Sparks danced down her spine. She chased them with her resolve, returning to her senses.
“Why do you care about my perfume?” she countered, though with considerably less bite than she had wanted.
He kissed his way down her throat to the place where her neck and shoulder met, one of his hands leaving the door to settle on her waist as if it belonged there.
“Because I can’t get enough of it.” He kissed back up her throat, caressing her waist.
He sounded annoyed.
“I have no intention of changing it to please you,” she warned, inhaling sharply as he suckled the lobe of her ear. “What are you doing?”
“I wish I knew,” he muttered.
And then, just as swiftly as he had entrapped her against the door, he turned her, flipping her about so that her back was pressed against the sleek wood and she was looking up at him. Her palms flattened on his chest. Not pushing him away. Instead, her fingers had a mind of their own, grasping at his coat and holding him to her by the handful.
His head dipped toward hers. “You should have stayed at Riverdale Abbey where you belong.”
She was about to argue that he shouldn’t have abandoned her there in the first place, but in the next instant, his lips were on hers, smooth and demanding and insistent. He devoured her with kisses that sought to punish and claim, and fool that she was, she opened eagerly to him, surrendering to his questing tongue. She kissed him back, eyes falling shut as she gave in to the bliss of his lips on hers.
It didn’t matter that she was furious with him.
That he had left her on their wedding day.
That he had broken her heart and then forgotten her existence.
That he only wanted her as a broodmare now.
All that mattered was this moment, his lips moving with exquisite tenderness over hers, gentling in a way that suggested he savored her instead of merely consuming. That this was about more than frantic coupling or possessive fury. Everything felt suddenly unique and complicated.
No, no, no. That was all wrong. This was all wrong.Hewas most wrong of all. She was furious with him. He could have her in the evening, but she did not owe him her mornings, her afternoons, her kisses.
Least of all, her obedience.
What had she been thinking? She had almost allowed him to have his way with her against the door.
Sybil turnedher head to the side, breaking the kiss, heart pounding, lips swollen as she stared up at him. “I hardly think it necessary for you to accost me in the midst of the day, Your Grace.”
Her words were cool but rather unfortunately tinged with a breathlessness she hoped he wouldn’t hear. Some perverse part of her remained attracted to the Duke of Riverdale despite everything he had done and regardless of his abysmally low opinion of her. He had treated her as if she were no better than the dirt beneath his shoe, and what had she done in response? Melted for him as if she were helpless to resist.
“Accosting you, madam? Need I remind you that you were kissing me back?”
Furious heat stole over her cheeks. “You hardly left me with any choice.”
“You can tell yourself that all you like, but we both know the truth.”
Just then, the door rattled and cracked open behind her.
“Someone is within, you bloody oaf,” Riverdale snapped.
“Oh Christ,” muttered a masculine voice that sounded soused. “The salon is already in use. We shall have to find another room, m’love. Apologies to you both.”
A feminine giggle was the muffled response. “Or to all of you.” The woman on the other side of the door hiccupped. “Algernon, sometimes you have a dreadful lack of creativity. What if they’re having an orgy…”
The woman’s words trailed away as she and her lover ventured on, presumably in search of another chamber for their use.
Sybil glared up at her husband. “An orgy?”
He gave her an indolent shrug. “Anything is possible.”
