Sybil had imagined a reunion with her husband on many occasions. Never quite like this, however.
“Good morning, Riverdale,” she said coldly.
“Sybil?” He glared at her, his lip curling. “What are you doing in my bedroom? And why the hell did you pour water on me?”
She settled the pitcher in its basin. “Is that any way to greet your wife?”
“Is dumping a pitcher of water on my bloody head any way to greet your husband?” he snarled.
Water was streaking down his throat and rolling south in droplets over his chest now. Sybil told herself not to look, and yet her foolish eyes had a will of their own.
“Perhaps you ought to tell me the proper means of greeting a husband one hasn’t seen in more than three months,” she suggested. “A husband who abandoned one in the country and refuses to reply to any correspondence.”
He gathered up the counterpane and began using it to dry himself, continuing to glower as he did so. “I have nothing to say to you, madam.”
His words, like his ire, shouldn’t matter. Shouldn’t have the power to wound her. And yet, they did. He had made his disregard for her feelings known, just as he had made his dislike of her more than clear.
“Indeed, butIhave something to say toyou.” She kept her eyes pinned to his, intentionally not glancing down at his damp chest.
Or his muscled arms, flexing as he moved.
Curse the man. She was looking again.
“How nice for you.” His voice was cold, just like his wintry blue eyes. “I don’t give a damn.”
She hadn’t expected a pleasant reunion. Riverdale had made his opinion of her painfully obvious before he had left that awful day. He hadn’t waited for her explanation, hadn’t bothered to listen to even a word she had to offer. She hadn’t been able to defend herself. No matter now. The worst was done. But his seething fury still somehow stung.
“Perhaps you ought to care,” she suggested.
“Too late for that.” He dropped the bedclothes and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his high forehead. “Get out of my bedroom.”
She didn’t budge, her feet rooted to the Axminster. “Not until you hear what I’ve come to say.”
“More lies,” he snapped. “I have neither the time, nor the inclination to listen to a word you say.”
“Yes, I suppose you are eager to return to your carousing. No doubt you have some skirts to chase this morning. Do forgive me for keeping you from them.”
Sybil couldn’t conceal the bitterness in her voice, though she had tried her utmost. She was still every bit as furious with him as he was with her. But of the two of them, she was the only one with good reason.
“Is that why you’ve come?” he asked, smirking. “Are you jealous, darling?”
Yes, but she would leap out the nearest window before admitting it to him.
She tipped her chin up, scoffing. “Hardly. I have no claim on you.”
He had also made that more than apparent. The Duke of Riverdale had no intention of being a faithful husband.
“You are correct in that, madam. You don’t. Now get out, if you please. I need to take a piss, and I’d rather do it without you listening.”
He was being coarse and vulgar, trying to shock her. It wasn’t going to work.
“No. Not until you hear what I’ve come to say.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Before she could protest or avert her gaze, he flipped back the bedclothes and rose, naked. Her eyes dropped of their own volition to his long, thick shaft standing proudly erect.
He was hard.
