Page 79 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Archer turned from the hearth, his shoulders squared, his back straight as an arrow. “Thank you, but I have other business to attend to. I will see Lord Northridge at another time.”
Braxton bowed and retreated, though Brynn noticed he did not close the door all the way.
She let out a shaky breath, watching as Archer strode slowly across the room. At the door he paused and turned to face her. His sultry stare was gone, but she was glad to see his more familiar cold and distant expression had not replaced it. Instead, Archer looked at her with a kind of searching wonder. The same way he had the night before when she had arrived in the ballroom.
“I must leave,” he said, the abrupt words not matching the deeply possessive glint in those storm-swept eyes.
“Of course.” What else could she say? She could still hardly breathe from the last few minutes of relentless pleasure his hands and whispered seductions had brought her.
After another awkward pause, Archer lowered himself into the deepest bow she had yet seen him make, and took his leave.
Exhaling slowly, Brynn stood at the bookshelves, her legs still weak and her core still throbbing from his ministrations. Sanity and reason came back in a slow, inexorable rush. Hot shame was swift to follow. Good god, what had shedone?
Chapter Twenty
“Hawk,” Stephen Kensington, the Earl of Thorndale, said with a lazy smile, “at least leave some of our money on the table if you’re not in the game. That’s the ninth hand you’ve won, yet you are a thousand miles away.”
Archer drew the pile of chips from the middle of the gaming table toward the already significant stack lying in front of him. Despite his social elevation to the Duke of Bradburne, the nickname among those who knew him had stuck. Thorndale was one of the few men he tolerated—liked even—amongst his peers. He had always struck him as a fastidious but generous man. Archer knew for a fact that he had donated a large part of his own fortune to build a new wing for a struggling hospital on the outskirts of London, an act largely due to his new wife, whose father was a local physician. Thorndale was one of the few not targeted by the true Masked Marauder.
Archer collected his cards for the next round, checking the single one lying face down beneath the king in front of him. An ace. A natural. He pushed a handful of chips toward the large pile as the others did the same. “Lady Luck is with me tonight, it seems.”
“Luck of the devil, you mean,” Marcus Bainley muttered sourly. Archer shot the young man a level look but did not respond. Of the five other men at the card table, Bainley was the youngest. The son and heir of the aging Marquess of Bromley, he was a society dandy with a reputation for gambling, profligacy, and gossip. With a massive fortune at his disposal, he cared nothing for expense and flaunted his money with the delicacy of an elephant in a tearoom. Which was why he’d been the Masked Marauder’s first victim. Archer couldn’t fathom how Bainley was such a favorite within the upper crust of London society. He made a mental note to divest the fop of more of his coin at a future date.
The other three men he knew only by association. Helmford Monti was a handsome Italian ambassador with a penchant for whiskey and women. He and Archer’s father had had a lot in common. The Duke of Bassford was an elderly man who spent so much time at the tables that he was rumored to have his own suite of rooms in the upper level apartments of the club, despite having several properties in London and multiple sprawling country estates. His fifth wife was younger than his oldest son and heir. Unbeknownst to him, Archer had stripped the lecherous old bastard of a significant sum in Cheshire the previous autumn during hunting season.
The last player, Viktor Zakorov, was a man Archer had never met before but had disliked from the start. Thorndale had introduced him as some important Russian diplomat. Something about the man seemed slippery. His austere face hid secrets, and Archer had enough experience with those to know that Viktor Zakorov was not who he seemed. Archer didn’t mind taking his money, however.
He had never been fond of gambling, but tonight he had made an exception. White’s, the exclusive gentlemen’s gaming club to which he had belonged since his days at Cambridge, was crowded, and Archer was grateful for that fact. He glanced around at the sumptuous decor. Sparkling chandeliers, plush, deep blue velvet carpets, and rich mahogany furniture surrounded by priceless paintings gave off a feel of unsurpassed luxury. For many men of theton, it was a well-cherished home away from home. They ate and drank their fill in the supper rooms and moved on to play a relaxed hand ofvingt-et-unor bet entire fortunes on a roll of the dice in the game rooms until the wee hours of the morning. Though the club was designed exclusively for males, there was no shortage of female company should such diversions be required.
The soft hum of voices and the constant sweep of cards kept Archer’s innermost thoughts at bay. He wanted nothing more than to be distracted by anything other than the three things plaguing him—his father’s killer, exposing the impersonator, and deflowering the lovely Lady Briannon, the last of which kept him in an uncomfortable state of perpetual arousal. Normally, Archer would find a suitable companion with whom he’d engage in a meaningless dalliance, but he knew that only one woman could sate the raw ache within him.
Her natural, artless sensuality drove him to distraction. Earlier that morning in her study, Brynn had opened to him, trusting him as she had never trusted any other. Despite the sweet torment of his own unfulfilled desire, he would gladly repeat the act endless times just to savor the delighted surprise in her eyes as her body found its release.
Archer knew they were flirting with disaster. They weren’t truly engaged, and to continue on as if they were was simply inviting destruction upon both their heads. But he couldn’t help himself when he was around her. He became a besotted fool.
He also knew that he was being selfish. Archer had every intention of breaking the engagement once the duke’s killer—and the man impersonating the bandit—was found. They were one and the same, Archer was certain of it. The handwriting on all three of the notes was unmistakably the same. When he found the killer, he would find the impersonator as well, and then Archer would set the marauder’s reputation to rights.
Brynn may now know the truth of the crimes he’d committed, and to what purpose, but she would not stand aside and be complicit while he continued his mission—the single-minded duty that had driven and satisfied him for years. But for the first time Archer could remember, he desired something for himself, something far more satisfying than the gratification of repurposing theton’swealth. He wanted Briannon Findlay. But where would that leave her? If he did what he truly wanted to do, she would be ruined for any other man.
A surge of wild jealousy ripped through him at the thought of Brynn’s naked body wrapped in the arms of anyone else. He shoved the unexpected emotion away with a low growl. He had never let a woman get under his skin the way she had. And it wasn’t just about losing himself in her. Archer enjoyed their verbal sparring. He liked hearing her real thoughts as they flew, unedited, from her tongue. He liked seeing her upon a horse and watching her across a dinner table. He especially liked knowing she belonged to him.
“She doesn’t,” he muttered to himself. She was not his, not truly.
“She doesn’t what?” Thorndale said with an elegantly raised eyebrow. “Something on your mind, Hawk? A special someone, perhaps? Care to elaborate?”
“No, I do not.” He frowned fiercely and signaled to a hovering server to refill his drink, ignoring the knowing smile on Thorndale’s face.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he said, toasting him. “This is the easy part. Wait until the wedding nears. The insanity has only just begun. Have you set a date yet?”
“No,” he snapped.
“His Grace is to be married?” Viktor asked, his thick accent distorting his words.
Thorndale tucked a cheroot between his lips and lit it, clearly enjoying Archer’s plight. “It was announced only this week, and to the lovely Lady Briannon Findlay no less.” His eyes brightened. “Speaking of, here is the lady’s brother himself. Northridge, wonderful to see you, old chap,” Thorndale said and gestured to the last open seat at their table. “I see you are back for another sound whipping.” At Archer’s raised eyebrow, Thorndale grinned wolfishly. “Northridge made the mistake of coming here before your engagement ball last night. I doubt he will remember much of it, other than leaving with sadly empty pockets.”
Archer looked up and nodded a curt greeting to Brynn’s brother. He hadn’t quite forgiven the young man’s foolish outburst the night past, but what was done was done. Northridge looked wan and worse for wear, although he still cut an impeccable figure in his dapper evening clothes.
His grin was sheepish. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I’ll favor the dice tables tonight.”
