Page 16 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

R hiannon woke to a low masculine moan.

A moan of agony.

Richford’s moan of agony.

She blinked, sunlight streaming through the cracks of the curtains as lucidity returned to her.

The pleasant scent of forest, musk, and ambergris teased her nostrils, along with the slight sweetness of day-old spirits.

A large, strong body was half atop hers.

There was a hand on her hip and a face buried in her breasts.

His face.

He groaned again, mumbling something unintelligible.

Her brows drew together as she gently rolled him to his back on her bed. His eyes were closed, his handsome face screwed up in anguish. He must be having a nightmare, she thought.

“Poor lamb,” she crooned, brushing a tendril of hair from his forehead.

His skin was clammy to the touch, with a sheen of perspiration. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers from the night before. Had he taken ill?

He smacked his lips, eyes still tightly shut. “Mmm. Let me touch your cunny.”

He reached for her, his arm suddenly flying outward in her direction.

Her sympathy dissipated as she scooted away from his questing hand. Did the rogue even attempt to seduce in his sleep? And had he any notion of whom he was seeking to caress?

He most certainly wouldn’t be touching her…her…her cunny . Or anything else.

Not whilst he was asleep anyway.

Rhiannon extended her forefinger and poked him in the shoulder, clutching the bedclothes around her like a shield. “Richford.”

“Wish I could suck your nipples,” he mumbled.

The outrageous rake.

Heat scalded her cheeks. She didn’t know if he was even aware of what he was saying or whom he believed he was saying it to.

In the early hours of the morning, she had been awakened by a scratching at her door.

Half terrified she would find a mouse scurrying around, she had tiptoed about in search of the sound only, heart in her throat, to discover the source had been quite a bit larger than a mouse.

Richford had been in the hall.

When she’d opened her door, he had spilled into her.

There was no other way to describe it. For a moment, she’d been horrified until she had recognized him, even in the shadows.

She had staggered backward beneath the weight of his muscled body, arms wrapped around him, struggling to keep them both on their feet.

He had nuzzled his face into her throat and murmured something she hadn’t been able to decipher.

Originally, Rhiannon had thought something had been dreadfully amiss. Until she’d realized the true cause of his befuddled stupor.

He’d been in his cups.

But he had also been too foxed to return safely to his own room. Why he had sought out hers instead, she couldn’t begin to guess. Perhaps, even in his inebriated state, he had been intent upon locking her in her bedroom again. If so, he had failed at his task.

He’d pulled his face out of her neck, told her she was beautiful, and asked her to kiss him.

Then he had promptly pitched face forward into her bed and begun snoring.

Of all the times she had dreamt of the Duke of Richford coming to her bed in the darkness of the night, not once had she envisioned it unfolding in quite such a manner.

She’d been left to tug off his shoes, coat, and waistcoat, struggling and out of breath beneath his dead weight as he had muttered something about Gorgons and an octopus whilst she had labored over him, her unbound hair falling in his face.

Finally, she had curled up at his side beneath the bedclothes, listening to his snores split the air, oddly pleased that he was with her even under such unusual circumstances. In a moment of utter stupidity, she had told him she loved him.

The memory returned now, making her faintly ill.

She could only hope he had been too soused to notice or remember it if he had.

The reminder made her prod him with more force than necessary, her finger poking sternly into his shoulder until he stirred, eyes fluttering but refusing to open. He snorted out a half snore.

“Richford, you need to wake up,” she told him loudly.

At last, he opened his eyes. “What the devil…” He jolted when he saw her frowning down at him. “Rhiannon? Why are you in my bed?”

His bewilderment was apparent. The foolish part of her that had ascribed some meaning to his appearance at her door withered.

“You’re in my bed, Richford,” she pointed out, pulling the counterpane to her neck, suddenly all too aware that she was clad in nothing other than a prim nightgown.

And they were indeed sharing a bed, as he had pointed out. Not that Richford appeared in any condition to make romantic overtures, of course. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot. She would have liked to say he looked dreadful, but Rhiannon was reasonably sure the infernal man was incapable of it.

Even in his ragged state, he was beautiful.

Full, sensual lips, eyes the verdant green of spring grass, his lashes unfairly long, his cheekbones sharp slashes, his jaw stubbled with gilt- and cinnamon-tinged whiskers.

The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a mouthwatering vee of his bare chest. His hair was tousled.

She didn’t know which she longed to do more, kiss him or box his ears.

“ Your bed,” he grumbled, flattening a palm over his chest and rubbing it. “Oh thank Christ, I’m wearing clothes.”

“Of course you are. I had a difficult enough time removing your coat and waistcoat on my own. I wasn’t about to attempt further disrobing.”

A furrow formed between his golden brows. “You undressed me?”

“Do you truly recall nothing of last night?”

He groaned. “What should I recall? How the hell did I come to be here?”

She pursed her lips. “You walked here, I would imagine. I don’t know for certain. Perhaps you ran. I shouldn’t like to think you rode a horse down the halls, but given your state, I reckon even that is possible.”

“My state?”

“You were foxed,” she informed him coolly.

“To have spent the night in your bed, I should hope I was.” He scrubbed a hand over his annoyingly handsome face.

Box his ears, she decided. That was the correct first choice of what she wanted to do to the infuriating man.

“Never fear,” she said, summoning her pride to keep the hurt from her voice and expression both.

“I would have to be deep in my cups myself to allow you into it. As it happens, I hadn’t a choice.

You knocked at my door, fell upon me, made a lewd request, and then toppled into my bed face first and started snoring like an old cow. ”

“Do cows snore?”

“I wouldn’t know. But you most certainly do.” She was being rude and unkind, but she didn’t particularly care.

He winced. “Forgive me. It wasn’t my intention to come to you last night. I can’t think of a single reason I would have done so, other than that perhaps I was so soused I got lost on my way to my own chamber.”

His bedroom was in an entirely different wing of the manor house from hers, but Rhiannon didn’t bother to point that out. He would likely only counter with something else that insulted her vanity in equal measure.

“Regardless of the reasons for your unfortunate visit, you had better be on your way. I need to dress for breakfast.”

He nodded and then groaned, eyes going closed. “Give me a moment, and I’ll be gone.”

“Is something amiss?”

“It feels like a blacksmith from Hades has been hammering inside my skull,” he murmured.

“That is generally the sort of thing that happens when one over imbibes,” she pointed out, telling herself she didn’t feel bad for him.

“I didn’t just over imbibe. I was swilling poison.”

She frowned at him. “Someone poisoned you?”

“Yes. Me. I poisoned myself by drinking that goddamned elixir King had.”

Rhiannon found herself more confused than ever. “An elixir? Were you ill last night?”

“It was an elixir for distraction, which was precisely what I needed, or so I thought.” His eyes fluttered open, his countenance pained. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need. And perhaps some water to drink.”

Now he expected her to fetch him water?

“This is not the gratitude I anticipated after spending all night listening to you snore,” she groused, flinging back the bedclothes.

To her dismay, she realized her nightgown had ridden up over the course of the evening, leaving the hem tangled high about her upper thighs, nearly all her legs bared. It was a most immodest display, and one she hadn’t intended. Perhaps he wasn’t looking.

Rhiannon slanted a glance in Richford’s direction and discovered that he was indeed looking.

Quite intently too. Feeling wicked, she flexed her toes and made a show of stretching, raising her arms above her head and arching her back.

The action thrust her breasts out and caused the hem of her nightgown to shift, revealing more skin.

She took her time, making a low sound of contentment as she did so.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded curtly.

She gave him an innocent look. “Stretching before I rise for the day.”

“I think you’ve stretched sufficiently.”

Was he affected by the sight of her limbs on display? She certainly hoped he was, the villain. She hoped he was absolutely overwhelmed with lust for her. Mayhap he could drown in it.

“How should you know if I’ve stretched sufficiently?” she countered. “You’re not me.”

“At least pull down the hem of your bloody nightgown, then,” he ordered gruffly. “You’re quite indecent.”

Rhiannon lingered for another few moments, taking her time.

Then she summoned all her courage as she slid her legs, one by one, from the bed. “I’m not the one who asked to touch my cunny.”

The garbled sound he made behind her was either choking, coughing, or perhaps both at once. She couldn’t be sure. Her heart pounded at her daring as she walked as calmly as she could manage to the pitcher of water across the room and poured some into a cup.