Page 72 of My Rogue, My Ruin
She darted a glance up to the implacable man at her side who was in conversation with Viscount Carlisle, and exhaled. His face could be chiseled from the same marble as the elegant staircase. A smile was fixed on his lips, but it did not touch his eyes. Those remained detached and indifferent as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Brynn had to remind herself that this was an inconvenience to him.Shewas an inconvenience to him. The awareness of that made her feel small and acutely insignificant.
After a moment, Archer signaled to the musicians to begin, and he led her out for the first waltz of the night. His hand slid around her waist, resting like a brand against her back, and Brynn trembled. She stared at his neck cloth, her feet automatically taking the steps. “Damn it, look at me,” he hissed. “At least pretend that you want to be here.”
Her eyes met his, fury sparking at his unprovoked attack. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “As you’ve done thus far?” she snapped back.
She gazed over Archer’s shoulder and finally saw her brother. He stood on the periphery watching them with ill-concealed misgiving. He, too, was not wearing a mask. For Gray’s sake, she pasted a bright smile on her lips.
“Happy now?” she muttered to the man leading her with effortless and expert ease. A muscle ticked in his jaw as if he weren’t in the least bithappy. But then again, neither was she.
They finished the set in silence, tension stretching between them despite the matching painted smiles on their faces. She scanned the room, noticing that her parents were deep in conversation with the Rochesters. Gray was once more noticeably absent. He was avoiding her, she knew.
Bowing stiffly, Archer escorted her to the refreshment table and handed her a glass of champagne. Several loud rounds of toasts ensued as Brynn drained the contents of the glass. It did nothing to calm her rattled nerves. She plucked another off a tray and did the same. Her face hurt from smiling so much, and she felt dizzy, laughter and conversation slamming into her on all sides. Suddenly, the room seemed to shrink, and she wanted nothing more than to escape.
“Please excuse me,” she said weakly. Archer’s eyes fell on her. “I won’t be a minute.”
As she turned to leave for the nearest retiring room, her palms grew clammy, and it felt as if the soles of her feet were sticking into the floor. She could hardly lift them. Her legs were like iron posts, and a huge weight pressed down into the center of her chest. The whole room started to spin, closing in on her, a noose around her neck. Brynn’s breath caught like a vise in her throat.Oh no. Not here. Not now.Hot white stars popped in her vision, and she cursed her stupid, pathetic lungs. Her numb fingers reached for Archer’s arm, struggling to keep her balance. She couldn’t breathe.
“Brynn?” Strong fingers grasped her shoulders, cradled her chin. Archer’s voice seemed terribly far away, and his eyes even more so. Soon they both faded, and the only thing she could see was darkness.
…
Archer knew the instant that something was wrong. One minute she was exchanging pleasantries beside him, and the next she was stumbling away, her skin ashen. He’d caught her before she could collapse, and now Briannon hung in his arms like a ragdoll. Not caring a whit for respectability, he scooped her up and strode to one of the adjoining salons. A path cleared for him, the music beginning to grind to a halt.
“Poor thing, she is overcome…”
“It is to be expected. It’s far too soon after the duke’s death…”
“She always was a sickly girl, was she not?”
Archer nodded for the musicians to continue to the next set, and as the strains of a vigorous quadrille began to play, those closest to them moved toward the dance floor and chatter resumed.
Brynn lay like a dead weight in his arms, her labored breaths shallow. Eloise would know what to do. He searched for his sister, but she was halfway across the ballroom and smiling up at Langlevit. The earl had drawn Archer aside earlier and asked for a meeting to discuss his intentions, and he didn’t want to disturb his sister now. Archer’s gaze fell on, and just as quickly discarded, Lady Dinsmore—he did not want that scene, either.
He glanced at Heed, already standing at attention in the salon’s entrance. “Summon Dr. Hargrove immediately. Show him in the minute he arrives, and make sure we are not disturbed by anyone else. And send for her maid at once.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He slammed the heavy French doors behind him and set his bride-to-be on a chaise lounge. Fetching her some water, he held the glass to her lips and spun around as someone pushed open the door.
“Forgive me, my lord, I am Lana, Lady Briannon’s maid.” Without waiting for his response, the girl rushed to Brynn’s side, nearly shoving him out of the way. He rocked back onto his haunches and watched her take charge, pulling a cool compress from the pocket of her dress and pressing it to her lady’s face. She smiled reassuringly at him.
“Her lungs need a little help from time to time,” she explained. “It won’t take a minute. No need to worry.”
Archer cleared his throat, relief pouring through him. “Does this happen often?”
“No, Your Grace, but she has been under more stress of late.” Her gaze darted to his, and Archer flinched at the tiny note of accusation in her voice. He set his jaw, instead of reprimanding the servant as he should have, and poured himself a stiff brandy. It was his fault that Brynn had collapsed. Self-disgust surged within him.
Lana straightened her mistress’s gown and tucked a tendril of hair back into place as Brynn’s breathing leveled and grew more even. “There now,” she murmured. “Easy, my lady.”
After a few more moments of breathing in the aromatic compress, Brynn’s eyelids fluttered. Archer opened the door and spoke a few curt words to the waiting footman. “Do not let anyone past this door,” he said, before striding into the crowded ballroom. On his way to Briannon’s parents, a dozen concerned guests who had witnessed Lady Briannon’s near collapse waylaid him. He forced a smile to his face and reassured them that the lady was fine.
“Lord Dinsmore,” Archer addressed Brynn’s father, keeping his voice low. “Everything is well, but Briannon needed to take some air. The heat in the ballroom caused her to swoon. Her maid is with her at the moment, and there is no cause for alarm. I have sent for Dr. Hargrove as a precaution.” Archer knew he was being duplicitous, but the last thing he wanted was for Lady Dinsmore to cause a scene, and from the look on Lord Dinsmore’s face, he was arriving at the same conclusion. He nodded, and Archer made his way back to the salon.
When he entered, Brynn was in a seated position and sipping a glass of water. Her maid had removed her gloves and was fanning her gently. A hint of color was coming back into her cheeks. She dismissed the maid with a grateful look, and the girl curtsied and stepped several paces away.
“I am so sorry,” Brynn began, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “My attacks are not as frequent as they used to be but do tend to come on rather suddenly.”
“No, I am the one who should apologize,” he said. He could feel the maid’s curious gaze center on him, but he did not dismiss her. He could tell that her presence soothed Brynn, and that was more important than his privacy. “This has all happened so fast, and I didn’t stop to think of the effect it would have on you.” He sat beside her and noticed she had taken off his grandmother’s diamond necklace. She flushed, her eyes darting to the pile of jewels atop the side table.
