Page 44 of My Rogue, My Ruin
The logical side of her knew she shouldn’t meet him anywhere in private. After all, there was a distinct possibility that he would kiss her again…or caress her as he had on the balcony. No, she should refuse. Being alone with the marquess would be inviting disaster.
But the other side of her—the scandalous one his kiss had awakened—craved his touch. She longed to feel his mouth against hers, his hands on her skin. Brynn’s breath faltered at the scorching memory of his expert fingers delving past her bodice to her breast. Her nipples tightened beneath the silk of her dress at the imagined touch, and Brynn stopped breathing altogether.
There was no denying it—she wanted more.
Chapter Twelve
Despite the lively buzz of conversation at the table, Archer was acutely aware of Briannon sitting beside him—her every inhale, the sleek rustle of silk against her body, the elegant lift of her hands, and the precise movements of her fingers as she tended to the silver cutlery. He’d breathed in her scent before in the salon, and each time she moved, it wafted toward him in subtle, teasing bursts.
He was equally aware of his father’s dark mood, undoubtedly caused by Archer’s presumptuous rearrangement of the seating. But as soon he had heard of the dinner party, he had ditched his planned evening of cards and whiskey at White’s, which had, in reality, been a weak attempt to forget the arrival of a second anonymous note.
It had been among the many calling cards awaiting him and the duke that morning in the silver salver at Hadley Gardens, this one set apart by its odd size—smaller than a typical lady’s calling card, and yet larger than the ones men carried in their breast pockets. Also, this card had been sealed and addressed informally to “Hawksfield” in that same scratchy, near illegible script.
Once Archer had slit the envelope and removed the card in the privacy of his own rooms, he’d read four more words, these decidedly threatening:Your time is up.
Whomever it was had followed him to London. The knowledge had placed a hard knot in his gut and the intense desire to occupy his thoughts with drink and gambling. Not that either of those things would solve his problems, including the one involving Lady Briannon possibly having recognized him as the bandit. Archer had abandoned White’s the moment he’d heard of his father’s dinner, knowing it would be far easier to get a private audience with Lady Briannon here than it would at a crowded ball. His father and his preposterous attentions be damned.
Engaged in conversation with Lord Rochester once more, Briannon’s body was angled away from his but for her bare shoulder and the ruched fabric lying along her flawless skin. Archer imagined nudging that golden seam aside and exploring the jutting rise of her shoulder blade beneath it. The smooth expanse of skin would no doubt be as perfect as the sample laid bare. He suspected it would taste as good as it looked, and the thought inflamed his senses. His body grew uncomfortably tight, and he shifted in his seat just seconds before Briannon turned her head and focused her attention on him.
“Is your sister not joining us this evening?” she asked.
Archer had barely touched the succulent duck a l’orange on his plate, and at the mention of Eloise, he set his fork down and reached for his glass of wine.
“She isn’t in London,” he answered.
Lord Rochester, with a mouthful of roast duck, interjected, “I am told the girl has chosen to stay at Worthington Abbey for the season.”
“Oh,” Briannon said with what sounded like genuine disappointment. “I am sorry to hear that.”
Archer recalled the way Eloise had beamed while dancing with Earl Langlevit at the Gainsbridge’s Masquerade, and how the earl had returned the attention in kind. It didn’t make sense for Eloise to sit out the season—unless the earl had seen what lay beneath her mask and had cried off, as Archer had suspected would happen.
He had hoped Langlevit would prove himself different from the rest of society. A misguided hope, it seemed. The urge to hunt the earl down and thrash him had Archer strangling the stem of his wineglass. His sister’s hurt was his own, and as always, it settled heavy in his chest.
“Speaking of the gaming tables,” Rochester was saying, already well into his fourth glass of wine. “What of this bandit tearing through London?”
The subject made Archer freeze. It was certainly not polite conversation for a dinner table, but the participants pounced upon the morsel of gossip with unabashed relish, including the duke himself.
“Poor Lord Maynard,” Lady Rochester twittered. “He is still recovering from the shock. I heard the bandit attacked Lady Emiliah, Lord Perth’s eldest daughter, too, although she was saved from the scoundrel by an angel in disguise.”
“I’ve heard the girl is prone to exaggeration and hysterics,” her husband interjected, his eyes narrowing across the table. “Lord Dinsmore, didn’t the terrible fellow attack your coach?”
Dinsmore nodded. “Yes, although no one was injured. It all seemed rather civilized, not at all what happened with Maynard. The thief did exchange words with my daughter.”
“He spoke to you?” Archer asked.
Briannon visibly stiffened. She nodded, satisfying the curious faces around the table. “The rogue wanted my grandmother’s pearls. I was not amenable at first,” she explained. “But he was very persuasive. I did fear for my safety.”
“That sounds like a terrifying ordeal,” he said.
She blinked, and her stare shifted to her plate, as if she was overcome. “It was.”
“The gall of this upstart,” the duke spluttered. “He should be hanged.”
Archer thought of the way Briannon had stood up to him, her eyes flashing and imperious. She hadn’t cowered, not for one instant, not even at the point of a pistol. He couldn’t imagine his father appreciating that amazing spirit of hers. If she married him, Archer knew it would be only a matter of time before her unique spark would wither away and die.
“Eh, Hawksfield?”
Archer looked up, realizing Lord Rochester was directing a question at him.
