“I do,” he told his friend in a dark tone. “It’s you.”
Thank Christ Whit had run off after the dessert course had been complete. King had offered something about Whitby wanting to shag the woman who had created the fancy cream ices they’d all enjoyed, which suited him fine. Aubrey hadn’t the heart to face his friend, knowing what he’d done earlier that day.
His hand.
On Rhiannon’s cunny.
It had been soaked and hot and sleeker than silk. Fucking paradise.
Don’t think of that now, you bloody imbecile, he cautioned himself.
“Why should you want to throttleme?” Riverdale demanded, sounding hurt. “I’m not the one who said you were wearing an expression that was somewhere between I-just-stepped-in-horse-shit and someone-shat-in-my-port.”
“It wasn’t I-just-stepped-in-horse-shit,” Aubrey corrected. “It was I-just-stepped-in-dog-shit.”
“Did you?” Riverdale raised a dark brow at him. “I wasn’t aware there were any hounds in residence here at Wingfield Hall.”
“You’re deliberately misunderstanding me,” he growled.
“I’m not misunderstanding a thing. I daresay you’ve said it all wrong.”
“And no one shat in my port,” he continued. “That doesn’t even make sense. Who would shit in someone’s drink?”
“A villain of the worst sort.” King shuddered dramatically, then took a puff on his cheroot.
“You said someone pissed in my brandy,” he pointed out to King, irritated. “He hasn’t even got the right spirit.”
“Are we truly quibbling over something so nonsensical?” Riverdale yawned. “How tedious.”
“You see? This is precisely why I want to throttle you,” Aubrey bit out. “You’re terribly fucking vexing.”
“I’d rather be fucking vexing than for my fucking to be vexing,” Riverdale quipped, raising his glass of wine.
Aubrey stared at him. “Yet again with the proving-my-point bit.”
“Where have you been lately, Richford?” King asked. “You’ve been scarcer than Whitby at this little fête of ours thus far.”
“Chasing skirts,” Riverdale answered for him.
Something within Aubrey bristled at Rhiannon being referred to in such a dismissive, derogatory fashion. He wanted to smash his fist into his friend’s jaw, which was absurd because Riverdale had no notion that it was Rhiannon whom Aubrey had been chasing. And if anyone deserved a fist to the jaw, it was Aubrey himself for daring to debauch Whit’s innocent sister.
“I’m not chasing skirts,” he snapped, thinking about Rhiannon flirting with the scoundrel at her side during dinner.
Some jaded Lothario, he was sure of it. One who would just as soon lead her into a dark room and lift her skirts for a quick shag than pleasure her. The very notion made him murderous. He told himself it wasn’t his responsibility to watch after her. That if she had chosen to spend all of dinner dancing her attention on some roué, he should thank heaven for the mercy that had been shown him.
But he couldn’t.
Because he didn’t like it.
Rhiannon deserved so much better than some unappreciative rake who wanted to empty his ballocks.
Someone like him.
His lip curled with self-derision.
“Would you care to explain just what you were doing yesterday following the woman in the pink dress about then, if you’re not chasing skirts?” Riverdale chortled.
“Don’t speak of her,” he growled, hating that his friend had noticed Rhiannon.
