The Lure of a Rake Page 8

  Genevieve smiled. “I would like that very much.” Reluctantly, she came to her feet and started the march back to her mother, feeling not unlike that fabled queen being marched before the gallows.

  *

  “Ah, so that is the way the wind blows, then?” From his position at the edge of the ballroom, Cedric stiffened and turned as Montfort sauntered up. “That makes sense and is vastly relieving.”

  “What the hell are you on about?” he drawled, sipping his champagne.

  Montfort stuck a leg out. “At first,” he shuddered. “Why, at first, I had an ugly worry that a respectable lady attracted your attention.” He tapped his chin. “But I quickly rid myself of such mad worries.” Yes, there were never any worries about anything respectable where Cedric was concerned. Even his only loyal friend knew as much. “Then, I suspected it was an eager widow, but I haven’t seen a single one to command your attention this evening.” Montfort grinned and then, as though he’d solved the riddle of life, he said, “It was the Farendale chit. Wanton little piece, isn’t she?”

  Cedric froze, glass midway to his mouth. Of course, the guests present would note the single dance he’d indulged in this evening. He did not, nor had he ever, however, given a jot about Society’s whispers and speculations where he was concerned. So why did he want to slam his fist into Montfort’s mouth for speaking about her?

  “You’ve never been one to pursue a respectable miss and you aren’t one to start now.”

  It took a moment for the earl’s words to register and as the other man’s insinuation became clear, an inexplicable fury went through him. Aware of Montfort’s mocking gaze on him, he schooled his lips into an easy grin. “I think a lady in those modest skirts and her hair arranged so can hardly be called a wanton,” he said dryly. Even with that hideous chignon, the lady was more tempting than Eve in all her naked splendor.

  A flare of amusement glinted in the earl’s jaded eyes. “Bah,” he scoffed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you dallied with her as she is now.”

  As she is now.

  Which implied… Montfort knew her…when? Montfort and Cedric had passed countless women between each other; from widows to actresses to skilled whores at their clubs and yet… An ugly, resentment twisted around his belly. “And how was she, then?” The lethal edged whisper slipped out.

  Montfort downed his drink and motioned a servant over to claim the empty glass. “Ah, you were never one to gossip. How could I forget?”

  And for reasons Cedric had never understood, the earl had long been a lover of Society’s juicy on-dits.

  “Three, mayhap four years ago she was jilted at the altar.”

  He frowned. “That hardly sounds like the manner of scandal to hold Society’s interest.” And certainly not for four years. Cedric took another sip of his champagne.

  “It is when the groom’s brother bandies it about that she was warming his bed, as well as the groom’s closest friends. Some believe she was with child and sent away to birth the babe.”

  Cedric choked on his swallow and his gaze flew to Genevieve. Like hell. The pinch-mouthed lady sat primly amongst the wallflowers and companions. Her sharp, pale cheeks and the tightness at the corner of her mouth hinted at the strain of emotion. He hooded his eyes and maintained his scrutiny. The lady was no whore. Her kiss, though eager, hinted at her inexperience. He’d not reveal as much to Montfort. For all his crimes, bandying the details about his lovers had never been one of them. “So she’s returned,” he said, pulling his gaze away. Where had the lady been all these years? “For what purpose?”

  “Why I expect the same reasons all ladies come to London.” Montfort lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “The whispers are she’s here to find some unsuspecting or desperate nobleman. Others think it’s merely her parents’ attempt to prove she knows how to behave like a lady.” The smirk on the earl’s lips indicated just what he believed about that latter point and Cedric tightened his grip on his glass to keep from leveling the other man a facer.

  …You do not know what you’ve done…

  As his friend ran through the other gossip of the evening that Cedric didn’t give a damn about, he once more took Genevieve in. The drab skirts, the unwillingness to dance, even as her feet had tapped away at the marble floor. And then he recalled her standing there, as he’d stalked off like a petulant child and all because she’d seen too much. Spoken of him and about him in a way that had been not at all false, and all the more terrifying for it.

  And for the first time, Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, who never felt anything, felt something, something he’d believed himself too jaded to feel or know—shame.

  No doubt, Genevieve believed the deliberate omission of his name in the library and his maneuverings in the ballroom, nothing more than a product of who he was and more—who she was. What the lady could never realize is that Cedric did not bother to judge or condemn because, frankly, there wasn’t a more dissolute person than himself.

  How ironic that she should be judged so. Even all these years later, when he had been a consummate rake, hosting outrageously wicked parties and partaking in dishonorable wagers. How ironic and… unfair. It was bloody unfair. Reprehensible behaviors were tolerated in those powerful lords, while even the hint of a rumor saw a lady ruined.

  He looked at her, seated on the fringe talking to a plump wallflower and felt like the cad he’d relished in being these years. If the lady’s intentions had been to escape notice, then he’d quite robbed her of any potential anonymity with his dance and then abandonment at the end of the set. But it was, for reasons he could not understand and reasons he did not care to examine, important that she know he’d not been making light of her.

  The earl tipped his chin. “Ah, now here comes an enticing creature.”

  Drawn back, Cedric followed Montfort’s stare to Baroness Shelley. The midnight beauty was willowy and perfectly curved in the places he enjoyed his women curved. The hard, but enticing, smile on her lips promised endless delights and, yet, as she layered her palm to his forearm, he was…unmoved.

  “Lord St. Albans, how,” she traced the tip of her tongue over her thin lips, “splendid you should at last arrive.”

  …They are too big… Genevieve’s breathlessly innocent gasp rasped around his mind.

  Montfort gave him a pointed frown and Cedric immediately thrust aside more pleasurable musings and attended the baroness.

  Chapter 7

  Genevieve’s luck had never been good and that ill-luck went back long before being jilted at the altar.

  But this time, it seemed she’d had a remarkable showing of good luck. They’d taken their leave of the duke’s ballroom last evening, without a single word, grumble, or grunt from Father about Genevieve’s scandalous dance with Cedric.

  “You danced with St. Albans last night.”

  Alas, she’d foolishly proven herself a remarkable optimist again.

  The three ladies seated about the breakfast table froze under the rumble of the Marquess of Ellsworth’s words.

  Genevieve picked her gaze up from the contents of her dish and looked to her balding, oft-scowling father. She finished her bite and then dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Father?” Mayhap Gillian had also danced with that respective gentleman? She stole a sideways glance at her sister, who resumed her rapt study of the kippers on her plate.

  The marquess narrowed his eyes and strode over to the head of the table. He motioned to a servant who rushed forward with his usual morning fare.

  “St. Albans,” he repeated, his tone harsh. If he was livid about her waltz with Cedric, what would he say about their chance meeting and talks of friendship, no less? “You were instructed not to dance.”

  “I had no choice,” she said through tight lips.

  “She really didn’t, Father,” Gillian piped in. She gave her an encouraging smile. “He was quite adamant that she partner him.”

  At her sister’s attempt at a helpful response, Genevie
ve winced. She knew Gillian meant to be helpful. She really did and she loved her for that…

  “Of course he did,” he boomed.

  Fury melded with shame and set her cheeks ablaze. “I could not very well say no,” she bit out. “What a scandal that would be.” Genevieve looked to her mother; her cheeks waxen, the marchioness wetted her lips. The woman, with her seeming inability to smile and her tendency to scowl at members she’d deemed beneath her notice, was undaunted by all—except her husband.

  “S-St. Albans is in the market for a wife,” the marchioness put in.

  A memory entered of Cedric kneeling at her feet while he slid on her slippers. Her toes curled at the still erotic moment. No, a man such as St. Albans would marry no time soon. Nor did a gentleman who spoke candidly of friendship demonstrate any real husband material.

  “Quite a catch, quite a catch,” her mother rambled on. “He will be a future duke, you know.” Goodness, the things she’d said to the man last evening about his title, his library. Gillian cringed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful to have a duke for our girl, Lord Ellsworth?”

  Lord Ellsworth. At that stiff formality, the two sisters exchanged a look and Gillian gave a quick, discreet roll of her eyes. Even as Genevieve knew with her hope for love from a good, honorable gentleman that her requirements in a husband were going to be as difficult as finding the end of a proverbial rainbow, she’d at the very least hope for more than a union where one was so restricted by politeness that they couldn’t bear to use one another’s Christian names.

  “I know St. Albans will be a duke.” Father leaned forward and thumped his hand on the table, rattling the glass of water at his side. A servant gulped audibly and set the marquess’ plate down before him. “But surely you do not believe he’d make her an honorable offer.” That slight emphasis sent her shoulders back. “The man is a rake.”

  Mother cleared her throat and then with a surprising courage, she met her husband’s gaze. “I know you said the marquess was to be avoided, Lord Ellsworth… but even rakes must wed.”

  Would a man such as Cedric take a wife and a respectable one at that? From their brief meeting and one waltz she took him as one who would do exactly as he pleased, societal expectations be damned. She curled her fingers hard around her fork.

  Blatantly ignoring his wife’s opinion, the marquess looked to the servants and, interpreting that silent cue, they filed quickly out of the room.

  Genevieve would never bind herself to the manner of gentleman who stripped her of her voice. Ever.

  “You had strict orders to attract no attention,” he barked, snapping that shaking digit at her. “Yet again you’ve proven your harlotry.”

  Her gasp blended with Gillian’s.

  “Lord Ellsworth,” their mother scolded, in an uncharacteristic show of defiance.

  “It was merely one dance,” Genevieve bit out. Why would he force her back to this place? Why, if he could not accept her past was just that…her past? Because he doesn’t believe it. He thinks I’m irredeemable and a blight on the family. “You are making more of it than it is.”

  Father flared his nostrils. “I do not want another scandal attached to this family,” he boomed and the three ladies again jumped.

  No, he’d tolerate not a misstep. Not after Genevieve’s scandal. She gritted her teeth at what Cedric had wrought with his careless waltz. “There will be no scandal,” she said in more even tones. Not even as she craved more excitement from life than the staid, stilted existence.

  A wide smile quivered in her mother’s fleshy cheeks. “See, my lord? There is nothing to worry after. Genevieve will be a good girl.” She whipped her head around so quickly, her jowls jiggled. “Isn’t that right, Genevieve?” Without allowing for a reply, the wife leaned over and patted her still scowling husband. “She’ll not encourage any gentleman.”

  Nauseated by the mollifying exchange, Genevieve looked away. Unable to stomach any more, she shoved back her seat. It scraped noisily on the floor. “I am going to Hyde Park,” she seethed.

  “You are to bring your maid,” her father thundered.

  “Of course,” she said, pasting on a patently false smile. “I am nothing if not proper.” With that, she proceeded from the room with a decorum and grace both of her parents would have been hard-pressed to fault. When she’d put the breakfast room behind her, Genevieve lengthened her strides until she’d disappeared around the corridor where she broke into a sprint, wanting to keep running. Away from this place. Away from the weight of her parents’ unending fury. Her skirts snapped about her ankles as she took the stairs and made her way to her chambers. Within the sanctuary of her rooms, she closed the door and leaned against the panel. Her breath came hard and fast from her exertion. Panting, Genevieve slumped against the door.

  She stared blankly about the room; a room that may as well have belonged to a stranger. Was this what her life was to be then? Was she to be relegated to the role of distantly removed member of the family, constantly being reminded of the mistakes of her past and never free to move beyond them? Her gaze snagged on the cheerful blue of the sky peeking through the gaping fabric of her curtains. Where was the joy in a life such as this? She wanted…more. Because to remain here, would crush her, destroying her in ways that her exile never could.

  Shoving away from the door, Genevieve wandered over to the escritoire. The sketchpads, so precious these years, now forgotten in this fortnight. She pulled out the velvet-upholstered chair and slid into the seat. With numb fingers, she flipped the pages. She paused to steal a glance at the doorway. Should her father see…

  Her grandfather’s visage. Delores. The maids and servants who’d been more family than her own parents. She turned to a blank sheet. Of their own volition, her fingers, long denied the pleasure she’d found these years at the encouragement of her grandfather, moved. She picked up the pastels and set her fingers to work upon the pages. She sat hunched over the book, chewing her lower lip, as she let her fingers fly frantically over the blank sheet. A strand broke free from the painfully tight chignon worked by her maid that morn and she blew at the errant curl. With each stroke of the pastel, an exhilarating calm stole through her. The beautiful peace that came in this wholly freeing experience was relaxing.

  Minutes? Hours later she set the pastel down. Her chest heaved as she stared at the visage reflected back; the dangerously alluring half-grin, the chiseled cheeks befitting an expertly carved stone masterpiece.

  A knock sounded at the door and she jumped. Heart pounding, Genevieve slammed the book closed and then cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “E-Enter,” she called and coming to her feet, she placed herself between that intimate part of her and the interloper.

  The door opened and Gillian stuck her head inside. “You did not go to Hyde Park.”

  Genevieve cocked her head.

  Her sister pushed the door open and took a tentative step forward. “You said you were to Hyde Park and you’ve not gone.”

  Her mind stalled. Yes, yes she had. Because ultimately, all she’d sought was escape. “I became distracted,” she admitted, fisting the fabric of her skirts.

  Sisters stood there, forever friends and, yet, strangers all at the same time. “I am to go to the museum with Honoria and Phoebe. I thought you might join us?”

  Except, Genevieve had been too long removed from the woman she’d been; easy to converse, eager for grand adventures alongside Gillian. “Go along without me,” she said. She’d become so accustomed to her solitary presence during the days, she no longer knew how to be the garrulous, effervescent young girl she’d been. “I am to Hyde Park.” Nor did she want to be that girl, ever again. “Thank you,” she added softly when Gillian made to leave.

  Her sister opened her mouth and then with a slight nod, left.

  When Gillian had gone, leaving Genevieve alone, she turned back to her collection of books. Gathering up the leather folio and her container of pastels, she started from the room.

  *
>
  RapRapRap

  The incessant knocking penetrated Cedric’s slumber. Through the thick haze of sleep, he forced his eyes open and turned to the window. The thick, gold brocade curtains blotted out all light, but a slight gap in the fabric revealed a crack of sunlight. With a low groan, he rolled onto his back and flung his arm across his eyes. By God, was his man, Avis, asking to be sacked? After ten years in his employ, the bugger surely knew Cedric did not wake before twelve o’clock.

  “My lord?”

  “Get the hell away,” he called to his valet and drifted between sleep and wake, drawing forth the dreams of his slumber—a barefoot lady and her kiss-swollen lips. His shaft stirred at the welcome remembrance and he burrowed deeper into the smooth satin sheets.

  RapRapRap

  Bloody hell. “You had better have a bloody good reason to—”

  “I have the information you requested, my lord.”

  Cedric lowered his arm to his side and stared up at the wicked mural painted above his bed. He furrowed his brow. “The information,” he mouthed trying to muddle through the fog of last night’s overindulgence in brandy and champagne, the haze of desire, and the godawful early hour.

  The servant cleared his throat. “You indicated I bring you the information about a certain—”

  With a curse, Cedric flung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Naked, he stalked across the room and yanked the door open. His servant spilled into the room. He slammed the door behind them. “I said discreetly. I don’t need the whole of London knowing.” Following his exit from his father’s ball, Cedric had tasked his loyal servant with the charge of finding out where he might expect to see Lady Genevieve. It was not the first time he’d given Avis such an assignment. It was, however, of reasons different than all the other ones before it. Regardless, the last thing he needed were his servants bandying about gossip about the lady.

  When had he ever cared about that, though?