Page 43 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Of course she had known it, but hearing the words from the marquess’s own lips made her go cold.
“It is absurd. We have never conversed. Never danced,” she whispered, angling herself away from her parents so Mama could not glance back and read her lips. “He is far too…mature in years.”
Now it was Hawksfield stifling his mirth. “He is a duke. Those things do not matter.”
“They matter tome,” she hissed, then remembered her previous realization. “And I do not desire you for a stepson.”
The noise level inside the salon rose drastically, and Brynn assumed the duke had joined them. Hawksfield turned to her, leaning slightly too close to her ear. Bradburne’s arrival had seemed to capture everyone else’s attention. But it was Hawksfield’s warm breath on her bared shoulder that captured hers. “Trust me when I say I do not desire you for a stepmother.”
He lingered another prolonged moment near her shoulder. This close she could hear him inhale through his nose, as if scenting her skin.
She had no response. The only thing that came to her mind was the well-explored memory of Hawksfield’s mouth pressed urgently against hers, the warmth of his tongue tracing her lips, and his hands tensing around her waist and hips, hooking her closer to his body.
Brynn was fairly blushing when the duke finally found them. Bradburne’s eyes went first to her breasts, second to her face, then third, to her father.
“Dinsmore!” he boomed, clapping her father on the shoulder as if they were old friends. “Wonderful to see you, old chap.” Her mother beamed when the duke kissed her hand and murmured that he could see where her daughter got her beauty.
Brynn’s throat closed off as the duke then turned to her. His eyes roved her from head to toe, a satisfied smile touching his lips.
Beside her, she could feel coiled tension emanating from Hawksfield’s body. If she wasn’t mistaken, the marquess had slid a step closer to her side.
“How good of you to welcome our guests, my boy,” the duke said with false brightness. “I did not expect to see you tonight.” The change in the marquess had not been lost on him.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” his son murmured.
The dinner bell rang, and Hawksfield, still made of stone, did not raise his elbow for Brynn to take. The duke pounced, his elbow shooting toward her at alarming speed.
There was nothing to do but accept the invitation to be led to dinner on his arm. Instead of gold, the dining room was a muted bronze theme. The scores of candelabras, chandeliers, and tapered candles cast Brynn’s golden dress in sparkling contrast to the bronzed metal sconces, the wood paneling, and burnished copper ceiling.
The duke delivered Brynn to a seat several places down from the head of the table where he would sit. Lord Rochester took the seat to her right, and as the footman behind her was tucking her chair closer to the table, the guest who would be seated to her left glided soundlessly into his chair. She didn’t have to look. She could scent the spicy orange and clove of his cologne.
“Are you supposed to be sitting there?” she whispered to Hawksfield, who had waved away the footman after murmuring to him. The footman dipped into a stiff bow and hurried away to set an additional place.
“Of course not. The duke would like to keep me as far from your side as possible, I would think.”
As if on cue, the duke noticed where his son was sitting, and all the jolly humor that usually lit his face fled. He flared his nostrils, and a muscle jumped near one distinguished jowl.
Far down the table, Brynn saw the footman catch the attention of the foppish man her parents had been introduced to, and politely gesture toward a chair. She balked at the marquess’s impropriety.
“And why should you like to do otherwise?” she asked, watching as the seats were filled. Her parents were placed across the table, separated by other guests. Mama, however, noted Hawksfield beside Brynn with pursed lips.
“We must speak,” he murmured.
“What of?”
Hawksfield canted his head and met her stare, one full dark brow propped up.
Oh. The kiss.
“Certainly nothere?” she said. It was hardly appropriate dinner conversation, and nearly every ear would be piqued for whatever the marquess had to say.
“No. Elsewhere,” he answered.
“I don’t think there will be a moment—”
“We will find a moment,” he said, his voice so low it was for her ears only. “In private.”
She stared at him, ready to refuse, but the soup course was promptly served, and Brynn was nudged into conversation with Lord Rochester. She answered his questions about which balls she planned to attend, but her mind was stuck on the infuriating man to her left. And now, every time her mind landed on the Marquess of Hawksfield, she could think of one thing: that soul-splintering kiss.
