“Then I shall have to tell him aboutyourpropensity for kissingme.”
“It only happened the once, my dear, and quite against my will if you will but recall.”
Fresh shame washed over her. That had been badly done of her, she knew. She had been so desperate to get the key from him that she hadn’t given a thought to whether he had wanted her lips on his. And, well, she couldn’t lie. She had dreamed of kissing the Duke of Richford for years. In the end, it had simply happened.
“You needn’t fear that particular folly shall be repeated,” she told him curtly.
“Excellent,” he purred. “I do believe we’re at a stalemate, which means I’ll accompany you to the breakfast table.”
She glared at him, thoroughly vexed. How had he managed to back her into this corner? All she wanted was to fill her stomach and to investigate the house party now that everyone had settled in, and yet here he was, attempting to thwart her at every turn.
“Do hurry and make up your mind,” he prodded when she hesitated. “I haven’t all day.”
“Very well,” she grumbled, settling her hand in the crook of his elbow. “You may escort me to breakfast.”
“As I thought.” He placed a large hand over hers. “Come along, minx. I should like to eat before luncheon.”
Grudgingly, she allowed him to guide her from the room.
Breakfast was an informal affair,with the guests coming and going as they pleased. The sideboard was laden with eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and Bayonne ham. Rhiannon had eaten little thus far, despite her hunger. She had been too preoccupied with finding a way she might escape Richford’s clutches.
Fortunately, she had been saved from having to implement her plan of leaving the breakfast table under the guise of going to the withdrawing room. She had been determined to slip away into the gardens where he would have a difficult time indeed finding her. But a servant suddenly arrived at his side with a note on a salver. Rhiannon recognized her brother’s penmanship instantly. Her heart leapt as Richford took the missive and read it, keeping it carefully averted from her gaze.
“Is something amiss?” she asked him quietly, fearful she had been discovered.
“I’ve been summoned,” he said, his expression and voice carefully neutral.
“By my—by Whitby?” she guessed, correcting herself before she revealed too much information in front of the other revelers who were moving about the large dining room, breaking their fasts.
“Indeed.” Richford nodded toward her plate, which was still mostly filled with food.
His, in turn, was empty. The duke had eaten with the unrepentant gusto of a man who hadn’t partaken of a meal in days. She had watched him with fascination as he had made short work of rashers of bacon, two poached eggs, and a mountain of hothouse pineapple, thinking it a miracle he was as trim and lean as he was, given his appetite.
More than once, she had given in to the urge to look at his lips. What a mistake that had been, for each time, a spark of longing had burst into undeniable flame. She shook her head, reminding herself she must forget all about the Duke of Richford’s mouth on hers and the sinful joy it had brought her. To say nothing of his wicked tongue.
“I must take my leave,” Richford added to her in an aside, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t travel to the others. “But I will return for you. Pray see that you don’t get yourself into any trouble whilst I’m gone.”
He was leaving her.
Disappointment sliced through Rhiannon despite herself.
“Trouble?” she repeated, batting her lashes at him, feeling like an entirely different woman beneath the shelter of her silk mask. “Me? Never, Your Grace.”
“No naughty charades.”
“Of course not.” She took a sip of her tea, trying not to smile.
Did he truly care, or was he watching over her solely for her brother’s benefit? Rhiannon knew it was foolish indeed, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. When would she ever learn?
“No wandering off with gentlemen,” he added sternly.
“Yes, Father,” she mocked.
He bared his teeth. “Someone ought to swat you on your misbehaving rump.”
She lifted her fork toward him as if it were a weapon, tines pointing evilly in his direction. “En garde.”
“Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I must take my leave before I go mad.”
