Page 75 of My Rogue, My Ruin
She licked her lips and started down, her eyes coasting back up to the hallway behind her. Checking, he was certain, for any signal of her mother or father’s presence.
“Braxton, please call for tea in the morning room,” she said, but before the man could bow, Archer put up his hand.
“No, thank you, I won’t be here long.”
Braxton looked to his mistress, who nodded. He finished his bow and retreated into the back of the house, out of sight.
Archer stepped closer to the bottom step, where Brynn had just arrived. “We need to speak. Uninterrupted.”
It had been a full week since they had last done as much. A full week since their encounter in the library at Hadley Gardens, though Archer had relived it in his mind every hour of every day.
Her body softening under his touch, her dress and chemise slipping from her shoulders to expose her lush, full, rosy-tipped breast. She’d moaned insensibly when he’d filled his palm with her flesh, when he’d suckled her and then kissed her breathless. Archer felt his loins tightening in an immediate and visceral response.
What was it about this girl that made him lose his senses so?
Brynn hesitated before nodding once more and leading him down the hallway, in the direction Braxton had just disappeared. She put a finger to her lips, indicating that he should remain quiet. Those lips, so pink and full, made him mad with desire. As he followed her into a room that was decidedly not a morning room, a host of indecent imaginings flooded his mind. His eyes fell to the gentle sway of her hips.
He wanted his hands on them.
He wanted her lips on his.
He wanted those lips on parts of his body ladies did not generally acknowledge. Damn it, but he wanted to finish what he had started days ago, his body still caught in an uncomfortable and unfulfilled state.
Archer attempted to compose himself as she shut the door behind them. “We won’t be bothered here,” she said.
The room was cramped, stuffed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves piled with texts, a long, low velvet sofa in front of a fireless hearth, a desk in the corner with a reading lamp and slim leather chair.
“This is not your father’s study,” he said. It was far too feminine, and there was no wet bar. A shame. Archer could use a drink even at this hour of the morning, if only to give his hands and mouth something to do that did not involve defiling Lady Briannon’s body.
Brynn walked to the center of the room, before the hearth. “No. It is my own room,” she said, lifting one shoulder as if to apologize. “No one else wanted it. The single window doesn’t give much light.”
Archer glanced toward the window, draped in layers of white lace and gauze, completely obscuring the view outdoors. He walked deeper into the room. He didn’t fail to notice how Brynn wavered back a few steps. It was as if she wanted to keep a good five-foot buffer between them. It was probably the best course of action. Any closer and he would be able to reach for her. He couldn’t trust himself.
The thought of his hands on her body reminded him of what hedidhold right then.
He held up theTimes.
Brynn saw it, her chest rising with a long, full breath. “I read it this morning,” she said in a rush. “It seems your imposter is hell-bent on terrorizing the peerage.”
“I’m not concerned with the Masked Marauder at present, Brynn,” he said in a controlled voice. “I’m more concerned about myterrifiedfiancée.”
She nodded, exhaling silently. “I saw that also. It’s why Gray is out for a ride. He’s furious with himself.”
“As he should be.” Archer tossed the paper onto the cushion of the sofa.
“He was inebriated and angry, and…well, I know he didn’t intend to say all the things he did.” The way she spoke reminded him too much of his mother, and how she had consistently defended her husband’s actions. Even when they had involved days of delirious parties and countless women warming his bed. Archer blinked, his fury taking fresh root.
“He was a fool.”
Brynn threw up her arms. “He doesn’t know the truth! All he sees is a rushed betrothal, and he knows me too well to overlook how…how nervous I am.”
It struck him then what she was admitting. The defiant wit, the displays of temper, and that iron chin of hers…all bravado. All a shield.
Archer held his tongue and stared at her. Standing there, she looked so small in that dress. Small and delicate, whereas last evening, when she had stepped into the ballroom, she had been a grand, glittering jewel. Last evening, in that gorgeous gown, the entire ball had revolved around her, as it had been meant to do.
Despite his resolve to be aloof, he’d wanted to peel her out of that gown, layer after silken layer, right there on the dance floor, with everyone watching. Here, in this small study of hers, he wanted to do the very same thing. Perhaps even more than before, now that the dress she wore would not be as complicated to relieve her of. The light and airy day dress was the fashion for women, Archer knew, the cut of it a shapeless billowing length of linen, though tight and laced around the breasts. The fit was perfectly proper for women with small or modest bosoms.
On women such as Brynn, however, it was as tantalizing as a nightdress. The tops of her breasts swelled into view, the ribbon along the scooped neckline accentuating her shapely figure. It would be an easy thing to strip away. He wanted her bared to him again. He longed for the sight of her. For the warmth of her skin against his. Archer took an involuntary step forward.
