Page 33 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Something he’d just mentally accused his father of doing multiple times with multiple women.
Bloody hypocrite.
Archer fled the ballroom, tensing and releasing the fingers on the hand he’d used to pummel his father. If Archer could strike himself, he’d do so. His father was the lusty, thoughtless bastard, not him, and he’d be wise to remember that. The sodding Duke of Bradburne was exactly the sort of privileged, upper-crust swine Archer took pleasure in relieving of their worldly goods. If the duke had two farthings to rub together, Archer might even attempt to swoop down upon his carriage. Then again, he’d likely recognize his own heir.
He gathered his coat and hat and called for his curricle. His leg ached as if to remind him of his many transgressions. Though Archer longed for some sort of satisfaction tonight, acting as the bandit when his temper was in a furor was not a wise decision. He’d simply return to Worthington Abbey and attempt to douse the fires the masquerade had ignited with a stiff drink and a cold bed.
Chapter Nine
A quarter hour had passed since the Marquess of Hawksfield had stormed out of the Gainsbridge ballroom, and the guests were still humming with excitement. The Duke of Bradburne and his heir had apparently been engaged in fisticuffs on the balcony—the balcony where, just moments before, Hawksfield had swept Brynn into a completely inappropriate, utterly scandalizing, and undeniably shattering kiss. She couldn’t believe the liberties he had taken, sliding his thumb against her breast in so wanton a manner or the deeply intoxicating plunge of his tongue. The recollection made her simmer anew.
She stood with her mother and Gray, and a handful of other guests, in a tight circle on the edge of the dance floor. When Gray had met her near a column after she’d come in off the balcony, she’d expected her brother to see the flush of her cheeks and the pulsing of her burning lips. Her breathing had been uneven, and her legs a little untrustworthy. She was certain everyone, especially Gray, could see evidence of sin trailing in her wake. Her lips and breasts burned with the stain of it.
Perhaps a wandering eye had peered through the balcony doors at just the right moment and witnessed the ignominious embrace. If that were the case, the gossip would have already worked its way around the ball. The rumor of a kiss would have happily attached itself to the new scandal of Hawksfield and Bradburne coming to blows. The fact that it hadn’t been mentioned once gave Brynn hope. She didn’t want a scandal involving the marquess. Her mother would have clucked and crowed and demanded Lord Dinsmore and Gray approach Hawksfield about a proposal.
And what would Brynn do then? Marry the brute? Twice now since meeting again after so many years, he’d been insensitive and vulgar. Yesterday morning in the woods he’d been difficult and brusque, but…warmer. More generous and less prickly. He’d even made Brynn laugh. This evening, however, his whole demeanor had gone back to what it had been at the Bradburne Ball: rigid and fractious.
Until the balcony.
And the mask.
She couldn’t get it out of her mind. Brynn listened to the women around her chattering like magpies, condemning Hawksfield for his surly attitude.He was always such a sulky lad, the Dowager Monteith had put in no less than four times. Countess Mayfield had fanned herself, chastising him for having the impudence to waltz through the ballroom sans cravat—as though he were undressing for bed!All the while, Brynn was thinking only of how familiar those quicksilver eyes staring out at her from behind the silk mask had been. But Hawksfield seemed much taller than the bandit. Then again, last night at least, the bandit had been flat on his back, so she couldn’t be sure. She was starting to doubt herself and questioning whether deep down shewantedHawksfield to be the bandit.
When Hawksfield had pulled her to him on the balcony, and when they’d ridden Apollo, their thighs rubbing against one another, his touch had been scorching, just as the bandit’s touch had been as he’d removed her grandmother’s pearls and then, that morning in the small cottage in the woods, drawn her across his half-clothed body. But her responses to both didn’t mean the marquess and the bandit were one and the same.
Her head spun with the chaos of it all. She didn’t know what to think. The bandit had been charming and lively, while Hawksfield was…well…stony.
Not when he’s kissing.
Brynn banished the traitorous thought and turned away from Countess Mayfield and Dowager Monteith. She immediately caught her mother scowling at the rubies and concealed her sigh. She was sure to receive a strict dressing down as soon as they all returned to Ferndale. Brynn pushed a smile to her face and pretended to be interested in the dancing. Though she did not look forward to her mother’s tirade, she did wish to leave. However, she also did not want to risk chancing upon the marquess on the route home by following too closely in his wake.
Brynn fingered the rubies at her throat. She perused all the masked faces surrounding her, but none of the men seemed to be the right combination. One was the right height, but not the right coloring. One was too old. Another was dark, but stodgy in size. A fourth seemed perfect until she noticed his rather large hooked nose. No, her bandit was not here.
And neither was Lord Hawksfield.
She, like the rest of the crowd, had noted the marquess’s rapid departure with curiosity. She recalled the mussed waves of his previously immaculate dark hair and the hard set of his jaw as he’d left the masquerade. He’d been angry, but Hawksfield seemed too austere to engage in such a public display with his father. He was not reputed to be a man given to emotion, unless it was chilling coldness. Except with her. She seemed to inspire nothing but his disapproval.
Or his lust.
His lips had been so warm, so tender. His fingers surprisingly rough as they delved inside her bodice. The small caress had made her cry out, and had he chosen to draw her farther into the shadows of the balcony, or perhaps out onto the lawns, she would have followed. The rugged stroke of his thumb over her nipple had rendered her mindless.
She hadn’t been able to speak, and truth was, she hadn’t wanted to. Though now, with her thoughts well back in check, Brynn had little doubt that she had been the recipient of a kiss from someone expert in seduction. No doubt his ego had taken a beating when she’d rebuffed him. That would account for his foul mood.
Brynn almost laughed at her inane reasoning. The marquess would never let some foolish girl allow him to drop all social graces. It may have been her first passionate kiss, but clearly, it had not been his. She’d experienced a stolen peck when one of Gray’s friends during his days at Eton had paid a visit to Ferndale, but it’d been nothing like Hawksfield’s kiss.
For a moment, Brynn imagined whether the bandit would kiss as well. The thought of her mysterious highwayman doing what Hawksfield had done made her blood simmer to dangerous levels. Lord, it was ridiculous how a desperate imagination could eclipse reality, and sanity.Fancying a criminal?Brynn fanned herself vigorously and decided that it was time to go home. She’d had far too much champagne, and far too many thoughts about kissing entirely unsuitable men.
She had just turned to her mother when she noticed that Eloise and the earl who had been paying her unquestionable interest all evening were approaching.
“Lady Briannon,” Eloise said, proceeding to make the necessary introductions. The Earl of Langlevit found himself in conversation with Brynn’s father, and the two young women decided to take a stroll to the refreshments table. “Are you enjoying the masquerade?”
“Yes, it’s been a lovely time. And you?”
Eloise flushed. “I am.” Her eyes darted to her escort, and Brynn couldn’t help following her gaze. The Earl of Langlevit was certainly handsome with his sandy-colored hair and warm amber eyes. Gray had mentioned something about him being stationed overseas and that he had only just returned. They used to be at Eton together, but while Gray had moved on to Oxford, Langlevit had gone into the military. The pair exchanged a glance, and Eloise disappeared behind her fan.
It had been years since she had had more than polite conversation with Eloise, but the girl seemed different this evening. Normally, she hid from high society, preferring the solitude of Worthington Abbey. She wasn’t much older than Brynn, only by two or three years, and by no means a spinster. When they were children, she and Brynn had often trailed after their two older brothers, but after the accident and the tragic death of the Duchess of Bradburne, Eloise had withdrawn into herself. Brynn couldn’t blame her. She’d seen the damage with her own eyes—the raw burns, the shiny scar tissue, the pronounced dip of her right eye. God had seen fit to spare only the bottom third of her face, leaving her forever changed.
Her body had escaped the worst of it, but Eloise would never be well received by the beau monde, not without whispered comments and pity trailing her every step. Not even the protection of her fierce and intimidating brother could change that. And so she had retreated from society, her appearances at crushes like this one over the years few and far between.
