Rothbury stood over her. He was shirtless, wet, wild-haired. Handsome as sin and angry as Lucifer. A duke accustomed to having his way. Now she’d not only defied him, she’d directly challenged him. His words were low and even, but they smoldered like a fuse burning toward gunpowder. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” He propped his hands on his hips. One of his pectoral muscles twitched angrily. As if registering an indignant harrumph.