She was causing quite a bit of trouble for him and putting herself in danger. He’d intended to spend this house party lost in pleasure, and instead, he’d been fucking his hand like a green lad of eighteen who was too afraid to speak to the fairer sex.
Aubrey caught her flying fists in his hands. “Are you this much of a brat at all times? It’s a miracle Whit hasn’t married you off to the first unsuspecting bastard he could find by now.”
She stared at him, chest heaving, eyes glistening with outrage, fury emanating from her body in almost tangible waves. He was being rather a bit cruel, and he knew it. The fault was his—he was so damn drawn to her, and he had to push her away in any capacity possible. One couldn’t shag one’s best friend’s virgin sister after all.
Aubrey opened his mouth, intending to offer an apology, but Rhiannon acted first. She moved swiftly, bringing her knee into his groin with an unexpected and impressive amount of force. Pain radiated through him, the breath leaving him as black stars speckled his vision. With a groan, he released her, doubling over, the agony almost unbearable.
Rhiannon didn’t waste a moment, of course. She fled the room, leaving him there trying to catch his breath, pain searing him as he vowed he would find the minx and have his revenge.
Rhiannon tampeddown the guilt that assailed her as she rushed from the salon where she’d left Richford, bent at the waist and howling in pain. Perhaps she had used a bit too much force when she had kneed him in that particularly vulnerable place.
But the fault was his as much as hers. She wouldn’t have kneed him if he hadn’t yet again hunted her down and dragged her into a salon to deliver a withering assessment of her maturity and character. All Richford had to do was keep his distance, and there would be no problem. Why, oh why, did he insist that she must return to London? What did it matter to him if she remained here? It wasn’t as if she was his betrothed.
For now, where to hide that he wouldn’t find her?
She couldn’t flee to her bedchamber.
Nor could she return to the library to finish the edifying game of Questions and Commands she had been in the midst of playing when Richford had unceremoniously shown up and made a spectacle of them. Perhaps she could go for a nice, long ride.
Rhiannon changed direction and made her way to the doors leading to the stables.
“Where are you running off to so soon, my darling Lady Pink?”
The question brought her to a surprised halt as she turned to see the half-dressed man who had been seated on the couch with her in the library approaching. He had shrugged back into his shirt, but the twain ends remained scandalously apart, revealing a solid swath of his muscled chest. Earlier, she had been aghast when he had been commanded to remove the upper portion of his garments after a failed response to a question. It had been the first bare male chest she had seen, and she had to admit, she’d been fascinated.
Beneath the cut of his half mask, he appeared quite handsome.
Pity that her heart didn’t leap when she saw him, and when he had used his low, pleasant-enough voice to whisper naughty things to her during the game, she hadn’t even felt so much as a flicker of interest.
“I was…” Her words trailed off as she sought an explanation that would suffice.
“Waiting for me?” he asked swiftly, offering her his arm. “I was hoping you would say so. How did you manage to slip away from that hound, Richford?”
Rhiannon wasn’t certain she should accept his offer of escort. The man was likely every bit as much of a rakehell as Richford was. The only advantage was that this particular rake didn’t know who she was, nor was he bothered by any so-called obligation or fits of conscience. Then again, perhaps she ought to go with him.
He might be just the gentleman with whom she could seize a bit of adventure and distraction from Richford’s rejection of her.
And a kiss.
Even if the only man she currently longed to kiss was the same one she had just left sputtering in pain over his high-handedness.
With a smile, Rhiannon settled her hand on his proffered arm. “He’s not a hound, sir. You are his guest, are you not?”
It seemed wrong to allow the man to insult Richford, despite how frustrated and angry with him she was.
“Forgive me,” the man said smoothly. “Tell me, where shall we go so the two of us can have a tête-à-tête in private? Would you care to join me in my bedchamber?”
Her eyebrows rose. My heavens, she hadn’t expected such a forward invitation.
“Perhaps a salon instead,” she hedged, not wanting to be alone in a bedroom with someone she had only just met.
It seemed a dangerous plan indeed.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Rhiannon stiffened at the duke’s familiar voice at her back. Curse the man! How had he found her already? She hadn’t made good on her escape, thanks to the gentleman at her side.
She and her escort turned to face Richford, who looked a trifle pale but none the worse for wear as he stalked toward them in menacing fashion. His emerald gaze was locked upon the man at her side, and there was no denying the quiet fury emanating from him.
