Page 47 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“Then I would say that your source is mistaken.” She laughed. “The marquess in question is, as I’ve heard, a ruthless and uncompromising man driven by amassing his fortunes and interested in little else beyond that, much less the attentions of some simpering maiden.”
His reputation was exactly as he’d molded it to be, it seemed. Why the description fell through him like coins in a well gave him pause. He wrinkled his forehead and turned his eyes back to his task. “What if his attentions were drawn by a fascinating sprite in a golden dress whose skill with a pistol was matched only by her razor-sharp wit?”
Damn. Flirting with her was turning out to be rather intoxicating. He peered at her before tidying a crooked stitch. Her cheeks were like pink rosebuds before bloom.
“That would be surprising indeed,” she whispered.
Archer was surprised as well, mostly at himself. He’d brought her here to discuss more pressing things, not flirt. He replaced the needle in the box and stood. “There, done.”
“It’s perfect,” she breathed, inspecting the repair with incredulous eyes. “I did not believe you could do it, sir, but your stitches are near invisible. Madame Despain would applaud.”
The French modiste on Bond Street had created this dress? He pictured Briannon standing in the center of a room filled with mirrors and bolts of fabric, stripped down to her underthings as the modiste and her assistants swathed her in this golden silk, and fought to breathe. He wanted to touch the silk against her body, warm it with the palms of his hands.
For the second time that evening, he felt uncomfortably tight in his trousers—which were already tight as it was. He stood, grimacing at the twinge of pain in his injured leg, and regretted kneeling for so long. He backed away from the bench seat, needing distance to clear his fuddled mind.
“Thank you,” Archer said. “It is nice to know should I lose interest in the strenuous pursuits of men, I will have something to fall back upon.”
“You mock me,” Briannon said with a smile at his teasing.
“On the contrary. Now we are even, for I can set a tight stitch and you can ride a horse without a saddle. My dignity has been set to rights.”
The flickering movement of her lips burgeoned into a full-fledged smile. “Your dignity?”
“I couldn’t walk for hours after I returned to Worthington Abbey upon your stallion. You made it look easy, and I assure you, it was not.” He returned the box to the linen case and closed the glass doors. He knew he should remain across the room from her. A good ten paces. At this distance, he could not trace the warmth from her body or the whisper of her perfume. Not the cloying florals most other women wore, but something subtler, earthy, and bright. Like green clipped grass and lemon.
He should have stayed where he was.
He didn’t.
Briannon’s humor fled her face as he approached her, taking slow, measured steps. The mood shifted from flirtatious to serious with each one. The lightness of their banter evaporated now that he was no longer hindered by the task of mending of her dress. She stared at the door and then at him, her hands twisting together in her lap. “My Lord Hawksfield—”
“My name is Archer,” he interrupted and took the seat at the other end of the window bench, again ignoring the accompanying pain at the stretch of his injured thigh.
Her lips parted at the offering of his given name and his intimate position on the seat. “Lord Hawksfield,” she insisted, “why did you bring me here?”
“Are you interested in the duke’s suit?” he countered.
It was not the question he’d wanted to ask, but bringing up the bandit had to be natural. At this moment, it would be anything but.
“Should the duke make an offer,” she said, her eyes drifting to the floor, “it is my duty to do as my father wishes.”
He saw her throat bob and her lips pull into a slight grimace, as if she’d just swallowed something distasteful. She was a truly awful liar.
“That’s not what I was asking,” he said.
She stared at him, no doubt hearing the swift notes of anger in his voice. Her chest rose along with her chin. “Your question is rude, and I do not have to answer it.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked in perfect time with his ballooning frustration. “Brynn, what happened between us at the masquerade—”
Her eyes widened at the use of her nickname, but she did not correct him. “Was a mistake.”
“Was it?” he countered.
“Yes,” she said, her color rising.
“That is a lie.” His words were soft, and he watched trepidation play across her expressive face. “Tell me you felt nothing.”
A beat passed. She inhaled through her pert little nostrils, as if fortifying herself.
