Page 7 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

A ubrey wasn’t certain which ached more as he searched for Rhiannon later that afternoon, his knuckles or his head. The minx was the source of his throbbing temples. Because she was missing, curse her.

He had returned from beating the vile Lord Roberts to a pulp for harassing an unaccompanied female—the reason for his aching knuckles—only to discover that she was nowhere to be found.

Not in the bedchamber she had commandeered for her secret use.

Not in the breakfast room. Not in the main hall, the stables, the gardens, or anywhere else he’d attempted to locate her thus far.

He stalked into the music room, thinking he might find her within, but all he saw was a woman’s legs wrapped around a man’s waist as he pumped into her on the piano bench. The position looked deuced uncomfortable. Fortunately, the skirts gathered about the woman’s waist didn’t match Rhiannon’s.

Aubrey took his hasty leave, giving the couple their privacy.

If it had been her, he didn’t know what he would have done.

Bloodied his other knuckles for a start.

He knew he shouldn’t have answered Whit’s summons, leaving Rhiannon alone at the breakfast table.

She was a bloody menace, capable of anything.

Christ knew what manner of mischief she was making.

But answering his friend’s note had proven a necessity, an obligation thanks to his duty as one of the founding members of the Wicked Dukes Society.

The ladies in attendance had to be protected at all costs.

The men and women of their club paid hefty fees to ensure not just silence but the protection that their little coterie would bring them.

Instead of finding their pleasure in brothels, they came here to Wingfield Hall.

It was imperative that no man attempt to force unwanted attentions upon a lady, which had been Roberts’s sin.

The beating he’d received at the hands of Aubrey, Whitby, Riverdale, and Kingham had been well deserved. They had also turned the bastard out on his arse, sending him back to London.

One piece of rubbish gone.

One crafty minx left to be discovered.

Right.

Perhaps it was time to make a few inquiries with the servants, he decided. This wasn’t how he had intended to spend the house party, chasing after a vexing female whom he couldn’t even bed. But so be it.

His friendship with Whit was too important to allow Rhiannon to go flitting about unsupervised.

God only knew what manner of trouble she would find herself in.

A sharp stab of guilt pierced him as he thought about the kisses he had shared with her yesterday.

Whit would bloody well murder him if he knew, and Aubrey wouldn’t blame him in the slightest. He hated himself for giving in to her soft, lush lips on his.

For kissing her back instead of pushing her away.

It wouldn’t happen again.

Aubrey strode toward the library, lured by the sound of raucous masculine and feminine laughter. He hadn’t thought to check that room yet. Perhaps the minx was within. He stopped at the threshold to quietly observe. No fewer than a dozen men and women occupied the room, most of the players masked.

“It’s my turn for a question next,” said a familiar voice.

His gaze swung to her at once. Rhiannon was seated primly on a Grecian couch next to a man who had stripped down to the waist. Aubrey was going to kill the bastard.

“On what part of the body do you prefer to be kissed?” asked another man who appeared to be at the helm of the festivities, seated on a makeshift dais, also masked.

Aubrey had played such games before. It was a version of Questions and Commands that had been corrupted so that all the queries were carnal in nature, as were the resulting commands if the Commander issuing the questions wasn’t satisfied by the answer.

“The lips, I should think,” Rhiannon was answering. “Although I daresay I haven’t tried many other places just yet.”

Her innocent response made his groin tighten. There were so many other places and ways he might kiss her. So many sensual delights he could show her. If only she weren’t his closest chum’s sister.

“Allow me to be the first to volunteer for research,” said the man at her side, who Aubrey now recognized as Lord Chattingham.

The company tittered.

“What a selfless offer,” drawled the chap who had asked the ribald question.

And something inside Aubrey broke.

He stalked into the room, scarcely aware of his surroundings. If that half-dressed arsehole had even thought about touching Rhiannon, Aubrey would thrash him senseless. He was dimly aware of eyes on him as he moved toward Rhiannon. Even a shocked exclamation.

“Well, if it isn’t Richford, come to join us,” purred a feminine voice he recognized as belonging to Viscountess Heathcote.

Perdita had been trying to get into his bed for the last month.

She was a beauty—voluptuous, golden-haired, big-breasted, and notoriously adventurous in the bedchamber, with dark appetites to rival his own.

But he hadn’t yet accepted her offer. He glanced in her direction now with disinterest despite the remarkable display of her breasts bursting forth from her immodest décolletage.

Christ, if she sneezed, her nipples would spring free.

“I’m not joining you,” he bit out, stopping before Rhiannon. “You. Come with me. Now.”

“I’m afraid you aren’t the Commander, Richford,” Perdita said, a hard edge to her voice. “You cannot waltz in here and spoil our fun.”

Aubrey didn’t bother to glance in the viscountess’s direction. All his attention was upon the minx before him. Rhiannon stared up at him, her blue eyes wide behind her silken mask. No doubt she hadn’t expected him to find her and demand that she leave her sordid game.

Chattingham puffed up his chest. “I say, Richford. You’re being a bit too heavy-handed. Lady Pink and I were just beginning to become better acquainted.”

Lady Pink , was she now? At least she wasn’t going about telling everyone that she was Lady Rhiannon Northwick. Small mercies and all that bloody folderol.

Aubrey pinned the irksome man with a warning glare. “If you don’t leave the lady alone, the only thing you’ll become better acquainted with is my fist.”

Rhiannon gasped. “Richford!”

As if he were the one who was sitting about sans shirt, waistcoat, and neckcloth, leering at her.

He turned back to her, extending his hand. “Come, my lady. You are needed elsewhere.”

“But I am currently here,” she said, her eyes snapping with stubborn fire.

“Richford, you’re quite ruining Questions and Commands,” complained the man who had been leading this little farce. “This is most unlike you.”

“I’d be more than happy to ruin your face instead,” he returned politely.

The man made a huff of annoyance but wisely said nothing else. Which was just as well, because Aubrey would have entirely crushed him in a physical challenge.

“Richford, you cannot sweep in here and begin threatening everyone,” Rhiannon chastised him in a low voice.

“You have five seconds to come with me before I toss you over my shoulder and carry you out of here,” he warned her calmly, meaning every word.

His already limited patience was gone. He needed to figure out a means of getting her back to London with her reputation intact and without Whit discovering she’d ever been here at this cursed house party.

Christ, why had the meddlesome chit insisted upon sneaking into Wingfield Hall in the first place?

And why had he been the one with the grave misfortune of discovering her deceit?

“I’m not finished playing just yet,” she informed him coolly. “I’ll speak with you later, after our game is complete.”

“Why don’t you stay and play with us?” Perdita asked coyly. “Come and have a seat by me.”

He didn’t miss the way Rhiannon’s gaze went to the viscountess, narrowing as she took in Perdita’s bountiful curves and lack of modesty, before flitting back to him.

“Yes, why don’t you stay and play?” Rhiannon asked, her tone mocking.

It was more than apparent she disapproved of Perdita.

Perhaps the minx was even a bit jealous.

She needn’t have been. There was only one woman in this library he longed to kiss breathless and spank until she was moaning and wet for him, and that wasn’t Viscountess Heathcote.

Sadly, he couldn’t indulge in that particular fantasy.

“Would you have me make a scene?” he asked Rhiannon quietly, ignoring Perdita entirely.

“You have already made one,” Rhiannon gritted, pinning him with a pouty glare.

He met her glare with one of his own, warning her without words that he was utterly serious about his threat and intended to follow it through.

He would haul her from the damned Grecian couch and cart her out of this library if she refused to accompany him.

He had no intention of allowing her to remain here for more lewd rounds of Questions and Commands.

He shuddered to think of what the forfeit required of her would be.

“Now, my lady,” was all he said.

She sighed, sulking some more, but reluctantly accepted his hand.

He pulled her to her feet before turning to address the occupants of the room, who were all watching their drama unfold as if it were a riveting comedy at the theater. “Carry on. Forgive me for the interruption.”

Sliding Rhiannon’s hand into the crook of his elbow, he escorted her from the library. When they had reached the hall and he’d closed the door behind them, she spun on him, eyes blazing with fury.

“How dare you embarrass me like that?”

“You were sitting next to a half-naked man,” he countered sharply. “What the devil did you think you were doing? In ten minutes, it’s likely to become an orgy.”

Damn. He shouldn’t have said something like that in front of Whit’s sister. Did she even know what an orgy was? He sure as bloody hell hoped not.

“What is an orgy?” she asked breathlessly as he all but dragged her down the hall, confirming his suspicions.

She didn’t know.