Page 41 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

H e was here.

Rhiannon had felt his presence before she had even looked across the crowded ballroom and found him watching her. The clash of his emerald gaze with hers was electric. Her heart stumbled. Her stomach upended.

Shock washed over her like a cold rain.

She almost tripped on her gown, but somehow, she managed to hold her head high and paste a serene smile to her lips as if she hadn’t a care in the world more pressing than who would fill her dance card.

As if the man she loved, the man who had left her without a word and betrayed her with another woman, was not staring at her through the sea of guests.

Aubrey.

She had thought he was in the country where she had left him. She had hoped she would never have to set eyes on him again. But that hope, like the belief that he would return her love, was dashed.

How was she to see him and not run to him? How was she to pretend as if he were a mere acquaintance, when she had been in his bed, in his arms, when she knew his body as intimately as she knew her own? When she could be carrying his babe?

Her breathing was coming fast, and a slick sheen of perspiration trickled down her spine. The heat of the blazing chandeliers and the bevy of revelers was too much. He was too much.

Mumbling something to her mother and brother, Rhiannon hastened away, slipping along the edges of the crowd in search of a place where she might take some air. Hide from prying eyes. Where she could spend the rest of the night until enough time had passed so that she could politely take her leave.

Somehow, she found her way to a terrace and slipped onto it, walking to the walled edge and taking in gasps of cooler night air. She didn’t have long for her respite, however.

“Rhiannon.”

His voice was a low caress.

She stiffened, eyes closing as she summoned her strength before spinning to face him. He moved toward her, faultlessly elegant in a dark suit and crisp white tie, his burnished hair falling in rakish waves and his beard longer than before, though still neatly trimmed.

“Your Grace,” she forced out, dipping into a formal curtsy.

He was before her, his gaze searching hers. “It is good to see you.”

Her smile felt brittle. “I wish that I could say the same for you.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re angry with me.”

She laughed bitterly. “I feel nothing concerning you, sir.”

“Is that so?” His hands settled on her waist, drawing her into him. “I find that difficult to believe, minx, because I feel everything where you are concerned.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, thinking about the last time she’d heard him refer to her thus.

Lady Heathcote had been in his lap.

You will thank me later, minx.

She tried to remove herself from his hold, but he remained firm and determined, keeping her there, the heat of his muscled form burning into her like a taunt.

“Rhiannon, please,” he rasped. “I know you’re furious with me, and you have every right to be so, but I need to speak with you.”

She stared up at him, thinking he sounded sincere. But he was too late. She was being forced into a marriage she didn’t want with Carnis. She had spent the last weeks in utter misery. Aubrey had destroyed her.

“Indeed,” she forced out stiffly. “I cannot fathom what you would have need to speak with me about. If you will excuse me, I really must be returning to the ball.”

At last, she extricated herself, but as she made to move past him on the terrace, he took her arm in a gentle hold, staying her.

“Please, Rhiannon. Don’t go just yet.”

She hated herself for the reaction her body had to his touch. Everything within her wanted to throw herself into his arms and forget what had happened. But she couldn’t do that.

“Why would you not call on me if you wish for an audience?” she demanded.

“Would you have received me?”

“No,” she admitted.

“There is your answer.” He stared down at her, his countenance determined. “Nor should you receive me. I don’t deserve your time or your attention.”

“Then why are you demanding both now?” she asked, her voice trembling with the force of her emotions.

“Because I cannot lose you.”

She shook off his hold. “You’ve already lost me, Richford.”

Without risking a backward glance, she fled from the terrace, biting her lip to keep from bursting into tears.

Three days after the ball Riverdale had held in honor of the wife no one knew he’d had, Aubrey found himself being led to the Duke of Whitby’s study.

For each of those days, he had attempted an audience with Rhiannon, and on every occasion, he had failed miserably.

She had run from him at the ball, and before he’d managed to find her again, she had pled illness and left early.

Each time he had called upon her since, he had been told that Lady Rhiannon was not at home.

The time had come for a change of tactics, much as he dreaded it.

Aubrey took a deep breath as he crossed the threshold of his friend’s study. This was going to be one of the most difficult interviews he’d ever had in his bloody life.

“Richford,” Whit greeted him with a congenial smile. “Come in and have a seat. Would you care for a brandy and soda water? Perhaps something else? Coffee or tea?”

His heart was thudding hard. So hard that he swore his ears were ringing with the sound.

“Nothing,” he managed. “Thank you.”

“It isn’t like you to turn your nose up at a drink.

” Whit considered him with a curious regard, frowning.

“But then, it isn’t like you to pay calls upon me in my study at this time of day either.

Is it something serious? You’ve pissed in your bed, have you?

No? Perhaps you’ve been thrown over by your lady of the moment. ”

Ordinarily, Aubrey would have grinned at his friend’s good-natured mockery, but the news he had come to divulge was burning a hole through his conscience. “Unfortunately, the reason for my call is none that you have just mentioned.”

Whitby’s teasing air faded along with his smile, his expression clouding and growing perplexed. “Sit then, won’t you? Do cease hovering.”

Aubrey didn’t want to sit. He would inevitably have to stand anyway when Whit learned his true reason for visiting him. And he would also have to accept the punch he deserved.

But he sat, obliging his friend, who would no longer be his friend five minutes from now after he learned the sordid truth about what manner of man Aubrey truly was.

He was the sort of man who fucked his friend’s innocent sister.

Who took her virginity.

Who pushed her into the waiting arms of another man.

Who deserved a sound pummeling.

“Christ, old chum,” Whit said, his frown deepening. “You look like death.”

“How bloody apropos,” he said. “I feel like it.”

Perhaps he should have accepted Whit’s offer of brandy. He could have tossed the drink down his throat and numbed at least a hint of the pain.

Whit straightened in his chair, regarding him solemnly. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like what it is that you have to say?”

He held his friend’s stare, unflinching. “Because you won’t.”

“Go on.”

Aubrey took a deep breath, then exhaled. “The reason I paid this call on you was to discuss something of great import.”

He was about to continue, but a sudden disturbance in the hall distracted him. He would recognize that voice anywhere, even if he was a corpse six feet in the damned ground.

Rhiannon burst through the door, wild and breathless and so beautiful that his chest ached just from drinking her in. Aubrey shot to his feet, longing to go to her, unprepared for the emotions that charged through him. For a moment, her eyes swept to him before she instantly averted her gaze.

He felt her reaction as keenly as if it had been a slap, and he could hardly blame her. He deserved her scorn and her violence both.

“Rhys, I wish to speak to you,” she announced, keeping her gaze trained solely on her brother.

Whitby stood, his countenance growing even more confused as his eyes flicked between Aubrey and Rhiannon, until comprehension slowly began to dawn, taking the place of the befuddlement.

“Can it not wait, Rhiannon?” he asked, a new sharpness entering his tone. “As you can see, I’m speaking with Richford.”

Still, she refused to so much as spare Aubrey a glance as she held her head high. “I’m afraid that it cannot.”

“My lady,” Aubrey began, taking care to keep his tone polite, “I was having a conversation with your brother that is private and personal in nature. One that I don’t imagine you would like to bear witness to.”

Nor to the drubbing which would inevitably follow, he thought grimly.

“Your Grace,” she said coldly, granting him a disdainful glance, “you must forgive me, but I do believe a family matter takes precedence over that of an acquaintance.”

“What is going on between the two of you?” Whit demanded, suspicion clouding his voice.

Aubrey stared at Rhiannon, waiting to see what her reaction would be.

“Nothing,” she said.

He turned back to Whit. “In truth, that is the reason for my call. I humbly beg Lady Rhiannon’s hand in marriage.”

Rhiannon’s gasp could be heard over his pounding heart.

“You humbly beg what?” Whit demanded, sounding furious now. “To marry my sister? You ? Is this some manner of puerile joke? Surely you must know she’s already betrothed to the Earl of Carnis.”

“It’s not a joke,” Aubrey said grimly.

“I beg your pardon?” Rhiannon asked, eyes wide, stare fixed upon him.

“You’re not marrying Carnis,” he told Rhiannon. “Marry me instead.”

“Why should I marry you? You’ve made yourself quite clear on the matter of marriage.”

Their gazes were locked.

“Which one of you would care to tell me just what the bloody hell is going on?” Whit demanded, his voice bearing the lash of a whip.

Aubrey didn’t look away from Rhiannon. “Perhaps you ought to ask your sister.”