Page 42 of My Rogue, My Ruin
There were a number of conveyances surrounding Hadley Gardens, and when Brynn noticed elegant couples emerging from them and approaching the duke’s front entrance, she released a long breath. Thank heavens. It was to be a true dinner party then, and not some private affair arranged just for them.
Mama, of course, looked crestfallen as Brynn took her papa’s hand and descended from the carriage. Lord Dinsmore squeezed her fingers gently, telling her with his eyes and his unaffected warmth that everything was going to be all right. She believed him, which is why she was only slightly shaking as they were divested of their outer garments and announced by the duke’s butler.
“The Earl and Countess of Dinsmore, and Lady Briannon Findlay.”
Their names rose up toward the ornate ceilings of an exquisite blue and white salon, where the duke’s guests were gathering.
Brynn had never been inside the duke’s London residence. She wasn’t a stranger to luxury, but this surpassed anything she had ever seen. Her dress was at home among all the gold—threading in the wallpapers, shot through the fabric of every plush chair, dripping from the chandelier overhead and glinting on candelabras placed around the large, rectangular room. Even the paintings gracing its walls captured golden sunsets or sunrises, their gilded frames of the baroque style.
Nearly a dozen various lords and ladies were decked out in their finery and were waiting to be presented to the duke. Brynn recognized a few of the guests, including Lord and Lady Rochester, who were never far from the duke’s side, and sipped gratefully on a glass of wine provided by a waiting footman. Her eyes searched the room for the Marquess of Hawksfield, but she could not find him. Fortified, she took another sip. She may be able to endure the evening, after all.
“Good evening, Lord Dinsmore. Lady Dinsmore.”
Of course, she could not be so lucky.
Her stomach plummeted at his icy voice behind her. The wine she was in the process of swallowing bobbed back up her throat. Brynn coughed but managed to swallow again and keep it down as she turned.
Hawksfield stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin held in an imperious hike. “I am surprised to see so fine a turnout for the duke’s impromptu dinner party.”
“Impromptu, you say? How merry. The duke is certainly impulsive,” Lady Dinsmore chirped.
The compliment sounded hollow and forced. It was how all conversation seemed to be at gatherings like this. People on their best behavior, paying compliments even if they didn’t mean them.
Hawksfield broke from his severe posture to take up Brynn’s gloved hand. As he bent forward over it, his gaze drifted down the front of her dress. A shiver raced across her skin at his fleeting glance, and the memories of his hand sliding under her bodice at the Gainsbridge Masquerade and his tongue invading her mouth shuttled forward. They retreated swiftly, however, at the distant look in his eyes. He could have been staring at the portrait on the wall behind her for all his aloofness.
“Lady Briannon,” he said, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I notice you’ve chosen to match the duke’s favorite color this evening.”
It was not a compliment, and she felt her skin grow heated under the golden silk dress. She should have considered the fact that she would appear like a giant coin. Hopefully not as round, though. Perhaps Mama had thought of it. She’d certainly given her approval swiftly, ignoring the dress’s one bared shoulder design.
“It is a coincidence, nothing more,” she replied brightly, feeling like a dolt nonetheless. “I do not usually attempt to match the interior decor.”
A glint of humor lit his eyes as he straightened his back, but the amusement snuffed out as soon as he stood tall again. She couldn’t understand the man. If he wasn’t kissing her, then he was insulting her. If he wasn’t insulting her, he was treating her with acute disregard. Brynn turned to peer into the crowd, refusing to let his current mood sour hers.
She almost didn’t hear it when, his voice pulled low, Hawksfield whispered, “Your beauty casts it, and everyone else here, into the shade.”
Brynn snapped her eyes to him, startled by what sounded like a genuine compliment. “Thank you, Lord Hawksfield.”
Her mother and father had been drawn into an introduction to a foppish looking man Brynn did not recognize, leaving her at Hawksfield’s side for the moment.
They stood without conversing, and yet neither of them moved away. She peered at him while pretending to look around his shoulder at the other guests. He was quite handsome in stylish and superbly tailored dove gray trousers and coat, his pristine white cravat tied in a ballroom knot at his neck. Hawksfield, she was starting to notice, wore formal clothes with a casual sort of elegance, as if full dress were as natural and comfortable as undress. His jacket fit just snug enough over his wide shoulders to display his masculine form, and his trousers encased slim, yet muscular, legs. She turned her gaze away, ashamed of the thoughts making her body uncomfortably warm.
What on earth was the matter with her? She was turning into a complete wanton, first undressing strange men, and now imagining Hawksfield much the same way. That louse of a bandit had ruined her morals. Stained them in some way, especially if she was turning her ribald thoughts to the marquess.
Brynn fought to remind herself that this was the same man who had not only insulted her at the masquerade, but had also manhandled her person. And that kiss…she had to stop thinking of thatdamnedkiss. Her instinct was to push him away with some sharp comment, but of course, given he was Bradburne’s son, she could not give him a direct cut.
And then a frenzied giggle bubbled in her throat at a horrifying thought: should the duke propose, and should all her morals and pride vanish, inducing her to accept, Hawksfield would be herstepson. She choked down the hysterical laugh, drawing a concerned glance.
“Do you spy something amusing, Lady Briannon?”
She stifled her mirth. “Of course not.”
Hawksfield accepted a squat glass of whiskey from a passing server. “That is good. It would be a shame if the next Duchess of Bradburne found her future home worthy of laughter.”
Brynn blanched then flushed as she watched him take a cool sip of his drink. The glass of wine in her hand trembled. “I do not understand what you mean.”
He smiled into his drink. The cad!
“Come now, Lady Briannon, playing the naive debutante doesn’t suit you. My father has been sending you flowers since the Gainsbridge Masquerade. He intends for you, and you are well aware of it.”
