Page 46 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Briannon’s eyes widened, but she did not say anything as Archer marched them up an elegantly carpeted set of stairs. They made their way down another impeccable hallway decorated with family portraits, and then another, lined with several Roman and Grecian busts, until Archer stopped at the aforementioned room with a blue door. He ushered her into the room, still without uttering a word, and checked to make sure the corridor was deserted before closing the door behind him.
Briannon glanced around the room, her face reflecting her surprise at the lovely floral decor and the subtle feminine touches of delicate rose wallpaper and plush seating. “This was my mother’s private sitting room,” Archer explained, his voice at last cutting through the silence between them. He glanced around, breathing in the subtle scent of disuse. And honeysuckle. Though closed up and musty, her perfume still somehow lingered in the room. Even after all these years.
“The maids come in once in a great while to dust, but otherwise, it has been left untouched,” he said when Briannon remained quiet. “Please sit. I’m certain she had a sewing box in here somewhere.”
He moved toward the far end of the room and began rummaging through some drawers in a white linen chest, his side vision tracking Briannon’s movements. She walked over to the window bench, her fingers trailing along a neatly stacked bookshelf tucked into the walls beside the windows. He watched her study some of the volumes and then touch the peach-colored cushions on the bench, set just so, as if the duchess were expected to return any moment. The sight of a woman who wasn’t his mother standing at the window made his chest feel hollow. It made him wonder what the duchess would have made of the beautiful creature standing within her private sanctuary, currently plumping a lace-trimmed pillow.
Briannon glanced over her shoulder at him, and he shut the linen trunk. “Do you miss her?”
A host of emotions ran through him at the innocent question. Archer settled for a safe, distant answer. “The duchess was mourned by many.”
Her eyes fluttered on him for a moment before they fell away, as if she could see right through him and didn’t wish to let on. Though he thought of her often, Archer rarely spoke of his mother. For some reason, every time he spoke of her aloud, he felt as if he were giving little pieces of her away. Memories given as gifts that he would never get back. So instead he kept his thoughts to himself. He did miss her. The late duchess had been the sort of person whom people couldn’t help being drawn to. She’d had a lightness of spirit and an infectious joy that everyone noticed, especially Archer and Eloise, whom she showered that joy and laughter upon the most. She’d been the light of Worthington Abbey, and the bridge between his father and he. When she died, his father had turned to his lifestyle of flippancy and excess, and Archer had been forced to learn how to run a dukedom.
Archer resumed his search for the mending kit. The risk that one of Brynn’s family members, or worse, the duke himself, would come looking for her and stumble upon them was high. He had all the time in the world to think about his late mother, but only a few precious minutes with Briannon.
With a soft exclamation of triumph, he located the silk-pillowed box and strode over to where she was sitting on the peach cushions. She looked entirely too fetching in that golden gown. It managed to look both ethereal and provocative, the bold color complementing her to perfection. It set off the gilded lights in her hair and made her hazel eyes sparkle with the sort of vivacity that reminded him of the late duchess. She would have approved of the young woman now sitting so daintily in her favorite seat. He frowned at the errant thought. He wasn’t in the market for a wife, and he certainly didn’t want to marry Briannon. He just didn’t want hisfatherto marry her.
He knelt at her feet and opened the box.
“My lord,” Briannon exclaimed. “Where is the maid?”
“In the sewing room most likely, where the footman would have sent her.”
“Shouldn’t I be there, then?” she asked.
“No need. I can darn just as well as any under maid,” he said, sifting through the various threads until he found one that matched the vibrant hue of her dress.
He glanced up to find Briannon’s expression loose with shock. “Youknow how to sew?”
The humor sparking in her eyes helped him to brush away the pall of sadness the thoughts of his mother had brought on. “Why is that so surprising? You approve of ladies who hunt, but not of men who know how to wield a needle? That seems somewhat hypocritical, does it not?”
“I did not expect…you of all people…I…”
Archer grinned. “It is eminently satisfying to find you at a loss for words, my lady.” He threaded a needle and held together the ripped edges of her dress. “My mother enjoyed needlepoint, and in those spare moments when I was not encumbered by my studies, I spent them in here with her. She was far better company than my father, and I seemed to have had a knack for it.” He glanced up with a small smile. Odd. Sharing that memory hadn’t felt like giving it away at all.
“I would insist that you let me do it myself, but I fear that I am not as skilled with a needle as you claim to be,” she said in an odd, softened voice. “I would likely stitch my skirts to my stockings.”
Archer could feel the heat from those delicate stockinged ankles, a hair’s breadth from his fingers, and his hands shook as he held the frayed ends of the material together. His fingers ached to peel the delicate silk from her calves, explore the softness of her skin, and venture higher still. He inhaled sharply. The lady’s proximity nearly made him forget why he’d purposely torn her dress in the first place. They had little time, and he needed to know what she knew—or suspected—about the bandit. He cleared his throat and focused on making tiny, precise stitches.
“This is quite improper, really,” Briannon remarked while he worked, her voice flustered. And yet she did not push his hands away or try to take the needle and thread herself.
“We do seem to find ourselves in these situations,” Archer said, biting his tongue in concentration as he put the finishing touches on the nearly invisible seam. “One of these days, we shall not be so lucky to evade the threat of discovery, and then what shall we do?”
“Pledge my hand?” she said with a laugh. “Or one of them, at least.”
Archer appreciated her wry sense of self-deprecating humor. He knew she was referring to the duke’s attentions. “You would be the toast of the season. A duke and a marquess desperate to win each hand? Mothers of thetonhave waged wars for less.”
Briannon laughed at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Somehow I can hardly see you in the least bitdesperateto win anyone’s hand.”
“Why would you say that?” he said, keeping his tone light. “There are many things in this world I yearn for.”
Briannon colored and bit her lips. He could see she was shocked at the turn of the conversation and the airy nature of his response—as was he, himself. Archer hoped propriety would not win out.
It didn’t.
She grinned wickedly. “Sadly, I have heard that it will be a cold day in Hades before the Marquess of Hawksfield proposes marriage to any debutante.”
His eyes met hers. “I have it on unimpeachable authority that the marquess could be swayed by the right maiden.”
