Page 18 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

F ollowing a disastrous breakfast that may as well have been ash on her tongue, Rhiannon had suffered a deadly boring game of blind man’s bluff.

She had escaped after a blindfolded gentleman had delivered a wet kiss to her ear under the guise of discovering who she was.

Now, she was decamping to the haven of her bedroom, vexed with the entire affair.

Vexed with herself.

Vexed with Richford.

With everything, full stop.

Seeing Richford with the woman in the great hall that morning, so soon after he had left her own bedroom, had stung.

In truth, it had more than stung. It had torn a great, gaping hole in her fragile heart.

She had recognized his female companion from the game of Questions and Commands, when it had proven apparent that the woman had set her cap at Richford.

Rhiannon had stopped, shocked at the sight of him standing so near to the woman, who was blatantly caressing his arm as if they were lovers.

His gaze had settled upon Rhiannon before flicking dismissively away, and then he had left with his companion. She hadn’t spied him at breakfast, nor had she seen him later. For all she knew, he had withdrawn to his bedroom with the woman in the daringly low-cut dress.

And why should she be surprised if he had? He had made no promises to her. He was an unrepentant rake, a jaded sybarite.

“A bounder,” she muttered to herself. “An infuriating, arrogant, overbearing rogue.”

But she loved him anyway, the scoundrel. When would her foolish heart ever learn? Just when he had at last shown an interest in her, he had flitted away with someone else. Someone who was worldly and beautiful and everything she was not.

Rhiannon was so lost in her thoughts that she nearly collided with another woman as she neared her bedchamber. Startled, she drew up short, pressing a hand to her rapidly fluttering heart.

“Forgive me,” said the striking dark-haired woman who was, quite notably, not wearing a mask.

There was something familiar about her features and voice. Rhiannon studied her intently, trying to dredge up the reason from the murky recesses of her memory. Somehow, she knew this woman, but she couldn’t place where their paths had crossed.

Either way, she had no wish to cause the woman to grow suspicious about her presence here in the largely abandoned wing. She had learned from her chambermaid that only a few guests were in residence on this side of the manor house. One of them was her brother, and the other was a lady…

Perhaps this one.

Rhiannon offered her a warm smile. “Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest the fault was yours. I simply meant that I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in this wing of the manor house.”

“Nor was I,” the dark-haired woman offered. “I expect you are one of the houseguests?”

Oh dear. Decidedly not the sort of question she wished to answer.

“I…” Rhiannon faltered, uncertain of how to respond. “Not precisely. And you?”

The woman gave her an inquisitive look. “Not precisely either.”

What in heaven’s name did that mean? Was this woman her brother’s mistress? Rhiannon had heard rumors about Rhys’s conquests, for they were quite impossible to avoid. But she didn’t think she had ever met one of his women.

Rhiannon felt her smile slipping. “How interesting.”

“Indeed.”

They stared at each other for a tense moment, Rhiannon still trying to determine what was so dratted familiar about the interloper.

“I do hope you won’t mention seeing me here,” Rhiannon said hesitantly at last. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to know I am present at such a gathering, you see.”

The woman offered her a wry smile. “Once again, we find ourselves in similar circumstances. I would appreciate your secrecy as well.”

Relief washed over Rhiannon. It would seem that the other woman also required discretion.

“That is easily promised,” Rhiannon reassured her. “I haven’t any notion of who you are.”

“Nor I you.”

“Well, then.” Rhiannon forced a grin, still feeling awkward. “I shall forget our paths ever crossed, and you may do the same for me.”

The other woman inclined her head. “Of course.”

She was about to continue on to her own chamber, but inquisitiveness returned, giving her pause. “Are you…staying in this wing of the manor house?”

The other woman’s discomfort was etched on her lovely face.

“You need not answer,” she rushed to add, feeling guilty. “Curiosity is one of my downfalls, or so I’ve recently been told by a very overbearing and frustrating arrogant oaf.”

It was difficult indeed to keep the sting and bite from her words as she thought of Richford’s imperiousness from earlier that morning, followed by his defection with the lovely woman who had been clinging to his arm in the great hall.

“You sound quite provoked by the gentleman in question,” the woman observed politely.

Provoked was an understatement. Richford left her infuriated. Hurt. Longing. Desperately yearning.

“Dukes are the most conceited, smug, supercilious beings,” Rhiannon said, with feeling. “Particularly when they think they know better than you do, even if the opposite is true.”

“I cannot say I would argue with the smugness,” the dark-haired beauty commiserated.

And Rhiannon couldn’t resist.

“You must know m—” she began, only to cut herself off. Good heavens, she had almost said my brother . “The Duke of Whitby,” she corrected.

Before the other woman could respond, the muffled footfalls of someone approaching down the hall reached Rhiannon.

Misgiving slid down her spine. What if it was Rhys?

Or perhaps even Richford? She had no desire to cross paths with either of them at the moment.

She was too upset with Richford, and the last thing she wanted was for her brother to recognize her.

She had to escape, but she didn’t dare take the time it would require to continue on to her room, risking discovery and questions she couldn’t answer. The servants’ stairs were conveniently nearby and the perfect means of evasion.

“Oh heavens, what a silly goose I am!” Rhiannon exclaimed. “I’ve forgotten something that’s very important. If you will excuse me?”

Before the other woman could respond, Rhiannon hastened to the staircase, deciding that she was in desperate need of a distraction. Anything to take her mind off Richford. If he didn’t want her, then she would find a gentleman who did.

Frustrated, Aubrey stalked along the gravel path in the gardens.

Where the devil was the minx now?

He had searched everywhere until being informed by a sharp-eyed servant that a lady in a pink dress had disappeared into the gardens, accompanied by a gentleman.

Pink was Rhiannon’s favorite color. She’d been wearing yet another pink gown that morning when their eyes had last met, hers filled with naked hurt.

After escorting Perdita from the great hall, he had delivered her to the breakfast room before seeking his own bedchamber.

Still feeling as if he’d been run over by a carriage and in serious danger of tossing up his accounts, Aubrey had fallen into his bed and surrendered to the beckoning abyss of slumber.

He hadn’t arisen until later that afternoon, feeling marginally human again at last, only to discover he’d slept away half the day and Rhiannon was nowhere to be found.

He had been looking for her ever since, but the moment he’d learned she had gone off unattended with a gentleman, the need to find her had been stronger than ever. Aubrey rounded a curve in the boxwood maze, and possessive fire instantly shot through him.

Rhiannon was seated on a garden bench, the picture of country elegance with her pale-pink silk skirts gracefully draped, the toes of her boots peeping out from her hem. He might have stopped and drunk in the sight of her but for one salient detail.

She wasn’t alone.

Rhiannon was in a gentleman’s loose embrace, smiling up at the bastard, her head tilted toward him as if to accept a kiss.

Aubrey lost his ability to think as he rushed forward, intent upon putting an end to their little tête-à-tête with his fists if he must. He lunged toward the man, grasping his lapels in both hands, ignoring Rhiannon’s horrified gasp.

“Richford, what are you doing?” she demanded, her tone aghast.

“What the devil?” Her male companion struggled to remove Aubrey’s grip on his coat.

But it was fruitless. Aubrey was far stronger, and he had determination and the element of surprise in his favor.

He didn’t bother to answer with words, hauling the protesting man from the garden bench instead. “Keep your damned hands off her,” he snarled.

“See here, you haven’t any right—” the rogue began.

Aubrey planted a fist in the man’s jaw, effectively ending his objection.

The man’s head snapped back from the force of the blow.

“I have every right,” he countered harshly. “She’s mine.”

He knew where the assertion had come from. It was a dark and dangerous place, deep within him. A place he had intentionally kept locked away, for fear of what would emerge should he ever open that door. But he couldn’t worry about that now.

“I’m not yours,” Rhiannon exclaimed, leaping from the bench and rushing to her beau’s side. “Has he hurt you?” she asked her companion.

The other man was rubbing his jaw. “I’ll live.” He turned furious eyes toward Aubrey. “You’re bloody mad, just like your sire.”

“Please, the two of you, cease this nonsense,” Rhiannon entreated, trying to come between them.

In a blink, the bastard had flung Rhiannon and her concern aside, pushing her away from them with vicious force.

She stumbled in the gravel and fell backward with a cry.

Aubrey lost his already tenuous grip on control.

This man had dared not just to lure her alone into the gardens, but to put his hands on her.

To hurt her. Now, he was going to pay for his sins.