tossed her hoop and needle, and sucked on her throbbing finger. At least the fencing foils she and Gray had just been using could not injure her in any way.
“Small stitches will win his admiration for your attention to detail and finery,” Mama said. Her mother would always have a ready retort. For Brynn to hope that she would ever have the last word when her mother was present was futile.
“Don’t frown, Briannon. Your coloring is much too pale for such morose expressions,” she went on. “Show some excitement. Yesterday was your first official visit to Worthington Abbey. His Grace looked well, and you know what I’ve always said, my dear: a girl can’t do better—”
“Than to catch a duke. Yes, I remember.” Brynn reined in a strong desire to groan. “But, Mama, you cannot seriously entertain the idea that I marry a man twice my age.”
Lady Dinsmore’s eyes widened and her mouth popped open, her own needlepoint forgotten in her hands. “Marry the duke? Oh, my dear girl, of course not! Everyone knows he isn’t in the market for a wife.”
Brynn let out a breath and let her shoulders relax. However, her mother wasn’t finished. She resumed her stitching, and added, “I should think you would do much better to marry his son. Lord Hawksfield was a capable dancing partner, was he not? And he seemed decidedly interested in you.”
Her mother began to rattle off all the reasons it would be a perfect match, but Brynn refused to listen. “Absolutely not, Mama. The man has no manners whatsoever.”
Insulting her gown had been the least of it. He’d been unable to mask how distasteful dancing with her had been, what with his constant frown and stiff back and neck.
“You cannot fault the boy for having a country upbringing—and by servants no less!” her mother replied. “It is no wonder he isn’t as gentle as the rest of the men of our acquaintance. He simply wants for guidance.”
Brynn bit her lip from replying that she’d be more than obliged to guide him—straight into a pond.
