Page 7 of My Rogue, My Ruin
This was a matchmaking mama to be reckoned with, he thought, as she all but shoved her daughter into his arms. He couldn’t decline now without being intolerably rude. He set his whiskey on the corner of the refreshments table and extended his arm toward Briannon. Smiling tightly, he wished he could escape to the stables instead for a rousing round of cards with Brandt. The look of unrestrained glee on Lady Dinsmore’s countenance was almost too much to take.
“I’d rather not,” Briannon said under her breath, softly enough that only Archer would be able to hear.
“We don’t want to disappoint Mama, do we?” he interjected. Her darkened gaze slammed into him, but she slid her gloved palm into his without a ready retort.
She remained close-lipped as they entered the floor, joining the other couples swirling in time with the music. Archer settled his arm around her waist and clasped her hand in his. For all the world, the girl looked as grim as if she was being led to the gallows.
“It isn’t as scandalous as all that, Lady Briannon,” he murmured. “They are even dancing the waltz at Almack’s, or so I’m told.”
She said nothing as they moved through the steps, Archer’s footwork a little rusty here and there. He truly despised dancing. Apparently, so did the lady holding herself like a block of marble in his arms.
“I see you cannot tear your eyes away from my cravat, Lady Briannon,” he said, unable to resist such a prime opportunity to tease. “My valet will be quite pleased to know you approve of his handiwork.”
“You look quite well, my lord.”
“As do you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Archer bit his tongue and resigned himself to the task at hand. They continued to float around the other dancing couples. Despite the fact that Briannon’s body brushed against his time and again, Archer found his attention starting to stray. He didn’t even have the distraction of décolletage due to the distastefully prim bodice of her gown. He caught a few glances of surprise, one of which came from his father, whose partner was none other than Lady Rochester. He brought his attention back to the dainty slope of Lady Briannon’s forehead and tried to think of something that would engage the timid little mouse.
“Are you often at Ferndale?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord. When we’re not in Town.”
“How is Lord Northridge?” he pressed, referring to her older brother. He’d crossed paths with the chap over the years. Despite their childhood acquaintance, they had never come to socialize in the same circles. Easy to do, Archer supposed, considering he kept his circle rather small.
From memory, Graham Findlay, the Viscount Northridge, was reputed to be nimble with a sword, fleet with a hand of cards, quick with his temper, and generous with his attentions to the female set. He was first in line to inherit his family’s considerable fortune, as well as his father’s prestigious title. They had crossed paths in the past, though on those occasions, Archer had found the young viscount to be a little too similar to the duke in his pleasure-seeking. Then again, Northridge’s disposition might have changed in recent years. Brandt seemed to always be mentioning that the viscount was at Ferndale. Perhaps he now preferred the quieter life of Essex to the pace of London.
“Graham is well, thank you,” Lady Briannon replied, barely above the tenor of the violins. “He has recently completed his final year at Oxford.”
Archer was quite sure most young ladies in training to catch a husband would have taken the opportunity to ask if he himself had enjoyed attending university. They would have pretended to have never heard the rumors that he’d been tossed out of Eton for poor marks, or that he’d been suspended from Cambridge for forming an underground boxing club and gaming hell.
Lady Briannon simply stared at his cravat a bit more.
Archer thought back to the exchange with Briannon outside of the earl’s carriage, wondering at the dramatic change in her demeanor. He sighed. It seemed she’d been aghast at the thought of losing her jewels, nothing more.
He glanced down his nose and saw Lady Briannon peering up at him.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice harsher than he’d anticipated. Twice now she’d caught him indulging a private thought.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure she was going to answer. But then she looked up, her chin—the cut of a diamond, he noted—imperious. Archer also noticed she had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had attempted to cover them up with powder.
“This is as excruciating for me as it is for you,” she said.
He forgot the freckles and stared at her. “What did you say?”
“I believe you heard me,” she said and then added softly, “my lord.”
“What makes you think dancing a waltz with you is excruciating?”
Lady Briannon smiled. The small gesture transformed her entire face. He almost faltered on the next step.
“Because just then you looked as though you had eaten something extremely disagreeable,” she answered. “And since you aren’t eating at the moment, I assume it is either my dancing or the people in this room.”
“Why must it be just one of those two options?” Archer couldn’t resist saying.
Lady Briannon’s smile widened, revealing a peekaboo dimple in her left cheek. “I’ll have you know, I’ve had the best dancing tutors from Paris. Italy, too. Mama insisted.”
