Page 8 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Archer shifted his jaw, the spark of humor dying a quick death. He was certain the countess had not spared a single expense on her daughter’s “education.” Every young lady in the room had a fortune’s worth of vain and insubstantial training, all with the objective of snaring a husband. His eyes grazed his sister as she slid along the perimeter of the room, toward an exit, and he stifled a twinge of pity in his gut. Perhaps not all ladies. Although she had received all the necessary education, Eloise had missed her bow due to her disfigurement. She had never let the tragedy twist her, though.
“So you see,” Lady Briannon was saying. “I am afraid we have no choice but to lay the blame upon the others.”
Archer laughed then, a sound that had more than a few heads turning. He stifled it quickly. He was not known for displays of emotion, and certainly not at the hands of an inexperienced debutante.
He released her and bowed as the music ceased.
“You’re correct, it is most definitely the others here. You dance quite capably. Thank you for the dance, Lady Briannon.”
She hesitated, as if taken aback by his sincerity. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”
He eyed her. The wordpleasurefalling from those full lips made him think of pursuits other than dancing. He knew, however, that such desires were unreasonable. Instead, Archer took a step back, searching for her mother, who had been watching the two of them with unabashed delight. Lady Dinsmore was now engaged in excited conversation with another guest, and he doubted he and Briannon had more than a minute before she made her way back to them. He turned from her and searched for his glass of whiskey, preparing to take his leave. Sadly, the glass had been cleared away.
“Excellent dancing is always a forte for a girl who is about to make her mark on the season,” he said. It was a safe, emotionless statement.
“Make my mark,” Briannon echoed, then made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “I’d rather fall from a cliff than—” She broke off, her lips still parted, her expression appalled.
Archer inclined his head, hopeful. “Than what?”
Briannon’s mouth closed briefly before she jutted that pert chin of hers and finished speaking. “Than to be paraded in front of all eligibletonlike prized horseflesh.”
Archer’s arched brow went flat, and his lips parted in astonishment. She’d actually met his challenge.
“Come now,” he said, ignoring the many pairs of eyes that were riveted to their exchange. Now that that fiery spirit had emerged, he wanted to draw her out even more. “It’s not all that bad. Prized horses don’t get to wear several gowns a day and jewels on every available appendage, do they?”
Briannon’s eyes widened. “Is that truly how you view the women of your acquaintance? As mere fashion plates?”
“Certainly not the most current woman of my acquaintance,” he said, thinking to tease her about her dismal gray gown. He’d done so on the wooded lane, and it had spiked a stimulating rise of her temper.
Not this time.
At her stricken gaze, Archer wanted to kick himself. Her mouth tightened, shutters falling over the eyes that had been sparking with amusement mere seconds before.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, her cheeks flooding with humiliated color as she gathered her velvet skirt and darted a panicked look to where her mother was approaching through the crush of bodies. “Will you please excuse me?”
Archer stared after her, an apology stalled on the tip of his tongue. His words had been careless and cold. He shouldn’t have felt sorry for them. He shouldn’t have been feeling guilty at all in regards to Lady Briannon. He’d robbed her carriage and knocked her driver unconscious a mere hour previous. Feeling guilty was not something Archer could afford.
But the young lady was such a contrast of opposites—dull and lifeless one minute and a surprising spitfire the next. Archer remembered the feel of her small, trim body in his arms during the waltz, and for a minute wondered what lay underneath all those unattractive yards of velvet. He shook off the thought. He did not need unnecessary attachments, not with anyone, not even his charming, if puzzling, neighbor.
Lady Briannon had piqued his interest, yes, with her spirit on the lane and her daring statements on a woman’s duty. However, beneath that minute spark of intelligence and temper, she would undoubtedly be like all the others in theton. Spoiled, entitled, and insipid.
His tastes simply did not run toward naive debutantes. At the moment, they did not stray further than brief encounters with the sort of women who were perfectly content with remaining near strangers. Becoming involved with any lady of his own set would be madness, especially now that it appeared there was someone close by, hinting that they could expose his secret and bring scandal down upon him.
As much as thetonconsidered him to be ruthless, Archer was not without a conscience. No lady deserved the fate that could befall her should he take her to wife. He drew a grim breath. Not now, and especially not after that bloody note.
Chapter Three
The tip of the foil struck Brynn’s chest. The long, thin steel blade bowed from the force of her adversary’s thrust, and she muttered a string of curses. Though the mask she wore muted the words, her opponent still heard them.
“My, my, I certainly hope you unleashed that tongue of yours on the Masked Marauder. It would have served the devil right.” Brynn’s brother, Lord Graham Northridge, or simply Gray as she had always called him, cut a sly grin before poking her white padded vest one last time. “That’s four points. One more and I take the match.”
Brynn gripped the handle on her fencing foil, her gloved hand sweating from the sparring she and her brother had been doing the last hour in one of Ferndale’s attic rooms. Her brother had left London and traveled the short journey to Essex the moment he received word of the armed robbery. She was glad he’d come, though he needn’t have. They were all perfectly well and safe now, though she did prefer to have her older brother at Ferndale. Sparring by herself was no fun at all, and besides, having Gray around meant that Mama could divide her focus between both of her children, rather than showering Brynn with all of it.
“As the scoundrel was in possession of a loaded pistol, he received a minor dressing down compared to what you’re about to receive,” she replied, and before her brother could prepare, Brynn advanced and lunged. Gray’s foil came up a beat too late and was unable to deflect her own. The blunted tip struck his shoulder. Gray swore loud enough for the kitchen maids four stories below to hear. “I win, brother.”
“Cheating woman,” he growled. “You’re supposed to warn your opponent of an attack.”
Brynn stepped back and spread her arms wide. “Where, pray, is the intelligence in that?”
