With that, she sailed from the room before he could stop her.
For a long moment, Aubrey remained where he was, her scent still hovering in the air, heart beating furiously in his chest, staring at the door that had closed in her wake. Unable to resist, he brought his glistening fingers to his nose, inhaling deeply of her scent. So damned good. With a groan, he sucked them, savoring the taste of her on his tongue, wishing his head had been firmly between her thighs instead. She tasted perfect, better than the finest desserts, and he wanted more even though he knew he could never have it.
His fingers clean, he stalked back to the door, grimly flicking the lock into place. Returning to his chamber in this state was out of the question. His cock was aching for relief.
He hastily unbuttoned the fall of his trousers with one hand while withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. He leaned his forehead against the door, and it was still warm from when Rhiannon had leaned there. Her scent lingered. Fuck. He wasn’t going to last long.
Aubrey grasped his cock and worked himself, thinking about how gloriously wet she’d been, how responsive, how plump and swollen her clitoris had felt. He would give anything to suck it until she screamed his name. He still had the taste of her on his lips, in his mouth.
With a strangled shout, he came into his handkerchief, his head knocking off the wooden door, his knees threatening to give out. When it was done, he was sated, though not nearly as spent as he would have preferred. This was all he could have,however. All he could ever have when it came to Rhiannon, and even this was far more than he should have allowed.
Aubrey slipped his soiled handkerchief into his pocket before tucking himself back into his drawers and trousers and buttoning his falls.
He had intended to bring Rhiannon here to teach her a lesson. But he was beginning to fear that the only one who had learned a lesson had been him. And the lesson was that he needed to keep his distance from Lady Rhiannon Northwick.
At all costs.
Buryingher face in the pillow on her bed, Rhiannon tried not to make any sound as her fingers worked furiously between her legs. In her mind, it was Richford’s fingers, not hers. Richford breathing hot and harsh into her ear, telling her how badly she needed to come. Richford stroking her where she ached, playing with her swollen nub until she nearly exploded. A rush of bliss swept over her, her heart hammering, the force of her release taking her by surprise.
But now that she had soothed some of the relentless ache that had been dogging her mercilessly since she had fled the viewing room and Richford both, she felt…incomplete. She still throbbed and longed for more, forhim. The restlessness hadn’t entirely faded.
And that was a disappointment indeed, because she had been nearly out of her mind with the need to bring herself off as she’d raced away. Rhiannon had wrestled herself out of her dress and corset—no easy feat without a lady’s maid, but necessary for comfort. In her chemise and drawers, she’d thrown herself onto the bed.
He had touched between her thighs. He’d lifted her skirts, skimmed his hand past the slit in her undergarments, and had found, unerringly, exactly where she needed to be touched. It was the same place she touched, of course, only it was somehow more erotic when the man she had been swooning over for years had been the one doing the touching.
Now, it seemed he had spurred some sort of ache in her that only he could ease. Rolling onto her back with a sigh, Rhiannon stared at the ceiling of her commandeered room. If only Richford had followed her here. Instead, he had reverted to the impassive, aloof duke who regarded her as a vexation and nothing more.
She strummed her fingers over herself lightly, wondering if she might find release a second time. Was it too much? Was it perfectly healthy to do so more than once? The literature Mater had given her—a book on comportment and other topics of importance to honorable young ladies—had sternly warned against touching oneself in a laborious and intentionally vague way. Mater herself had never deigned to speak of anything at all regarding the body, leaving Rhiannon to find her information elsewhere.
Reluctantly, she rolled from the bed and moved to the pitcher and basin that had been left her by one of the housemaids. Still feeling feverish, her body practically buzzing like a bee, she performed her ablutions. It was soon time to dress for dinner, and Rhiannon had no intention of hiding in her chamber for the duration of the house party.
Richford could go to the devil for all she cared.
She would ignore him. Find her friend Lady Blue and perhaps the two of them could go into dinner together. As her body gradually calmed itself from her agitated state, Rhiannon chose a green evening gown she thought was particularly becoming on her. She donned her undergarments and slippedon the bodice and skirts, fastening and pinning and pulling and draping until she had the desired shape.
Who was she fooling? She didn’t want to ignore Richford, and neither did she want him to fail to notice her. He was maddening and irresistible, and her cursed feelings for him had merely blossomed and grown during her time here. If only he would cease worrying about her being Whitby’s sister and see her as a woman.
Perhaps she could make him do so.
Tonight.
With a moue of frustration, she stared at her reflection. On second thought, the bodice on this gown was far too modest. The green evening dress would have to go. She required a more daring décolletage. With an aggrieved sigh, Rhiannon worked her way back out of lacing and hooks and layers of silk until she was once more in her underpinnings. The discarded gown fell in a heap at her feet. She stepped from it and riffled through the gowns her lady’s maid had dutifully packed. A blue gown and a gold gown sailed through the air. Then a pale-pink and seafoam one as well until finally she found it.
The gown was scarlet and pink, trimmed with silk roses, and the bodice was incredibly bold. She had yet to wear it in London because Mater, detached and disinterested though she was, had seen Rhiannon in it and disapproved.
“Perfection,” she said, smiling to herself as she donned the pink and red silk, draping the lace and skirts before finishing up the fastenings.
When she was done, she regarded herself in the mirror, surprised. She had quite failed to recall just how much of her breasts were on display with this dress. The result was better than she could have predicted. It was just scandalous enough for her to blend in with her fellow revelers without causing too much scrutiny.
After all, the last thing she wanted was to draw too many eyes, lest her brother take note. The house party had so many guests that she had been able to avoid him thus far, and she intended to keep it that way.
Next, she went to work on her hair, coaxing it into a coiled braid and stabbing her head with pins until her scalp was sore and she had a renewed appreciation for the skill of her own lady’s maid. Bringing Monford with her, however, had been too great a risk. Although she trusted the woman, she didn’t expect her to lie on her behalf, and whilst Mater wasn’t cunning enough to suspect anything ill of Rhiannon, her brother certainly was.
Instead, she had invented a visit to their great-aunt, informing Monford that her aunt’s maid would attend her and that there was no need for Monford—who detested train rides because they made her ill—to accompany her. The explanation had assuaged her lady’s maid’s feelings of loyalty and had also ensured that she wouldn’t need to fib on Rhiannon’s behalf.
A bit of scent at her wrists and throat, the fastening of some earrings and a necklace, and Rhiannon surveyed herself in the looking glass, deciding she was ready.
She turned to leave her room before the dinner gong went but doubled back hastily, realizing she had yet to don her mask again. With the scrap of silk retrieved and tied in place, she ventured back into the mayhem of the house party.
