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

A ubrey’s cock was harder than an anvil as he watched Rhiannon flounce from the room, slamming the door closed at her back. She was brazen. She was beautiful. She was cunning.

Damn, but she was glorious.

Full fucking stop.

He had wanted nothing more than to pin her to that bloody door instead of allowing her to flee through it.

To take her lips and kiss her again. To lift her skirts and find the slit in her drawers.

To see if she was as wet as he hoped after all but bringing him to his knees with those innocent but ardent kisses.

And then to sink inside her. To fuck her until they were both spent. To fill her with his seed. To make her his in every way and obliterate any memory she had of the bastards who had dared to kiss her before him.

With a low groan, he adjusted the fall of his trousers.

Thank Christ she had gone.

He couldn’t do any of those things. Not with her. He shouldn’t even be thinking such vile, traitorous thoughts. He couldn’t bed Whit’s sister. His friend’s not-as-innocent-as-he-had-supposed sister.

There were facets to Lady Rhiannon Northwick that Aubrey hadn’t begun to imagine existed. He wanted to hunt down every man who had tasted her lips and beat him to within an inch of oblivion. But he couldn’t do that either.

No.

He inhaled slowly, trying to summon any notion that would wilt his rampaging prick.

What he needed to do was exit this chamber and return to naughty charades.

He could find an experienced woman for the evening.

One who would be more than happy to exchange mutual pleasure with him, sans consequences.

He could bury his cock inside her, fuck her until they were both satisfied, and forget Rhiannon was even in attendance at this house party.

Except he couldn’t very well do that. For one thing, he needed to know where she was sleeping so that he could at least watch over her on his friend’s behalf.

Her threat to go to Whit and tell him that Aubrey had been the one to initiate their scorching kisses was still echoing in his mind.

He didn’t doubt the minx would be bold enough to do it, should sacrificing his friendship with her brother suit her purposes.

Whit was like a brother to him, as were Brandon, Riverdale, Camden, and Kingham. Hell, the five of them were all he had. He couldn’t afford to lose Whit’s friendship. And he damned well should have thought of that before putting his tongue in his friend’s sister’s mouth.

Blast.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, relieved that his whirling ruminations had at least served to wilt his cock.

There was no hope for it. He was going to have to be the one to look after Rhiannon and make certain no harm came to her at this cursed house party.

He owed that much, if not far more, to his friend.

Aubrey started after her. She’d had sufficient time to disappear whilst he’d been arguing with himself and willing his cockstand to abate.

Fortunately, the servants were the soul of discretion.

He found a chambermaid and, after a circumspect inquiry, discovered that a masked woman meeting Rhiannon’s description had been headed in the direction of the wing of the manor house that wasn’t presently in use for most guests.

Wise girl. It was an excellent hiding place, as Whit had made certain to keep the revelers contained in the opposite wing.

Aubrey stalked after her, the benefit of his long legs not lost upon him. It didn’t take much time to discover which room she had claimed, catching sight of her pink skirts disappearing just as a door closed.

It happened to cleverly and helpfully possess the same locks Brandon had ordered installed on each room, both outside and inside the doors, the better for their guests to make use of the chambers as they saw fit.

With a grin, Aubrey closed the distance to Rhiannon’s door.

Slowly and taking care to avoid making any sound that would alert her to his presence, he settled the key she’d left in the door of the salon into the lock and turned the latch.

At least for this evening, he could be certain the minx would stay out of trouble.

The morning sun was rising fast.

Rhiannon was starving and incredibly irritable as she cast a final glance in the looking glass.

Unaccustomed to dressing herself without the aid of her efficient lady’s maid, she had struggled into her underpinnings and morning gown.

She’d scarcely been able to sleep last night, restless in her bed as the memory of the sinful kisses she had shared with Richford had turned over and over in her mind, haunting her.

At least she had managed to plait her hair into a passable braid, which she had coiled on her crown with tendrils free to frame her face. All she had to do was continue avoiding her brother and the Duke of Richford, and today would hopefully prove more entertaining than the evening before had been.

That disaster had been his fault, of course.

He had hauled her from charades, locked her in a room, and proceeded to be an insufferable, arrogant arse. He wouldn’t have an opportunity to do so today. She vowed it. She would banish all the unwanted, pent-up feelings she had for him until there wasn’t so much as a crumb left.

Beginning today.

With a deep breath, Rhiannon turned and crossed the chamber she had commandeered for the house party.

It was a pleasant room with windows that faced the gardens.

But best of all, it was entirely removed from the wing that was housing most of the other guests, which had proven a boon for her ability to hide in plain sight.

Rhiannon’s hand landed on the latch.

But it didn’t budge.

She frowned.

Locked?

Surely not.

She tried again, but the latch was firm and immobile.

It was definitely, without a doubt, locked. But how? And most importantly, who ?

“Richford,” she snarled, instantly knowing who would be behind such a thing.

He had locked her inside her bedchamber.

And it was time for breakfast.

Furious, she tried to open the door with greater strength. Then she threw her shoulder into it, attempting to force it open with her body weight until pain radiated from her shoulder and down her spine. Nothing worked. She was trapped in this room.

There was a bellpull, of course.

Rhiannon spun from the door, intent upon ringing it. She was halfway across the Axminster when she heard a click of the latch, followed by the slight creak of the door swinging open.

“Good morning, my dear,” drawled a familiar voice.

Rhiannon whirled about, facing her enemy directly.

There, on the threshold, looking smug and despicably handsome, was the Duke of Richford.

He was dressed for riding, his trousers hugging his muscled thighs and lean legs, his boots shined.

She hated herself for being affected by him, for the way her stomach flipped as she drank in the sight of him.

He was in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, his golden hair tousled as if he had run a hand through it.

Or perhaps a lover had, she thought sourly before she could stop herself.

He was also grinning.

She hated him. She loved him. She couldn’t have him.

Rhiannon reached for the nearest available missile, which happened to be her hairbrush, and launched it at his beautiful face. Sadly, her aim was incorrect. The brush sailed toward his chest instead, but Richford caught it with ease, using only one hand.

“Whatever is amiss, minx? I confess, I’m not accustomed to a woman throwing objects at me when she’s not my lover.”

“You are a scoundrel,” she accused, looking for something else she might hurl in his direction.

“I pride myself upon it,” he said, unmoved by her insult.

Rhiannon thought about the women who had tossed objects at him in anger.

His lovers. She refused to consider that the sharp twinge of emotion inside her was jealousy.

Why would she be envious of the legions of women who had warmed his bed?

The villain had locked her in a room on no fewer than two separate occasions.

He had called her a girl. Had kissed her and then acted as if he found her as desirable as a spider in the corner.

He didn’t want her, and he had made that abundantly, painfully, humiliatingly clear.

She found a book she’d thieved from the library and whipped it toward his head.

To her vast disappointment, he caught the leather-bound tome as well.

“Are you going to continue throwing bric-a-brac at me?” he asked, sounding bored. “Because if so, I’d like to set these things down so that I may catch future projectiles. I’d dearly hate to suffer a perfume bottle to my pretty nose or something infinitely worse.”

“I’m glad you find it so amusing to lock me inside rooms against my will,” she countered sharply. “You’re lucky I haven’t a pistol in my possession.”

He raised a brow, still looking utterly unruffled by both her anger and her threats. “Never say you would think of shooting me, little na?f.”

“I dreamt of it all last night,” she lied.

“How delightfully bloodthirsty of you.” He sauntered forward, placing the book and brush down on a nearby Louis Quinze table. “Tell me, did you shoot to maim, or did you shoot to kill in this charming reverie of yours?”

He was still smiling, the knave.

How dare he lock her inside a room and then make light of her ire? How dare he break her heart? She looked around and discovered a boot lying on the floor. In the absence of a lady’s maid, the chamber was rather in a state. Rhiannon bent and retrieved it, flinging it at his gorgeous head.

He caught it, looking about the room with renewed interest. “Sweet God, was there a house cracksman in here last night?”

She sniffed. “Of course not. How would anyone else get within when you locked me in here?”

“It certainly looks as if a thief has ransacked the room. But then, I reckon it would have to be a thief who was searching for the family silver in your drawers.”