He had thought her too intelligent to do something so rash. He’d known she had been hurt by seeing him with the viscountess this morning, of course, but he hadn’t imagined she would go about the house party, inviting ruin.
“Perdita, is it?” Her eyes flashed with renewed fire. “How wonderfully close the two of you are.”
He was hardly close with the viscountess, but Rhiannon didn’t need to know that. Perhaps if she believed his interest was firmly elsewhere, he would find it easier to keep her at arm’s length.
“It’s none of your concern, is it, minx?” he countered.
“Just as what I do, and with whom, is none of yours!” she tossed back, her voice growing louder by the moment.
That was when Aubrey heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching on the gravel from behind him.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, frowning as he concentrated.
“The only thing I heard was an arrogant, haughty, overbearing rake who mistakenly thinks he can dictate my actions.”
“Hush,” he ordered her. “I think someone is coming.”
Her lips parted, but miraculously, she ceased her loud berating. “I have no wish to cause a scene with you. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
Nor did Aubrey desire to cause any undue attention for either of them, and if they were having a row, they would most assuredly attract attention and curiosity. Perhaps even Whit would take note, despite his recent mysterious absences at the house party.
“This path will direct you back to the main house,” he told her, motioning to a place where the trail meandered off in a direction opposite of the one her companion had chosen. “Go now.”
“I don’t take orders from you, Richford,” the minx snapped, defiant to the last. “But I will go because I’m still furious with you.”
With that, she turned and flounced down the path. Seeking to give her enough time to escape, Aubrey pivoted and stalked in the direction of the footfalls. If it was Rhiannon’s blasted suitor, returning for more of the justice he’d already received, Aubrey would be more than happy to deliver it.
But as he rounded the bend, the man he nearly crashed into wasn’t the masked suitor who had been holding Rhiannon in his arms. It was the Duke of Whitby.
Whit looked surprised to see him in the garden maze.
That made two of them.
Aubrey had been able to avoid direct conversation with his friend up until now. Guilt stabbed him like a knife. He hoped his guilty conscience wasn’t written on his face like ink scrawled across paper.
His friend’s brow furrowed. “Richford?”
“Bloody hell, Whit,” he managed, trying with all his might not to think about all the liberties he’d taken with his friend’s sister. “You gave me a fright.”
He was going to hell. If there had been even the slightest hint of a question as to where he’d be spending eternity, Aubrey knew it without a doubt as he stood in the sunlit gardens, lying to his friend.
“What are you doing skulking about in the gardens?” Whit demanded, his tone tinged with suspicion.
Aubrey gave his friend an unamused look. “I do not skulk.”
But he did know it was imperative to distract his friend and give Rhiannon sufficient time to safely retreat from the gardens without discovery.
Whit regarded him solemnly, a raised brow suggesting he disagreed. “As you wish.”
“I don’t.”
Whit shrugged. “I thought I heard you arguing with someone. A female someone.”
Damn it. He could only hope Whit hadn’t recognized his sister’s voice.
Aubrey stiffened. “You must be hearing things. I say, you weren’t indulging in another of King’s potions, were you?”
Christ knew he’d been as ragged as a centuries-old tapestry after his last bout with Kingham’s elixirs.
