Page 51 of My Rogue, My Ruin
What did it matter if she’d seen him half naked? He was the Masked Marauder. Lord Hawksfield, the future Duke of Bradburne, was ahighwayman. She paused. He wasn’t the one who had hurt Lord Maynard and his coachman, however. He’d said there was another—the one who had killed the horse—and Brynn believed him. None of that, however, changed the fact that he was a thief and had been stealing from his peers. Whether he gave the spoils to those in need or not, he was not in the right. He was nowhere near the right.
She twisted on the edge of the cushioned seat. The window behind her was draped to block the view of either the street or the side lawns; she didn’t know which. Truthfully, she didn’t quite know where in Hadley Gardens she was right then. Just that she’d been away from the other dinner guests far too long. She couldn’t stay here, waiting for Archer to return as he’d asked. But he’d left it so that she couldn’t leave, either, walking around the duke’s private residence alone without a servant, and risk getting lost.
Flustered, she paced the room, her feet making little noise on the thick, luxurious carpet. Walking to a dresser on the far side of the room, she stared at herself in the mirror, noticing her swollen lips and flushed, rosy cheeks. She did not look like someone who had left to have her dress mended by a maid—she looked like…like…a woman who had been thoroughly ravished by a lover. She had to make herself look respectable before she set one foot from this room. She patted her face and smoothed the curls of her hair into normalcy. Her fingers trailed to her lips of their own volition. She could feel the phantom press of Archer’s still lingering there. God, she didn’t want to think about Archer or his blasted mouth,orwhat she already knew lay under those yards of superfine.
Searching for a distraction, her eyes fell on a starched piece of needlepoint still in its wicker frame, lying in a place of honor at the very center of the dresser. A sailboat had been painstakingly sewn along with a name embroidered in bold blue thread—Archer Nathaniel David Croft. Her thumb slid along the embroidery hoop as she imagined a dark-haired little boy sitting at his mother’s feet, composing this very project. Her heart constricted a little, but Brynn shook herself, placing the hoop back where it belonged. Archer wasn’t an innocent little boy. He was nothing but a blackhearted, conniving thief, and she’d do well to remember that.
What on earth was he thinking? A highwayman! If he were to be caught, he would behanged.
“It would serve him right,” she muttered before stalking toward the door. He’d stolen her grandmother’s pearls and Lord knew how many other jewels that held sentimental value. She bristled at the memory of his mocking tone when she’d called them priceless heirlooms. Just because Brynn had returned home to a jewelry chest filled with other accessories did not mean the pearls would not be missed.
If he so desperately wished to help the poor and needy, why didn’t he just dump the money from his own bloody coffers into their palms? It was baffling to even consider. He was a peer of the realm, for heaven’s sake. She’d had enough…of him, his demands, and this room. Of her own insufferable weakness where he was concerned.
Brynn cracked open the door to the late duchess’s sitting room and listened over her pulse throbbing in her ears. When she was certain the hallway was empty, she darted out, closing the door behind her with a soft click. As her slippers padded along the carpet, she was glad she was wearing silk. Chiffon or taffeta would have made more noise as she snuck down the dimly lit hall.
She thought of the tear in her hem, and the way Archer’s surprisingly nimble fingers had gripped the small needle and thread. They were not slender fingers in the least, and they should have been clumsy with the sewing notions. However, he’d been swift and precise, and she’d watched his crown of dark hair bent over her ankles as he worked, with mounting amusement and admiration. The cold and aloof Hawksfield knew how to mend stitches. Seeing him so carefully fixing her hem, even stopping to tidy up a crooked stitch, had made her heart feel bigger in her chest. It had given her the startling urge to reach out and curl his hair around her fingers.
Of course, that had beenbeforehe’d confessed to being the Masked Marauder. But if Brynn were to be honest with herself, his resemblance to the bandit when he’d donned the mask at the Gainsbridge Masquerade had been far too great to ignore. In fact, if she were being honest, she’d been crestfallen when she’d enumerated the reasons that Archer couldn’t be the bandit. She’d been thinking about his kiss for the last week, and, even more ashamedly, hoping to see him again. Archer had been right. She had felt something—for both the bandit and for Archer. Two men who, as it now turned out, were really one man.
She needed to clear her head. Perhaps she could return to the lady’s salon, where the women were likely having tea and playing cards, and feign illness. Brynn detested using her breathing affliction as an excuse, but she could not, under any circumstances, risk seeing Archer again tonight.
She had already taken two left turns down connecting hallways so far, and she had the sinking feeling that she was indeed lost in Hadley Gardens.
“Blast,” she muttered, turning around and trying to gauge how far back the last turn had been.
A muffled voice had her facing forward again, her heart jumping into her throat. The voice had sounded from farther down the hallway she was currently in. She couldn’t be discovered wandering the hallways, especially if the rooms behind these closed doors were bedchambers.
Brynn wavered, indecisive, in the hallway until the voice sounded again, this time louder. It belonged to a man, and whoever it was, he was angry.
She backed up until she came to a cream-colored door with a glass knob. Praying the room was empty, she twisted the knob and opened the door. Darkness met her and, with a breath of relief, Brynn quickly stepped inside and closed the door. Her heart tripped at the threat of discovery.
Brynn kept her hand on the knob, the palm of her other hand pressed against the smooth wood, and her ear turned against the door as well. Perhaps she’d wandered above the billiards room and the shout had been nothing more than a raised voice among the men. But she wanted to be certain no one was coming toward her in the hallway. Her legs were quivering from nerves when she heard a strange thumping noise. Like a table or some other piece of furniture falling onto thick carpet.
Brynn waited, an eternity slipping by though she swore she took only a handful of breaths.
And then, she heard the sound of approaching feet. They were heading away from the previous noises—and directly toward the room where Brynn was hiding, pressed against the door. She held her breath as the sound of swishing skirts rushed past. It was a woman, then. And at that pace, she was in a hurry. Brynn also heard the distinct sound of sniffling, as if the woman were crying.
It seemed as if Brynn had nearly stumbled upon a man and woman having some kind of spat. Whom the man and woman were, would have to remain a mystery, however. She waited another minute before opening the door. The hallway was once again empty, and Brynn decided to backtrack to the previous corridor to avoid coming upon the man who had been shouting before.
Within another minute, she saw a familiar portrait hanging on the wall, and then, miraculously, a stairwell. She descended and immediately heard the echo of voices. Relief was instantaneous. She breathed deeply and forced a smile as she came upon the entrance to the ladies’ salon. When she entered, her mother pounced.
“Gracious, Briannon! Where on earth have you been? I’d started to worry your dress was beyond repair.”
Several of the other women in attendance all turned from their hands of cards to listen in.
“Not at all, but you know how silk is,” Brynn said with a wave of her hand, and attempting to sound exasperated instead of nervous. “So difficult to mend.”
Their eyes darted to the neatly mended seam, and she was inordinately thankful that Archer had done such an extraordinary job. Murmurs of agreement put her at ease, and even more so when the women turned back to the card tables and their glasses of sherry.
She glanced around the room as she walked to her mother, seated upon a sofa next to Viscountess Hamilton, a matronly woman who had never bore children and had, instead, a half dozen or more poodles.
“Have Lord and Lady Rochester departed for the evening?” Brynn asked, after settling herself beside her mother and noticing Lady Rochester’s absence. She tried not to fidget. Archer could be returning to the duchess’s sitting room that very moment, only to find it empty. She wondered if he would come to find her.
The thought of him made her lips tingle and burn.
“Lady Rochester was feeling rather…faint,” the viscountess answered with a raised brow.
“She stepped out for a bit of air,” her mother supplied. She didn’t scoff as openly as Viscountess Hamilton had, but Brynn could tell her mother didn’t believe Lady Rochester’s excuse for a moment.
