Page 22 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

T he ball was still well underway as Rhiannon struggled to remove her borrowed gown in her bedchamber, trying not to wallow in humiliation as she did so. Her heavy wig had been the first, and easiest, to go. Now her hair was free of the hairpins holding it in its confining style, if nothing else.

Following her ignominious dance with the duke, she had fled, embarrassed by her immense failure. What had she been thinking, offering to be Richford’s mistress? Did her foolishness know no bounds?

And to make matters worse, she had done so right there, in the midst of the ballroom, surrounded by others, where anyone could have overheard her. Meanwhile, what had Richford done? He had stared at her silently, saying nothing.

Not. A. Single. Dratted. Word.

“No doubt, he was at a loss,” she grumbled to herself. “He has already made his opinion of me known.”

It didn’t matter that he had kissed her or that he had touched her that day in the viewing room.

He was a rake. Were they not ruled by base lust?

Had anyone else been in her place, his reaction likely would have been the same.

There was nothing special about her. Richford didn’t return her feelings. That much was more than apparent.

Rhiannon huffed a frustrated sigh as she continued her efforts. The fastenings on her friend’s bodice were small—a neat row of tiny buttons down her back. When she and Lady Blue had convened to make the exchange, they had helped each other dress, giggling and chattering like schoolgirls.

But now, with sore feet, an aching back, and desperately tattered pride, she was struggling to undo the last of them. She couldn’t seem to reach, no matter how hard she struggled to stretch her arms.

Likely, Richford had been horrified by her suggestion. That had been the reason for his silence. She hadn’t even bothered to find Lady Blue following that wretched dance. It had taken all the confidence she possessed to hold her head high and sail from the ballroom without bursting into tears.

Rhiannon blinked furiously. She wouldn’t cry.

Not now. Not until she had her gown off.

Then she could crawl beneath the bedclothes that still smelled like him and continue feeling sorry for herself in the darkness until she fell asleep.

Perhaps in the morning, she would do what Richford had been demanding she do from the first night. She would return to London.

Her friend had forced her to make some realizations this evening.

Namely, that she didn’t want anyone else.

She had come here for one reason only, and it was a golden-haired rake with emerald eyes, a sinner’s mouth, and a beard she longed to feel rasping over her throat as he pressed heated kisses to her bare skin.

“Stupid, stupid,” she chided herself, snagging a button, only to have her fingers slide off before she was able to remove it from its mooring. “Blast!”

Cursing felt good.

“Damnation,” she added, struggling to get her fingers back on the button. “Ballocks. Cock. Son of a swashbuckler!”

There! She had reached the button and pulled it free. Just a few more to go.

Knock, knock, knock.

She gasped and froze as she realized someone was at her bedroom door. Good heavens, it wasn’t her brother, was it? Had she been too loud, issuing those oaths? What if he had heard her? What a fool she was.

“Minx?”

The low voice on the other side of the door permeated her wildly whirling thoughts.

Richford.

Her feet started moving, carrying her across the chamber before her mind was even cognizant that she was going to him. Halfway there, her state of dishabille occurred to her.

“Oh well,” she murmured to herself, thinking she could blame it on the champagne.

There had to be a reason he had come to her.

Didn’t there?

She opened the door, and there he was, unfailingly handsome in that way only he had. Rhiannon wondered if he rose every day effortlessly beautiful. Even his tousled hair that morning had seemed artfully intentional, the way it had fallen over his brow in a rakish manner.

“Richford,” she said, hoping he could sense none of her thoughts. “What are you doing here?”

His green eyes were blazing, his countenance alight with intensity. “Did you mean it?”

She faltered. “Did I…”

Her words trailed off.

“Let me in before you answer.”

She stepped back and opened the door, granting him entrance. He stalked into the room, and she shut the portal at his back. Richford turned to her.

“Did you mean what you said in the ballroom before our dance ended?” he asked.

There was a studied concentration in his gaze, in his handsome face, that made her tell him the truth, despite all the stern admonishments of her pride.

“Yes, of course I meant it, Richford,” she admitted. “Why else would I have said it?”

“What you asked of me is wrong,” he said, his voice almost harsh.

He was impossibly beautiful in his evening finery.

She struggled to keep her face impassive, an expressionless mask. “I don’t care.”

Richford moved toward her. One step. Her breath caught in her lungs.

Then another.

“You want to give yourself to a man before your boring, proper marriage to Carnis,” he said, as if the words were hateful to him.

Rhiannon held his burning blue gaze. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll be that man.”

Liquid heat went straight to her core. “You will?”

Another step, and he was standing directly before her. “It can’t be anyone else.”

Of course it couldn’t, the silly man. He was the only one she wanted. The only one she had ever wanted. But she didn’t dare say so.

“No,” she agreed.

He nodded. “It’s decided, then. We have an understanding.”

An understanding . Was that what gentlemen called it? How polite. Rhiannon wouldn’t know, of course. She was a lady. She had been raised to be a man’s wife rather than his mistress. Unfortunately for her, the one man she loved and longed for didn’t want a wife.

She stared at Richford, wondering if she was dreaming, scarcely aware of the picture she must present, her bodice gaping at the back, her hair half-unbound as she had thrown hairpins in all directions, cursing herself and him and the world.

“We have an understanding,” she repeated.

He hauled her into his arms, bringing her body flush against his. “Only until this house party is at an end.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

Because after this, she would have to return to her life in London. She would have to become someone else’s wife. This was all she could have. Richford. Hers. For a few days and no more. It seemed an impossible dream, and yet, here he was, his heat searing her body.

“I’m only doing this to protect you,” he said fervently, searching her gaze as if he were seeking something of the utmost importance.

If that was what he wanted to tell himself, who was she to disabuse him of the notion?

“Of course,” she agreed easily. “And I am only doing this so that I can experience passion before I marry Carnis.”

“Don’t say his name again,” Richford growled, his lips painfully close to hers. “Not while you’re in my arms.”

“Never.” She was the first to move, her mouth seeking his.

“Damn you,” he growled in the moment before their lips met.

In a heartbeat, their mouths were sealed.

The kiss was potent and hot and bittersweet.

It was everything she had ever wanted a kiss to be, and yet, it was also somehow everything she had never known was possible.

His lips crashed over hers, moving softly, demanding yet seeking.

She opened for him, her tongue meeting his.

He tasted like champagne and temptation, and all she wanted was more.

No, not just more.

All he had to give. That was what she wanted from Richford. What she needed. What she had been longing for all these years spent admiring him from afar. Now, he was here. In her room, his tongue in her mouth, his lips on hers.

Hers.

That was what he was, and even if it was to last for naught more than a few days, she would seize it. Her hands found his shoulders first, her fingers digging into powerful muscle, holding him to her.

“Rhiannon,” he murmured into her mouth, half groan, half plea.

One of his hands slipped inside the partially undone halves of her bodice, his fingers skimming over the space between her shoulder blades. Though their skins were separated by a thin layer of cotton chemise, it was as if he had rained fire into her soul, into the very heart of her.

But this wasn’t fair. She wanted to touch him too. And she wanted his name. His given name, which she was shocked to realize she didn’t know. He had always simply been Richford to her.

“What is your name?” she asked, lips moving against his.

He paused, removing his lips from hers a scant space before answering, “Aubrey.”

Aubrey.

Rhiannon needed to form her tongue around that name, to give voice to this sudden alteration in what and who they were to each other.

But he was kissing her again, so she decided to save it for later, when his mouth wasn’t on hers, stealing her ability to think.

She held on to him, leaning into him. Everywhere they touched, she was aflame.

Her breasts into his chest, her hips into his, even with her cumbersome skirts twisting between them.

His hands traveled, finding her half-undone buttons.

He broke the kiss, staring down at her with raw, naked hunger. “Turn.”

She didn’t offer protest, just spun, presenting him with her back.

“You’re certain about this, minx?” he asked, voice low and deep.

More certain than she had ever been about anything.

There was no hesitation in her response. “Yes.”

His fingers moved over her buttons, pulling them free, the silk of her bodice gaping more with each one.

With the gentlest of touches, he peeled her bodice down her arms and tossed it to the floor, where it joined the piles of discarded dresses she had yet to tidy.

Her breath caught as his fingertips grazed the bare skin of her upper arms, her elbows. Good heavens, her wrists .