The Lure of a Rake Read online

  He started. For people did not matter to him. Did they? He’d seen to it that he needed no one—not his mother, his bastard of a father, even his sister. Yet…

  …the gentleman I’m expecting to call…

  Which indicated there was, indeed, a suitor coming by and it mattered very much. Surely it only mattered because of Cedric’s own intentions for the lady?

  Unnerved by that staggering revelation he couldn’t sort through, he reached inside his jacket and removed a small silver flask. “It matters,” he said at last and his revelation brought her lips faintly apart in a slight moue of surprise. As she proved remarkably unforthcoming, he altered his questioning. The lady’s eyes followed his every moment. “What happened with Aumere last evening?” He removed the top and took a quick swallow.

  She opened her mouth and closed it. Then tried again. “Are you drinking at this hour?” The delicate shock there froze his hand halfway to his mouth.

  He followed her disappointed stare to the drink in his hand. “Er…” He’d never mingled with polite Society. Of the people he kept company with, the least offense of which they were guilty was indulging in a spot of brandy in the morning hour.

  “Would you drink in front of any lady, no less?” she asked tartly.

  Offending the lady one intended to offer for, hardly proved favorable for said woman’s respective capitulation. As such, he put the stopper on and returned the flask to the front of his jacket. “I generally avoid ladies all together.” As soon as the words slipped out, he cursed himself. How was he, a practiced rake with a smooth tongue, bungling this so badly?

  She narrowed her eyes but not before he detected a glimmer of outrage.

  Fortunately for Cedric, Genevieve’s maid appeared at the entrance of the room.

  “Delores, will you have tea readied for His Lordship and me,” she said, not taking her gaze from his.

  Unfortunately for him, her obedient maid looked between them, spun on her heel and quickly darted off.

  He told himself it truly only mattered for his intentions toward her. He told himself, as much…even as it felt like a lie. With her maid gone and not allowing Genevieve an opportunity to order him gone as well, he spoke. “You wonder about my motives,” he said with more solemnity than any topic he’d ever spoken of in the past. “You wonder why I should come here and put questions to you.” He leaned close, shrinking the space between them. “Given my reputation, you are, of course, wise to question anything where I am concerned. I’ve told you before, Genevieve, I like you.” And friendship between them was convenient for the marriage he intended for them.

  She trailed her tongue over the seam of her lips and he swallowed a groan as lust slammed into him. Mayhap, a good deal more than friends, then. “I daresay you could have found all manner of details on my exchange with the duke in any of the gossip sheets,” she said and he clung to what had brought him ’round this morning and not on his body’s maddening response to her.

  “Bah, scandal sheets,” he said slashing the air with his hand. “Rubbish that is best burned for kindling.” Her eyes softened. He’d not mention that he’d thoroughly read each scandal sheet for information about the lady that morning. Having been present and witness to her magnificent showing last evening, he recognized the rot printed on those pages.

  She glanced to the open door and then looked to him. “The gentleman…” Crimson fired her cheeks, stirring his intrigue, all the more, “was indecent with his words and actions.” And now he had his answer, which was really no answer at all. Instead of being satisfied with at last a vague knowing what had resulted in her magnificent display, it fueled a thousand questions and wonderings. He gritted his teeth so tightly, pain shot along his jaw. As she continued speaking, he struggled to attend her, while his thoughts meandered down a path that entailed him bloodying Aumere senseless.

  “Who were you expecting a moment ago?” he asked, neatly returning them to the question she’d sidestepped.

  The earlier glimmer in her green eyes dimmed and left in its place a stark emptiness that chilled.

  Desperate to drive back that melancholy, he stuffed his gloves inside his jacket. “A game of short answers then? Single syllable word responses with no limit to the number of words in your sentence, as long as they are single syllable words.”

  His words rang a startled laugh from her. “Surely you jest,” she said as her shoulders shook with mirth.

  “Why must I be?” he countered, shifting forward in his seat.

  She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Because rakes do not simply show up unexpectedly at a lady’s home and ask her to take part in parlor games.”

  It was hardly in his favor if the lady saw him as nothing more than a rake. “Do you eagerly await a suitor?”

  She snorted. “Hardly.”

  He made a tsking noise. “That is two syllables, love.”

  For a long moment, the lady said nothing and he expected her to abandon the game as foolhardy. Then, she wetted her lips. “No. Not at all.”

  A lightness filled his chest as she, with her words confirmed that there was no eager suitor in the wings. He clapped his hands slowly. “Brava. A splendid four points.” Cedric captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. “For my next question, then.” Dropping his palms onto his legs, he leaned closer. “Who is the person you’re waiting for?”

  Her mouth tightened so that the blood drained from the corners of her lips, but a spirited glimmer sparkled in her eyes. “He’s an old peer who wants a wife. A friend of my…” She paused, chewing at her lower lip as she searched for her next response. Then her eyes lit and she jabbed the air with her finger. “Da.” As soon as the word escaped her, it was as though reality sucked her back, draining the sparkle in her eyes.

  Cedric ran his gaze over her face as his mind turned over her words. Then the slow, horrifying truth trickled in—the reason for the lady’s upset. “Your father intends to wed you to one of his friends.” No doubt, a faulty bid to bury the gossip and be rid of his daughter. Given his own grasping, emotionally deadened father, her words did not shock. He gripped the arms of the chair. Nay, rather they stirred fury inside.

  Genevieve glanced down at the tips of her slippers. “Thank you for the diversion,” she said softly and then coughed into her hand. “Now, I would truly wish to speak of something else.”

  Ignoring the lady’s faint pleading underscoring that request, he shoved to his feet and knelt at the foot of her chair. Her little shuddery gasp filtered the air between them. “Wh-what—?”

  Uncaring if her maid or mother happened by, he brushed his bare knuckles over her cheek, savoring the satiny softness of her skin. “Who is he?” he asked quietly.

  She pursed her lips and, for a moment, he expected she’d ignore this question, too. “The Earl of Tremaine.”

  He choked. “Tremaine?” Cedric sank back on his haunches. The man was sixty-five if he was a day. It would be a sin before God if this vibrant, spirited woman was bound forever to that old, fat bastard. Furthermore, he’d little intention of losing his match of convenience with Genevieve to that lackwit.

  “Those were my sentiments exactly,” she muttered, with a remarkable calm for a woman whose father sought to sell her on the Marriage Mart to a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  Yes, the lady was remarkably low of options. With a furious father determined to marry her off to an ancient lord, her prospects were limited. The lady’s desperation worked only in his favor and, yet, even as he would have a marriage of convenience between them, he wanted her to come to the union not because he was her only choice.

  He gave his head a hard shake. Bloody hell, why should he care if desperation fueled her acceptance? All that mattered was that she said yes and agreed to the terms he’d lay out before her. In a contract that would see him forever bound to one woman; a woman whose happiness he would be responsible for seeing to. His palms moistened and he brushed them on the sides of his breeches. What did
he truly know of another person’s happiness?

  Genevieve tipped her head. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “Like you’ve swallowed a plate of rancid kippers.”

  “Is there any good kipper, though?” he put in with an effortful grin that raised another laugh from Genevieve.

  “Yes, well, there is truth to that.”

  Absently, Cedric took her hand in his and worshipped the soft skin with his gaze and touch. He pressed his thumb against the inset where her hand met her wrist; to the spot where her pulse pounded wildly. “What do you enjoy, Genevieve?”

  She moistened her lips once more. “Enjoy?” That one-word utterance emerged breathless.

  He stroked his finger in a small circle over and over. Her skin was softer than the finest satins and silks. Gloriously smooth and perfect. “Ah, but that was two-syllables.”

  Genevieve gulped and her lashes fluttered. “Art,” she whispered. “I love art.”

  “What else?” he pressed, raising her wrist to his mouth and brushing his lips over the delicate skin.

  Her thick, strawberry blonde lashes swept down, but did little to conceal the desire radiating from within her expressive eyes. “B-blooms and buds.”

  Ah, the lady tended gardens. A wholly feminine pursuit, encouraged by the ton and, yet, those three words uttered in that breathy whisper conjured tempting images of the two of them in that famed Garden of Eden, together, tasting all that was forbidden.

  “I’ve just one more question?”

  She stared at him through heavy eyes. “What is that, my…Cedric?” My Cedric. Yes, he rather thought he preferred those two words together on her full, luscious lips.

  “Marry me?”

  Chapter 14

  Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, was a sorcerer. With his wicked touch and his teasing eyes and charming words, he could tempt a nun to forsake her vows or, at the very least, muddle a lady’s thoughts.

  In Genevieve’s case, that was precisely what he’d done. His words brought her eyes open as she blinked away the thick haze he’d cast with his seductive touch. He stared at her with such casualness, he may as well have commented on the weather or a cup of tea. Surely she’d heard him wrong? Surely…?

  “Marry me, Genevieve,” he repeated and reclaimed her hands.

  No, she’d not heard him wrong. Her heart tripled its beat, pounding an eager rhythm. But for a handful of exchanges, she knew this man hardly at all and, yet, he’d come here and offer for her? She searched his face for some hint of teasing, an indication that he made light of her. Rakes did not wed and they decidedly did not wed ladies they’d met only a handful of times. No matter how passionate the kisses were between us.

  She held her palms up. “I do not understand,” she spoke haltingly, trying to make sense of his request. “You do not know me.”

  “I know you enjoy art.” And given his knowledge of the artists in her book, the gentleman shared that love. “I know you enjoy gardening.”

  “Only because I just mentioned it,” she pointed out.

  He leaned forward and her breath caught. He is going to kiss me. He is going to kiss me and my maid will arrive any moment, or my family might happen by, and I do not care. She leaned close to take his kiss. “I know there is passion between us.” His breath, a blend of coffee and brandy, tickled her lips and she fought back a tide of regret when he drew slightly back, ending the possibility of his kiss. “And I require a wife,” he said matter-of-factly, no hint of passion or desire in his husky baritone.

  A slight frown marred her lips. How effortlessly he moved from seductive rake to coolly unaffected gentleman. Then his words registered. Her heart dipped. He required a wife. By his words, his offer was made for no other reason than necessity. Battling back irrational disappointment, she found her voice. “You require a—?”

  “Wife,” he easily supplied. “I’ve need of a wife.”

  Hearing him state that admission so plainly once more, tugged at the romantic hopes she’d thought dead and long buried. For the reality of being jilted at the altar and hidden away in the country, a part of her had hoped for…more. Mayhap not love, but…well, more. He stared patiently at her and she furrowed her brow. “And you believe I, a woman you’ve only really just met, will do?”

  Cedric nodded automatically. “I do,” he spoke so matter-of-factly about their being joined together, forever, bound by vows, name.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and, dazed, she looked to the doorway as Delores reappeared with the tray of tea, thankfully interrupting her muddled thoughts. The maid’s gaze landed on an unrepentant Cedric kneeling at her mistress’ feet and then she quickly averted her stare. Of course, a rake such as he would have no compunctions about the whispers that could ensue if they were discovered so. Genevieve murmured her thanks as the young woman set refreshments down on the mahogany long table. “Will you fetch my sketchpad, Delores?” she asked as the maid started for the corner of the room. Then, the gentleman had offered marriage.

  Delores hesitated and then dropped a curtsy, leaving them alone once more.

  With the young woman gone, silence fell, punctuated by the ticking clock atop the mantel. “I…I…” Did not know what to say. Unnerved by Cedric’s cool in the face of his offer, Genevieve pushed to her feet and hurried over to the tray. Her gaze caught the couple painted upon the porcelain teapot. The suitor in knee breeches knelt beside his lady in ruffled skirts. She trailed her fingertip over the pair. Was that moment one where the couple had spoken of necessity and needs, or were there whispered words of love?

  Cedric settled his hands on her shoulders and she started, shooting a startled glance back at him. How did one of his magnificent size and power move with such a stealthy grace? When he spoke, he revealed an unerringly accurate take on her silent musings. “What I propose is surely not the romantic hopes you once carried.” Once carried. He, too, erroneously assumed that the scandalous Farendale girl had safely buried her hope of love. He angled her around to face him. “You will have whatever your heart desires.” Everything, except love. “You may garden and sketch and paint until your fingers are no longer capable of movement,” he promised.

  Unable to meet his piercing blue stare, she looked past his shoulder to the mantel. “Why do you require a wife?” She cocked her head. “Are you a fortune-hunter?” If so, with her modest dowry, there was any number of more suitable brides for him.

  A bark of laughter burst from his firm lips. “God, no.” His broad shoulders shook with amusement, but then he grimaced. “Not necessarily.”

  “So you are in need of a fortune?” she asked slowly, trying to untangle his conflicting words.

  “May I be blunt?”

  She inclined her head. “Please.” Given his offer, she rather thought there was only ground for bluntness.

  “I am a rake.” Am. Not was. Genevieve curled her toes into the soles of her slippers so tightly, her arches ached. Of course she well knew his reputation, by the whispers and warnings from her sister and mother, and even from the gentleman’s admission, himself. Still, hearing it, she hated the truth, anyway, even more now. “I was…” He paused and tapped his fingertips along his thigh in an endearing way she’d come to know after their handful of meetings that bespoke his hesitancy. “Unwise with the funds left me by my mother,” he said at last.

  Hearing him lay that particular piece before her, made him flawed in ways she did not wish him to be. A man who ran through his inheritance and carried a flask of brandy to drink at the early morning hour was not who she wanted Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, to be. She preferred the gentleman who spoke of art and drove back her sadness with his smile. “And are you still unwise with your funds?”

  Cedric rested his hip on the edge of the sofa. “I still wager, but I am not the same reckless man I was in my youth who’d gamble away a fortune.”

  In his youth. She studied the chiseled planes of his rugge
d cheeks. There was no hint of boy in the Marquess of St. Albans and, yet, with that statement, he just reminded her of how little she knew of him. “I do not even know your age.” And yet, he’d have her marry him. Then, would their auspicious beginning be really all that different than the formal arrangements entered into every day between other lords and ladies?

  “I’m nearly thirty.” He smiled wryly. “What say you? Thirty years younger than Tremaine?”

  She snorted. “At the very least.”

  Silence fell between them once more. As the quiet stretched on, she reflected on Cedric’s glib way with words. He had an innate ability to muddle a lady’s senses so that she focused on his charming jests and not the reservations blaring around her mind. Then, wasn’t that the power of a rake?

  Which only left her with the question…did she want to spend her days married to a man who, by his own admissions and actions, was one who wagered and drank spirits, and—

  “You are quiet,” he observed, drumming those long digits still.

  Genevieve turned her palms up. “I…do not know what to say,” she conceded, letting her hands fall to her side.

  He flashed one of those wicked half-grins that wrought havoc on her senses. “Then say yes,” he encouraged, in a satiny smooth voice that so enticed, Satan himself would have envied the skill.

  “In marrying, I will be turning my funds, my children, my very happiness over to a man.” Having witnessed the miserable state of her parents’ own union certainly gave one a suitable caution in entering into an equally failed match. Particularly after herself bearing the scars of a faithless bounder’s influence. Women were powerless. Wasn’t her father’s earlier threats proof of that? “How could I trust—?”