“No, damn you,” he growled. “The night rail. I want it off.”
“And I wish to keep it on.”
They glared at each other. Riverdale loomed, tall, dark, elegant, and coolly angry. And handsome. She couldn’t forget how astoundingly lovely his features were, perfectly symmetrical and masculine. The first time she’d met him, she had been dazzled by him. Although time had passed and he had proven himself to be an utter cad, his looks hadn’t diminished one whit, curse him.
“Don’t make me tear it to shreds, madam,” he warned.
“You won’t do something so barbaric.”
“No?” He smiled evilly. “Watch me.”
She observed in horror as he reached for her night rail, grasping two handfuls of the loose bodice, and began to rip it in twain. The sound of rending fabric filled the air, punctuated with her own gasp of shock.
Her hands flew instantly to cover her breasts.
“Would you care to remove the rest of it, or shall I continue?” he drawled pleasantly.
“You are mad.”
“Perhaps I am,” he acknowledged agreeably before continuing to rip her poor night rail in two.
When he had finished, she grasped lamely at the sides, trying in vain to cover herself. The effect would have been comical were she not so embarrassed by the skin she had unceremoniously on display. When she clutched at the torn bits of silk to cover her legs, the bodice gaped and revealed her breasts. When shecovered her breasts, her legs and the apex of her thighs were bared to his roaming gaze.
“There we are,” he said. “Now slip your arms out, and the monstrosity can be entirely removed.”
She clutched the shreds of her ruined night rail even tighter. “My mother didn’t breathe a word about such a lack of civility. Is this how you enjoy congress with your paramours? Surely any lady would object to the willful destruction of her gown.”
“Sybil?”
His use of her given name instead of his customary, icymadamor his condescendingmy deartook her by surprise. Her gaze jolted to his.
“Yes?”
“Kindly shut up and let me do what I’m meant to do. I promise you that you will enjoy it and that you won’t have to lie still, fully clothed and gazing prayerfully at the ceiling.”
“I wasn’t praying,” she denied instantly. “To do so would be horridly sacrilegious.”
“Sybil.”
She bit her lip. “Perhaps you could turn down the lamps.”
She knew she was delaying the inevitable, but her stomach felt suddenly as if it had been inhabited by hundreds of flitting butterflies.
He said nothing but mercifully moved away, crossing the chamber to do as she had asked. The light diminished, bathing the room in a soft glow. But she still felt naked, lying there in a strange bed, awaiting the stranger she’d married.
Then he was back at her side. “Enough distractions, madam. The time has come.”
“Perhaps if you joined me instead of hovering over me,” she suggested.
“Do you also attempt to lead a man whilst you are dancing?” he demanded.
It occurred to her then that they’d never danced, though she had partnered with other gentlemen, including some at this very house party, whilst hiding behind the anonymity of her mask. How odd to think she had never indulged in such a commonplace act with her own husband, and yet they were about to be as familiar with each other as a man and woman could be.
“I do nothing of the sort,” she defended herself, letting out a squeak of surprise when he did as she suggested and joined her on the bed.
He stretched his long body beside hers, facing Sybil.
His sudden proximity made heat wash over her, that same awareness of him as a man that could never quite be banished rising to the surface.
