Page 39 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Her mother went on, ignoring her interjections, both of which were impossible to argue, and Lady Dinsmore likely knew it. “—and his lineage is impeccable.”
Brynn set down her teacup, splashing cold tea over the brim. “He is a rake of the worst sort, Mama, and you know it.”
Everyone knew it, including Hawksfield, who had never, not even while growing up in the country, attempted to conceal the fact that he deplored his own sire.
And then there was Eloise. The poor woman had been willfully ignored by the duke her whole life. The man was infuriating, arrogant, and snobbish, and there was absolutely no chance in Hades that Brynn would ever be induced to marry him.
“All he wants for is a wife to guide him,” her mother said, that faraway and scheming look in her eyes as they gazed at the wall behind Brynn’s sofa.
“That is exactly what you said about his son, if I recall correctly.”
Did her mother truly believe any woman could fix a man’s deeply ingrained faults by her mere presence?
Lady Dinsmore lifted her pointed chin and shot her daughter a cool glance. “Well, I haven’t seen any floral arrangements sent by the marquess, now have I?”
There was an unexpected twinge in Brynn’s stomach, though she couldn’t determine what it meant. Disappointment? Of course not. She didn’t wish for flowers or flattering notes from Hawksfield. He would never lower himself to beg a woman for her attentions anyhow. And she didn’t regret rejecting his lewd kiss.
Even though shehadthought of it numerous times in the days since the masquerade. At night, mostly, while she lay in bed. Thinking of him.
Oh bother.
Hawksfield was all the things she’d just accused the duke of being: infuriating, arrogant, and snobbish. And yet kissing him had been…it had been tantalizing and urgent. He had pinned her against his chest with the same desperate strength one might use when fighting the pull of an ocean tide. As if he’d feared someone dragging her away from him. She’d tasted his passion. Breathed it. It was an emotion she hadn’t thought Hawksfield capable of expressing. Yet, with her, for those brief moments, he had.
Which made her wonder: what else had he been hiding behind his cold and stony facade?
Gray entered the front room with one of the newssheets Lord Dinsmore subscribed to under one arm. He took one look at the lilies on the credenza and scowled.
“Would anyone mind terribly if I were to chuck them straight into the fire?”
Brynn stood up from the sofa, her legs sore from holding them so stiffly. Nerves made her muscles ache and her breathing ragged. But right now, at least, she felt fine. After her fainting spell at the masquerade, Brynn had not been allowed out of the house for a full day.
“Not at all,” she answered. “In fact, I will wager that you could not get them all in on your first shot.”
“You will not touch them!” their mother screeched, standing up as well and going to the lilies as though to stand guard. She glared at Brynn. “And placing wagers is no proper thing for gently bred girls to be doing.”
Gray had worked himself into a froth the morning the violet roses had arrived. He disliked Hawksfield, but he despised Bradburne.
“The man is a toad,” Gray said, slapping the paper down on a table by the street side window. “Had you seen the way he looked at her, you would hardly be in such a delirious state. He looked at her as if…as if…she were something to be gobbled up.”
“Hush! You know how servants gossip,” their mother hissed, looking sideways toward the door to where a footman stood sentry. “Insulting the duke at this phase would be extremely unwise.”
A knock on the front door to Bishop House covered up Brynn’s reply of, “So would encouraging his suit.”
She knew better than to try to sway her mother. She was an ox when it came to certain matters, especially those that concerned marrying off her daughter to the highest, most affluent, and titled bidder. With the duke’s attention, she felt more than ever like a prized item on the auction block. Brynn had wanted to enjoy her season, and perhaps meet an eligible bachelor with whom she would have something in common. She had hoped to choose a husband at her own pace. She hadn’t imagined things would progress so quickly.
Brynn met her brother by the window while they waited to see who had called upon them. She lowered her eyes to the bold headlines on the newssheet he’d set down. Ladies were not supposed to read the papers for anything more than the gossip columns. However, Brynn made a habit of sneaking the rest of the paper from her father’s study, and Gray would often leave them for her underneath her pillow. If Lana found them, she would lay them neatly on the bedside table.
“The day is warming,” her brother said casually, even though his finger tapped a lurid headline:
Masked Marauder Strikes Again! Assaults Man, Steals Priceless Heirloom.
Lord Maynard had told her and Gray that night on the road leading from the Gainsbridge estate that the bandit had forced his family’s signet ring from his finger. It had graced the fingers of every ancestor for six generations and could never be replaced. The man had been raging between heartbreak and fury.
Brynn shook her head, her body trembling as she recalled the earl’s face. He was lucky to be alive. And she…she had been sopresumptuouswith the bandit when her father’s carriage had been attacked. It was a miracle he hadn’t harmed her. How could her instincts have led her so far astray? The bandit’s manner had been poised and unruffled, and while she’d known him capable of striking a man unconscious, as he’d done with Colton, she’d also been certain he was far too highbrow to be a cold-blooded killer. Those eyes of his, much too intelligent and observant.
And then, as he’d lain half delirious in that cottage a few nights later, his leg bleeding profusely, his trousers around his shins, he’d looked so vulnerable.
Brynn shook her head roughly. What was she thinking? The bloody man killed Maynard’s horse, and here she was, reminiscing about his damned eyes and the fact that she’d seen him in his underclothes. The truth was, she’d been too hasty in assuming his genuine nature because of some disgraceful, misplaced attraction. A handsome, well-spoken man apparently could be a savage if he chose to be. Perhaps he simply did not harm women?
