Page 70 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Archer and Brynn exchanged a swift glance.
“It bears looking into,” Archer said. “But we must be vigilant. It could be anyone, and we don’t know that the duke was the target. The target could have been me, and the duke was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why would it have been you?” Eloise asked, frowning, and Archer realized that he had almost slipped up.
“His Grace has also been particularly vocal in his efforts to find the masked bandit, particularly after the attack on Lord Maynard,” Brynn interjected. “Perhaps the killer simply wanted to put an end to a possible threat.”
“That makes sense.” Eloise’s face scrunched up, her hands trembling. “What if he comes back? To finish what he intended to do?”
The imposter had put that terror in his sister’s eyes. It made Archer want to catch the bastard even more. “He won’t have another chance. You are safe here.”
“Promise me you will be careful. I can’t lose you, too.”
Archer reassured her with a fond smile. “I promise.”
“I should be getting back,” Brynn said. “Before my absence ruins any chance of this scheme being launched.”
“Allow me to escort you home,” Archer said, standing. “I will attend to your father, if possible, at the same time just in case he is questioned by an overexcited Thomson.”
“I’d rather return alone and prepare myself. Perhaps you can arrive in time for dinner.”
Archer nodded, watching the two women leave the room. It would be better if he called upon Brynn as a gentleman, instead of returning her home in some sly, scandalous fashion. He couldn’t help feeling that his life suddenly seemed as if it were no longer his. On the other hand, he wanted her, and she wanted him. He curled his fingers around his glass, his body tightening at the memory of her dewy skin and how it had tasted. He was glad that the glass was thick crystal or it would have shattered in his hand.
Disgust and lust spiraled through him like twin demons. He lifted his drink and drained the contents, silently toasting his last few hours of uncomplicated freedom.
Chapter Eighteen
Brynn was already at Hadley Gardens when the guests started to arrive. She waited in a guest room on the second floor, perhaps even the one she had dipped into that awful night one week prior. She listened now as muffled voices drifted from the foyer.
“This is never going to work,” she muttered.
Lana stood behind her, placing the last of the pins in Brynn’s upswept hair. The set of four had been delivered to Bishop House the day before from the exclusive Rundell and Bridge, jewelers to the crown. Inside the box, the hairpins had been nestled on a bed of lapis blue silk, each one topped with a diamond-crusted bird, the wings on all four in a different position.
The accompanying note had brought a sad smile to Brynn’s lips.
Make certain you do not fly away before the ball.
Archer must have known how desperately she wished to fly away, and that had made her smile. But knowing that he, too, likely wanted to fly away had brought on a wave of sadness. It underscored the pretense. Deep down, Brynn knew that his gifts and little notes were all part of a show for her parents and brother. For anyone who might be watching closely.
It had been a whirlwind of a week, starting with a funeral and now ending with an engagement ball. Even another attack on a side street off Piccadilly by the Masked Marauder had not dampened theton’s excitement swirling around the new Duke of Bradburne. That attack had left the driver of the carriage with a broken arm and the lady riding within, not a peer but a member of the gentry, scandalized. The papers had run the story saying she had been riding alone and that the bandit had “handled her person” with all the care of “a wild boar.” It seemed that the imposter was growing bolder and more vicious with each attack.
“Don’t fret, my lady,” Lana whispered, closing the box from Rundell and Bridge and primping Brynn’s hair once more. “Itisgoing to work.”
She had told Lana everything—except for the truth about Archer being the masked bandit—and like always, Brynn had not felt judged by her in the least. Brynn had wanted to tell Gray the truth, as well, but his reaction to the marriage banns the day after Thomson’s questioning had stopped her from confiding. He hadn’t been at all pleased by the turn of events.
“He’s not good enough for you,” Gray had stated flatly. “How could you possibly accept him?”
“I know it’s difficult to understand,” she’d tried to explain, the rest of her excuse still unformed.
“It’s not difficult at all. He is now a duke, is he not?” Gray had replied, his gaze searching hers and looking disappointed in what they saw. “I know what I told you. That a duke could offer you luxury at the pinnacle of society… I just never thought you would be so shallow as to take it.”
The accusation had been gutting, but she couldn’t fault him for thinking it. Nor could she confess it was a sham. She knew that Gray was simply concerned for her well-being, but his response had hurt. Brynn hated remembering the aghast look on his face and had attempted all week to forget it by focusing on the plans for the engagement ball. The season had barely gotten underway, and already the prized bull—the new, young and handsome Duke of Bradburne—had been whisked off the marriage mart. Everyone, it seemed, had so easily forgotten his reputation as the brooding and ruthless Marquess of Hawksfield. The cold, unsmiling recluse had been touched by tragedy and now love, and along with his new title, had a new following of admirers.
The announcement of their betrothal had created a flurry of activity as she had expected, with invitations to every possible social event appearing on their doorsteps. They had had to decline more than they could accept, but it seemed everyone wanted to celebrate their forthcoming nuptials. Between planning her own ball and entertaining a constant stream of visitors and well-wishers, Brynn was already overwhelmed.
It made the farce all the more horrible to bear. Because Archer had not changed in the least. Like a proper doting fiancé, he sent her jewelry and flowers, and he smiled whenever he was in the same room as Brynn’s mother and father, but that same distant chill was present whenever someone wasn’t looking. He didn’t attempt to hide it from her, no. He blasted her with that wintry expression nearly every time they saw each other, as if she were the scheming mastermind of some hideous plot to trap him into marriage. Brynn fumed. He’d be the last person on earth she’d choose, even if his touch made her forget herself.
For the most part, he’d kept his distance as promised, and thankfully, they had not been alone since that afternoon in the library, when Archer had peeled off her glove and kissed her wrist…when he had trapped her against the wall and thrust his hips against hers, divulging his arousal. She’d imagined, all too vividly, of course, what she’d glimpsed by the firelight of that small forest cottage.
