My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Be still, my lady,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “Don’t mistake my civility for weakness. While the thought of restraining a lady is distasteful, I will do so if necessary.”

  Brynn believed he would. However, she’d yet to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her terror and had every intention of persevering with the farce. “Would you please do us both a favor and get on with it?”

  She held herself like a statue as his hand neared her body. Men had touched her before—to kiss her hand and guide her into a room or into a conveyance. But this man’s fingers, as they brushed her shoulder and the line of her collarbone, seeking the clasp at her nape, did not have that same carefully polite touch. Brynn felt sparks of heat blossom under his fingers, as if they hinted at wanting something more than just the jewels around her neck. They moved at a leisurely pace, indulging in some secret pleasure—one he wanted her to know, and one that shortened her breath to pained wisps. Brynn flushed hotly when she imagined the indecent thoughts that must be streaming through his rotten mind.

  At least his hands were not coarse. She concentrated on that detail instead, and realized this man was likely not one of the poor farmers who populated the countryside surrounding Ferndale and Worthington Abbey. Her eyes narrowed, taking in other small details she’d missed, like the fact that his well-tailored clothes fit his broad frame handsomely. The material was fine. Expensive. Curiosity replaced fear as her earlier thought about his perfect, gentlemanly diction resurfaced.

  Who was he, if not a common bandit?

  Unconsciously, she leaned closer. So close that she could smell a deep woodsy scent surrounding him. It was pleasant, like cedar and smoke, and it made her stomach feel suddenly weightless—an odd sensation, the kind she sometimes experienced when she rode Apollo over a particularly wide brook.

  Her eyes darted up to study him, to see if any other detail might reveal his identity. His hair was an indeterminate color, thanks to his brimmed hat obscuring every last strand. His eyes, which had glinted silver before in the light, now seemed inky and unreadable. Every part of his face seemed hard, except for the soft bow of his lips. For a man, he had extraordinarily defined lips. A deep burn scorched her insides. Why on earth did she keep thinking about this horrible man’s lips?

  One of the bandit’s fingers strayed from the clasp and swirled over the sensitive bare skin at her nape in idle strokes, just above the modest neckline of her dress. She sucked in a sharp breath and tipped closer.

  “Have you lost your balance, Lady Briannon?” His voice was light and teasing, making her insides hum as if they were tethered to the sensual resonance of his words. She stiffened and, realizing how close she’d drawn to him, pulled away, horrified. He’d meant to distract her, the beast.

  She addressed him with as much disdain as she could summon. “I am simply growing bored with your brutish attempts to undo a basic clasp. Haven’t you finished yet? Or do you require a lesson in necklace removal?”

  His fingers resumed their work. “I would be interested in whatever lessons you wished to offer. However, I can assure you,” he said as the pearls fell away from her neck. “I have more than enough experience in removing all manner of ladylike trinkets.”

  Brynn heard the suggestive laughter in his voice and grew rigid. “I’m quite sure you do.”

  He was baiting her. Wanting to embarrass her, perhaps. Which made her only more incensed. The man’s fingers caressed the nape of her neck as he drew the rope of pearls away. The Masked Marauder, it seemed, had more than his share of experience charming all measure of gently bred ladies. Brynn’s jaw clenched as the pearls, along with her pride, slid from her neck.

  Without thinking, she stalled his hand with hers and was shocked at the warm contact of his skin. “Please. You can have everything else but these.”

  “But these, I want.”

  She lifted her chin. She wouldn’t beg, although her hands tightened on his and wound around the dangling length of the necklace. “I don’t think pearls complement your coloring, sir.”

  His eyes widened at her flippant comment. “Yes, far better suited to frumpy old ladies or”—he eyed her up and down, his fingers slipping around to her wrist—“maids in mourning.”

  Cursing her repugnant dress, Brynn gritted her teeth. “I am not in mourning! Unhand me at once.”

  “Release the pearls and I shall.”

  Her fingers tightened upon his in response. She could not give in to him. It was no longer just about her grandmother’s pearls. It was the principle of the thing.

  “Do you always get what you want?” she hissed.

  “I have a fairly decent record.”

  Of course he did—manipulating unsuspecting women with his eyes and his words and that sinful mouth. Her fingers clawed into his, refusing to let go, and he had the colossal gall to smile down at her. Brynn had half a mind to lunge for the pistol still held loosely in his grasp and shoot the condescension from his face.

  The man’s voice cut into her murderous thoughts. “Pearls don’t suit you. You need rubies to go with that defiant spirit.”

  “And you need a necklace of braided rope.”

  The man laughed out loud at her insult and then lowered his voice as he bent his head, his cheek nearly brushing hers. A strangled gasp caught in her throat, his looming presence doing unreasonable things to her shattered nerves. “That may be, but please don’t cause a scene, Lady Briannon. Think of your parents. Are these silly baubles truly worth the neck they rest upon?”

  Brynn swallowed, the nearness of him and the rough velvet of his voice weakening her resolve. She raised her gaze to his. “They are worth more than you know,” she said softly.

  Something flashed in his eyes—compassion, perhaps—but then they hardened with cold purpose. After a long, measured look, the man stepped back, and taking her gloved hand in his, bent over it with an exaggerated flourish. His lips seared a fiery imprint on her knuckles, even through the silk of her gloves. “The starving poor these jewels will feed share those same sentiments,” he said. “Adieu, my lady. I thank you for your generous contribution.”

  Generous contribution? Brynn stood in stunned silence, her hand forgotten in midair as the man edged backward with a wicked, yet boyish, grin. He disappeared over the tree trunk blockade and into the night. She stared after him, puzzling over what kind of bandit gave his spoils away to the starving poor. He could be lying, of course.

  He isn’t lying.

  She knew it as well as she knew her own anger, which had not ebbed one bit. Blasted bandit. Now she couldn’t even be angry without thinking about some hungry person and feeling guilty as well.

  “Briannon, darling?” her mother called in a hushed voice. “Has he gone?”

  Brynn turned away from the darkened lane to find Beckett still face down on the dirt. She heaved a sigh, the imprint of the bandit’s fingers like a brand upon her neck, and his sultry, teasing smile seared into her memory.

  “Yes, Mama,” she said as she went to help Beckett up. “Gone like a foul wind.”

  Chapter Two

  The Marquess of Hawksfield, Lord Archer Nathaniel David Croft, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, anticipating the beginnings of a headache. He reached for the late copy of the Times that Porter had brought along with his formal evening clothes. He’d rather read alone with a cigar and a glass of whiskey than be obligated to attend the ridiculous affair his father, the Duke of Bradburne, was hosting at Worthington Abbey that evening.

  As he opened the paper, a handwritten piece of parchment fell from between its pages and settled on the desk. He reached for it, curious. The ink-blotted script was nearly illegible, but within seconds he’d made out the four hastily scrawled words: I know your secret.

  “Porter,” he asked in a controlled voice, folding the scrap quickly. “Who delivered these newssheets?”

  His valet frowned. “I did, my lord. Is something amiss?”

  “No.” Arche
r crumpled the square into a ball in his fist, his mind racing.

  Like any man, he had his secrets. A fair number of them, in fact. Only one, however, was worthy of such a vaguely threatening note passed in so clandestine a manner. With a brief glance at his valet, Archer considered and dismissed that he had been the one to slip the note within its pages. He trusted Porter, and besides, dozens of hands could have touched the newssheets before him. The note could have been placed by anyone. Or it could have been meant for another member of the house party who had bothered to have their daily paper rerouted to Essex for the duration of their stay. Surely there was a score of men currently under Worthington Abbey’s roof with secrets ripe for any ambitious blackmailer.

  Archer rolled the wad between his fingers thoughtfully and discarded the second theory. The note had been meant for him. He could feel it. Someone had either guessed his secret or had witnessed something firsthand. Whatever it was, this was a coward’s way of making a statement. Outside of tearing apart his entire household to find the culprit, there was nothing he could do but wait to see if further notes made an appearance or if the note’s owner decided to make himself known.

  Ignoring the unsettled thumping of his pulse, Archer set the paper aside and walked toward the fire in the hearth. He tossed the wadded note into the flames.

  “Shall I assist, my lord?” Porter asked.

  Archer turned from the blackening parchment and eyed the navy silk breeches his valet was holding up for evaluation. He shook his head once. Breeches. He was annoyed he even had to look at them.

  “I avoid Almack’s for a reason, Porter.”

  Gentlemen were not allowed inside London’s most desirable assembly rooms if they were not wearing the effeminate knee-length contraptions. Archer despised them and was in no mood tonight to bend to tradition. Truly, they looked ridiculous on any man.

  He stripped out of his comfortable black buckskin pants, wishing he could simply wear them to his father’s ball, which was already well underway downstairs. Not this pair, in particular—the seat had a rather large mud stain from when Morpheus had tossed him from the saddle a quarter hour before. The black gelding had shied and pranced as Archer had led him into the yard at Pierce Cottage. Archer had caught movement in the stand of trees beyond the hay field—a fox, he considered in the moments before Morpheus had reared back and thrown him to the ground.

  He indicated the black trousers Porter next held up as acceptable and pulled them out of his valet’s hand. “You know I hate to rush you, Porter, but I am already late.”

  The damned horse. It had bucked and brayed, leaping in great circles as Archer had chased it, swiping for the reins and loudly cursing Brandt Pierce, who stood within the doorway of the cottage, bellowing laughter.

  Porter pressed his lips into a thin line, reserving his judgment and his opinions. Once again, Archer appreciated his valet’s quiet nature. He could trust that Porter, a stout man with a head of thinning blond hair, would make no inquiries as to where the young Lord Hawksfield had been when he should have started greeting guests with Lord Bradburne an hour previous.

  Archer would have been only a fashionable half hour late had Brandt helped him stay Morpheus rather than watch in amusement; at least he’d left Archer’s gray saddled and ready to ride back to Worthington’s stables. As he’d taken off toward the path leading to his estate, keeping his bruised arse raised out of the saddle, Archer had shouted over his shoulder that Brandt was sacked and for him to find new employment. Worthington’s stable master had made a rude gesture, and Archer had laughed as he’d disappeared into the wooded path.

  “My lord?” Porter said as he brushed the shoulders and back of Archer’s tailored swallow-tailed jacket.

  “Hmm?” Archer grunted, rushing to fasten his cuff links. His fingers paused for a moment over the tiny sterling silver playing dice. Archer well recalled the day his father had presented them to him in a small box. A man’s first pair of cuff links is something to celebrate, the duke had cheered. Though it had been a long time since his father had given him anything else worth treasuring.

  Porter cleared his throat. “Might I suggest?” he said, holding out a wide-toothed comb.

  Archer inspected his appearance in the mirror—his hair was a disheveled mess, currently studded with short strands of hay and a few leaves. He smiled to himself, running the comb through his hair while Porter turned away and collected the discarded black breeches. Hopefully the old chap assumed Archer had been up in a hayloft with one of the many young debutantes visiting Worthington Abbey. Now that was the variety of secret most men of the ton had to grapple with.

  Archer glanced toward the hearth, at the note that had now disintegrated into ash, and once again, he felt as far apart from his peers as ever.

  Ten rushed minutes later, he stood against the stone balustrade along the mezzanine, dressed in immaculate black evening wear and a snowy white cravat. He’d stood in this spot countless occasions before, staring down into the ballroom teeming with his father’s primped guests. He could not think of a single time he had enjoyed the experience.

  He peered down at the crowd, unable to veil his distaste. It was his own home, and yet he could not have felt more uncomfortable. He tipped his glass of whiskey to his lips and swallowed the fire, enjoying the feel of it burning a path to his stomach. He set the empty glass on the tray of a passing server and ordered another to be brought. He would need all the whiskey he could consume for the next few hours to successfully face the hordes of twittering women, egotistic dandies, and all manner of matchmaking mamas.

  “My boy!” The duke’s voice boomed from behind him, his hand clapping Archer’s shoulder. “You look positively angry! It’s a ball. Come, have a drink and a dance.”

  Archer’s father did not descend into Essex often, but whenever he did, he brought the entire London set with him. For the last few weeks, Worthington Abbey had been filled to bursting with at least three dozen of the duke’s closest friends and acquaintances. Archer hadn’t had a moment’s peace or privacy since his own arrival, something his father had ordered after the invitations for the house party had gone out. However, tomorrow afternoon the London elite would be making the journey back to the city, and Archer would have Worthington Abbey all to himself. The way he and his sister, Eloise, both preferred it.

  He just needed to come out on the other side of this evening with his bachelor status intact, and then he’d have something to truly celebrate. His title and his fortune—or what was left of it, thanks to his pleasure-seeking father—had landed Archer at the top of the most eligible bachelor list. He supposed his father was also on the list, however the mothers of the ton ought to have known by now that Bradburne would not be making another offer of marriage to anyone. It had been twelve years since the duchess’s death, and he had never once shown a glimmer of interest in taking another wife. That, at least, was one of his father’s actions Archer approved of.

  “I’ll leave the dancing to you,” Archer said, accepting the second glass of whiskey the server had brought with brisk efficiency.

  His father laughed. He knew full well the ton referred to him as the Dancing Duke, and he didn’t mind the silly nickname one bit. Had Archer been given a nickname so emasculating he would have throttled the person, man or woman, who’d contrived it.

  His eyes roved the crowded room below, and it was then that Archer noticed the curious lack of dancing. The chatter had an edge of panic to it as well, and there seemed to be a large tangle of guests near the long refreshments table.

  “What is it?” Archer asked.

  “Oh yes, Lord Dinsmore,” Bradburne said, taking a deep sip from his own whiskey glass, which by now had likely been refreshed multiple times.

  Archer squared his shoulders as he tried to see through the crowd. “What of him?”

  “Claims the Masked Marauder set upon his carriage on the way here, to Worthington Abbey. Can you believe it? Took everything. I’ve had Heed call for the local co
nstable.”

  Archer tightened his fingers around the whiskey glass. “Have you? Good,” he murmured. The nearest constable was four towns to the south, in Greenbriar, and likely wouldn’t show up for another few hours. “No one was hurt, I assume?”

  “No, thankfully. That would have surely put a damper on the festivities. And, well, I’m just damn glad no one got shot. Had a brace of pistols, Dinsmore says. Knocked their driver clean unconscious!”

  Archer fought a roll of his eyes at his father’s first concern. The duke was more worried about his ball than whether people had been hurt in an armed robbery. Archer should not have been surprised by his father’s shallowness, but he was. It never failed to antagonize him.

  “I suppose I should go down there and express my condolences,” Archer said, draining the contents of his glass in one swallow.

  His father startled a bit and then clapped him on the shoulder for a second time. “Well done, my boy. I’m glad to hear you’re going to do more than stand up here scowling at all of us.”

  Archer slid an arch glance at his father. The duke’s ruddy countenance, portly waist, and fleshy jowls were a testament to his lifestyle. Archer had always been told he resembled his late mother—tall, lean, and dark-haired. The physical differences mattered little, however. When one’s father was the Dancing Duke, one was due to be considered just as shallow, if only by proxy and on an entirely different level. Where Lord Bradburne was known as a jovial and hedonistic sort of shallow, Archer was considered an aloof and fractious sort of shallow. It suited him well enough for now. His father drew plenty of attention to himself as it was. For Archer, attention was not something he needed, nor wanted.

  Bradburne descended the stairs into the wide, rectangular ballroom and approached Lord and Lady Rochester. Rochester was turned away from his wife as he conversed with a dandified fop whose name Archer was happy not to have remembered. He watched from the top of the mezzanine stairs as his father slipped his hand around Lady Rochester’s trim waist. She and Bradburne shared a fleeting glance before he removed his hand and slapped Rochester good-naturedly on the back.