Rhiannon whirled about, facing her enemy directly. There, on the threshold, looking smug and despicably handsome, was the Duke of Richford. He was dressed for riding, his trousers hugging his muscled thighs and lean legs, his boots shined. She hated herself for being affected by him, for the way her stomach flipped as she drank in the sight of him. He was in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, his golden hair tousled as if he had run a hand through it.
Or perhaps a lover had, she thought sourly before she could stop herself.
He was also grinning.
She hated him. She loved him. She couldn’t have him.
Rhiannon reached for the nearest available missile, which happened to be her hairbrush, and launched it at his beautiful face. Sadly, her aim was incorrect. The brush sailed toward his chest instead, but Richford caught it with ease, using only one hand.
“Whatever is amiss, minx? I confess, I’m not accustomed to a woman throwing objects at me when she’s not my lover.”
“You are a scoundrel,” she accused, looking for something else she might hurl in his direction.
“I pride myself upon it,” he said, unmoved by her insult.
Rhiannon thought about the women who had tossed objects at him in anger. His lovers. She refused to consider that the sharp twinge of emotion inside her was jealousy. Why would she be envious of the legions of women who had warmed hisbed? The villain had locked her in a room on no fewer than two separate occasions. He had called her a girl. Had kissed her and then acted as if he found her as desirable as a spider in the corner. He didn’t want her, and he had made that abundantly, painfully, humiliatingly clear.
She found a book she’d thieved from the library and whipped it toward his head.
To her vast disappointment, he caught the leather-bound tome as well.
“Are you going to continue throwing bric-a-brac at me?” he asked, sounding bored. “Because if so, I’d like to set these things down so that I may catch future projectiles. I’d dearly hate to suffer a perfume bottle to my pretty nose or something infinitely worse.”
“I’m glad you find it so amusing to lock me inside rooms against my will,” she countered sharply. “You’re lucky I haven’t a pistol in my possession.”
He raised a brow, still looking utterly unruffled by both her anger and her threats. “Never say you would think of shooting me, little naïf.”
“I dreamt of it all last night,” she lied.
“How delightfully bloodthirsty of you.” He sauntered forward, placing the book and brush down on a nearby Louis Quinze table. “Tell me, did you shoot to maim, or did you shoot to kill in this charming reverie of yours?”
He was still smiling, the knave.
How dare he lock her inside a room and then make light of her ire? How dare he break her heart? She looked around and discovered a boot lying on the floor. In the absence of a lady’s maid, the chamber was rather in a state. Rhiannon bent and retrieved it, flinging it at his gorgeous head.
He caught it, looking about the room with renewed interest. “Sweet God, was there a house cracksman in here last night?”
She sniffed. “Of course not. How would anyone else get within when you locked me in here?”
“It certainly looks as if a thief has ransacked the room. But then, I reckon it would have to be a thief who was searching for the family silver in your drawers.”
To her utter horror, she spied a pair of drawers draped over the arm of one of the chairs by the cold hearth. Why had she not taken note of it before? And why had she flung her garments about with complete disregard for who might later enter and spy them? Not that she could have suspected Richford himself would come here.
Heat skated through her before she could tamp it down.
Rhiannon stalked across the room and snatched up her drawers, wadding them into a ball and holding them behind her back. “Why are you here, Richford?”
“To check on you, of course,” he said in a tone that suggested he was affronted she hadn’t already considered it. “Surely you didn’t think I would leave you here indefinitely to further plot my murder, did you?”
She glared at him. “Get out of my bedchamber.”
He pressed a hand to his heart. “Grant me a moment to collect myself, won’t you? This is the first time in my life that a lady has demanded I leave her bedroom.”
Rhiannon gritted her teeth, grinding her molars so hard they ached, and issued a low, infuriated sound. “Do you never cease?”
“Did you justgrowlat me, minx?” He looked intrigued.
“Of course not.”
