The other woman inclined her head. “Of course.”
She was about to continue on to her own chamber, but inquisitiveness returned, giving her pause. “Are you…staying in this wing of the manor house?”
The other woman’s discomfort was etched on her lovely face.
“You need not answer,” she rushed to add, feeling guilty. “Curiosity is one of my downfalls, or so I’ve recently been told by a very overbearing and frustrating arrogant oaf.”
It was difficult indeed to keep the sting and bite from her words as she thought of Richford’s imperiousness from earlier that morning, followed by his defection with the lovely woman who had been clinging to his arm in the great hall.
“You sound quite provoked by the gentleman in question,” the woman observed politely.
Provokedwas an understatement. Richford left her infuriated. Hurt. Longing. Desperately yearning.
“Dukes are the most conceited, smug, supercilious beings,” Rhiannon said, with feeling. “Particularly when they think they know better than you do, even if the opposite is true.”
“I cannot say I would argue with the smugness,” the dark-haired beauty commiserated.
And Rhiannon couldn’t resist.
“You must know m—” she began, only to cut herself off. Good heavens, she had almost saidmy brother. “The Duke of Whitby,” she corrected.
Before the other woman could respond, the muffled footfalls of someone approaching down the hall reached Rhiannon. Misgiving slid down her spine. What if it was Rhys? Or perhaps even Richford? She had no desire to cross paths with either of them at the moment. She was too upset with Richford, and the last thing she wanted was for her brother to recognize her.
She had to escape, but she didn’t dare take the time it would require to continue on to her room, risking discovery and questions she couldn’t answer. The servants’ stairs were conveniently nearby and the perfect means of evasion.
“Oh heavens, what a silly goose I am!” Rhiannon exclaimed. “I’ve forgotten something that’s very important. If you will excuse me?”
Before the other woman could respond, Rhiannon hastened to the staircase, deciding that she was in desperate need of a distraction. Anything to take her mind off Richford. If he didn’t want her, then she would find a gentleman who did.
Frustrated,Aubrey stalked along the gravel path in the gardens.
Where the devil was the minx now?
He had searched everywhere until being informed by a sharp-eyed servant that a lady in a pink dress had disappeared into the gardens, accompanied by a gentleman. Pink was Rhiannon’s favorite color. She’d been wearing yet another pink gown that morning when their eyes had last met, hers filled with naked hurt.
After escorting Perdita from the great hall, he had delivered her to the breakfast room before seeking his own bedchamber. Still feeling as if he’d been run over by a carriage and in serious danger of tossing up his accounts, Aubrey had fallen into his bed and surrendered to the beckoning abyss of slumber. He hadn’t arisen until later that afternoon, feeling marginally human again at last, only to discover he’d slept away half the day and Rhiannon was nowhere to be found.
He had been looking for her ever since, but the moment he’d learned she had gone off unattended with a gentleman, the need to find her had been stronger than ever. Aubrey rounded a curve in the boxwood maze, and possessive fire instantly shot through him.
Rhiannon was seated on a garden bench, the picture of country elegance with her pale-pink silk skirts gracefully draped, the toes of her boots peeping out from her hem. He might have stopped and drunk in the sight of her but for one salient detail.
She wasn’t alone.
Rhiannon was in a gentleman’s loose embrace, smiling up at the bastard, her head tilted toward him as if to accept a kiss. Aubrey lost his ability to think as he rushed forward, intent upon putting an end to their little tête-à-tête with his fists if he must. He lunged toward the man, grasping his lapels in both hands, ignoring Rhiannon’s horrified gasp.
“Richford, what are you doing?” she demanded, her tone aghast.
“What the devil?” Her male companion struggled to remove Aubrey’s grip on his coat.
But it was fruitless. Aubrey was far stronger, and he had determination and the element of surprise in his favor.
He didn’t bother to answer with words, hauling the protesting man from the garden bench instead. “Keep your damned hands off her,” he snarled.
“See here, you haven’t any right—” the rogue began.
Aubrey planted a fist in the man’s jaw, effectively ending his objection.
The man’s head snapped back from the force of the blow.
