A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  She’d once thought him a man who had enjoyed an unfairly easy ride through life, thanks to looks, wealth, and breeding. How appallingly wrong she’d been. How self-satisfied. How self-righteous.

  Yet the miracle was that still he said he loved her. And she loved him. More than she loved anything else in the world. She wished she lay waking because she gloried in his love. But a sadder, more onerous truth pounded in her mind as she counted each slow minute toward dawn.

  If she loved Richard, she couldn’t contribute to his misery.

  When Richard entered the library, the sun just peeked above the horizon. Immediately, his attention leveled on Genevieve. She curled up in the bay window, staring pensively out at the dew-laden garden.

  “Can’t you sleep?” He closed the door behind him. The servants were about, but he assumed that Sedgemoor and his guests were still asleep upstairs. Although he’d heard Consuela crying during the night, so that assumption might be a little optimistic for Jonas and Sidonie.

  Genevieve turned toward him, the glow in her eyes setting his heart aflame. “No.”

  Desire slammed through him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  He’d dressed before coming downstairs, but she looked as though she’d just risen from her bed. Her beautiful hair lay loose and she wore an extravagant green silk dressing gown. He loved to see her lush beauty arrayed in rich fabrics and colors like this or like last night’s gown. She’d always been a jewel. She’d only lacked the right setting to do her justice.

  “Me either.” His step light—he was in love, his darling loved him back, and the sinister forces that had threatened their lives and happiness had receded, he hoped forever—he crossed to her side.

  She raised her arms. “Kiss me, Richard.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Heat. Passion. Love. Eventually he raised his head and cradled her against him. He must look insufferably smug, but he couldn’t help it. To think that this magnificent woman loved him.

  “We can’t make love,” she said breathlessly. “Anyone could come in.”

  He pretended shock. “Why, Miss Barrett, the thought never crossed my mind.”

  With a low laugh, she pressed closer. “I’m sure.”

  “I can’t tell you how often I watched you stitching away on your window seat and wanted to have my way with you.”

  “You’re a wicked man,” she said in a tone that told him she loved him.

  He caught the hand fisted against his shoulder. “What have you got there?”

  Her fingers unfolded to reveal the Harmsworth Jewel. Cam had passed it to her last night. Once it had offered Richard a preternatural connection to a heritage that he now accepted wasn’t his by blood. And never would be. The realization was remarkably liberating.

  He stared at the gold and enamel artifact. “How powerful our imaginations are. When I thought the jewel was real, it was magical. Now however beautiful it is, it’s just an object.”

  “I’m giving it to you.”

  His head jerked up. “It doesn’t prove anything about my birth.”

  To his regret, she pulled away. His knowledge of her love was so new that any distance felt like a danger to his happiness. Then he caught her grave expression and knew that the chill trickling down his backbone didn’t entirely result from clinging insecurities. “Genevieve, what is it?”

  She stood. The light strengthened, revealing that the silver had left her eyes. Instead they were a flat gray, like the sea on a rainy day. “Only you and I know that the jewel is a copy.”

  He frowned, not sure where she was going. “Cam does.”

  “You could swear him to silence.”

  Deeply perturbed now, he too rose. “Why on earth would I do that? Once your article is published, the secret will be out.”

  Her stare was unwavering. “I’m withdrawing my article.”

  Shocked, he stepped back, bumping his legs against the edge of the seat. “What the hell is this?”

  Her shoulders were as straight as a ruler. She looked like she faced a firing squad. “My article will harm you. I’m not going to publish it.”

  Genevieve saw that Richard didn’t understand. Which was odd. Usually he was, if anything, too quick to pick up on things.

  “Harm me?” He reached out to touch her before, thank goodness, hesitating. Despite knowing that this was her only course of action, she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to persevere. If Richard cajoled her with tenderness or passion, she’d weaken.

  She couldn’t weaken.

  During last night’s long, dark watch, she’d realized that if she loved Richard Harmsworth, she couldn’t expose the truth about the Harmsworth Jewel. His words in the crypt, about a fraud of a baronet pursuing a fraud of a treasure, had haunted her. She couldn’t invite the world’s spite to his door.

  “Richard, all your life you’ve suffered because of your birth. Turning the Harmsworth Jewel into a cause célèbre will only reopen old wounds.”

  His lips twisted. “The gossip never goes away, my love. Your article won’t change that.”

  She shook her head. “It gives the world another stick for beating you.”

  He frowned. “What about your career?”

  She twined her arms around herself. It was warm for October, but she was as cold as if she stood in a freezing north wind. After struggling to reach this decision, she thought she’d come to terms with her choice. Here, surrendering her dreams, she felt slowly and painfully crushed in a giant fist. “I won’t use my work to your detriment.”

  “People will always snicker about my birth. You deserve your moment in the sun.” His tone developed an edge. “You’ve already sacrificed yourself for your father. You won’t sacrifice yourself for me.”

  She fought tears. No joy could compare to her love for Richard. But she’d so looked forward to claiming a place in the wider world. Why was it that the two things she wanted, Richard’s happiness and her personal fulfillment, had to clash? It seemed bitterly unfair.

  The complaint of a spoilt child. Time to grow up, Genevieve.

  Shame steadied her voice. “That’s not your decision to make. When I go home, I’ll write to Dr. Partridge and tell him that I was mistaken about the jewel being a forgery.”

  “You’re not mistaken,” Richard said harshly.

  No, she wasn’t. But the image of the tormented boy building such powerful defenses against a malicious world broke her heart. She couldn’t love Richard and expose him to public ridicule, whatever it cost her.

  “You should be pleased.” She knew by his unimpressed expression that her attempt at a smile was a rank failure. “You’ve succeeded in what you came to Little Derrick to do. You can now wave the jewel under the nose of anyone who dares to deride you and nobody will guess it’s not the real thing.”

  If anything, he looked angrier. “It will be a lie.”

  Her own temper stirred. “That should be no impediment. It’s not as though lying isn’t second nature to you.”

  He whitened and retreated another step. “I suppose I deserve that.”

  Eaten by guilt, she wanted to snatch the words back. But it was too late. She stared at him helplessly, wondering why the space between them suddenly felt like a thousand miles instead of a few feet. “This is what you wanted.”

  “I was a damned fool,” he said bitterly. “How the devil did you expect me to react to this ludicrous offer?”

  “I thought you’d be grateful,” she muttered.

  His expression darkened. “Did you really? Apparently your opinion of me hasn’t changed since our first meeting.”

  She flinched. “When you’ve had time to think—”

  “I still won’t accept this unnecessary act of self-flagellation.”

  She turned away, unable to bear the wretchedness and frustrated anger in his face. Right now, he thought of her welfare, not his own. She loved him for that, but it reinforced her decision. “I might come across something else that wil
l make a splash in scholarly circles.”

  “Nothing to compare with exposing the legendary Harmsworth Jewel as a fraud.”

  No, nothing like that. Such discoveries were unique. But how could she regret saving Richard from hurt? Her hand shaking, she placed the jewel on one of the heavy mahogany tables that filed down the center of the long room. “Take it. Do what you originally intended. Use it to compel the world’s respect.”

  “A jewel can’t earn me respect. Since I’ve come to Little Derrick, I’ve learned the world’s opinion doesn’t matter to me. Only yours does.”

  She turned back, blinking away tears. “You have my respect. You know that.”

  In his pale face, his mouth was stern. “I can’t let you do this, Genevieve.”

  “You have no right to let me do anything,” she snapped. Antagonism was easier to handle than devastation. Right now, perhaps it was true that all he cared about was her love. But that wouldn’t last. Not when he returned to his glittering ballrooms and society friends. Then he’d hate that she’d exposed him to fresh mockery.

  Perhaps, God forbid, he’d even come to hate her. She couldn’t endure that.

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you want to fight about this?”

  “There’s nothing to fight about.” She glared at him and raised her chin defiantly. “My mind’s made up.”

  She waited for more arguments, but he stared at her as if she was a stranger. His closed expression cut sharper than a knife.

  “Well, that’s it, then,” he said in a clipped tone. “Of course, your decision is the only one that counts. Yet again, the independent, self-sufficient Miss Barrett goes her own way.”

  She recoiled at the bite in his tone, but couldn’t back down. “I’m a woman alone. I have to make my own decisions.”

  How in heaven’s name had everything come to this? Only a few moments ago, he’d held her in his arms.

  “If you’re alone, it’s because you want it that way.” The muscle flickered in his cheek, always sign of strong emotion, and she realized that in trying to save him from hurt, she’d hurt him.

  She stood silent, unable to summon words insisting that she didn’t want to be alone, she wanted to be with him. Yesterday Richard had told her that he loved her and she thought she’d never feel lonely again. Today she stared at him across an impassable gulf and felt lonelier than she ever had in her life.

  “I have to go to London with Cam.” He stalked toward the table. His voice was unemotional, as if he’d never called her his darling. The knife stabbed deeper. “He’s in this mess because of my dashed stupidity. There will be questions about Fairbrother, legal issues.”

  He paused and she wondered if he meant to make some conciliatory gesture. Her hands curled at her sides as she fought the urge to reach after him and tell him she’d do whatever he asked. In this case, what he asked would injure him. She couldn’t countenance that.

  Genevieve turned away and stared out the window at Leighton Court’s elaborate gardens. Although tears prevented her from seeing them. Was this how everything ended? A few sharp words and Richard retreating to London, and with that, the joy was done?

  He continued, still in that same neutral tone. “Promise that you won’t do anything until you hear from me.”

  “I can’t wait. Dr. Partridge is preparing to publish.” She struggled to match Richard’s uninvolved manner, but her voice emerged raw with misery. “I won’t change my mind. As I said, this is purely up to me.”

  After a weighty pause, he answered. This time even his well-practiced nonchalance couldn’t hide the anger vibrating under his words. “As you wish.”

  Dear Lord, it wasn’t as she wished. She turned to ask Richard to wait, to beg him to let her explain, although surely he must know the reasons for what she did.

  He was gone. Her gaze fell upon the library table. He’d taken the Harmsworth Jewel.

  Richard was halfway to London before his temper eased enough for his mind to make sense of this morning’s disaster. He didn’t see Genevieve before leaving. He’d dashed off a note to Cam saying he’d be in London, then he’d returned to the vicarage for his carriage and a change of clothes. The phaeton now hurtled east at a pace that sent the mud flying.

  How dare Genevieve sacrifice her dreams for him? He wanted to give her a good shake and tell her to wake up to herself. He wanted to kiss her into a stupor until questions of right and wrong no longer mattered.

  But after several hours of furious driving, he began to see that she’d made the offer out of love, foolish girl. It was an act of such wholehearted generosity, he could hardly comprehend it.

  Gratitude made him no more likely to accept her self-denial. Genevieve underestimated how she’d changed him. His old misguided self had crouched behind an imperturbable façade. Now that Genevieve loved him for the man he was, the world’s derision had lost its sting.

  He’d damn well show her that in loving Richard Harmsworth, she gave up nothing. One hand slid into his pocket to touch the Harmsworth Jewel. He no longer needed it to shore up his pride, but the trinket would yet prove its value.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  First Genevieve noticed the dog.

  From the parlor window, she saw Sirius trot past in the late afternoon light. Nerves set her pulse racing. If Sirius appeared, Richard couldn’t be far behind.

  She’d picked up her embroidery, but the sight of her elephant peony made her want to cry, so instead she stared moodily outside. Hecuba curled beside her, as out of sorts as her mistress. Autumn drew to a close. Since her last meeting with Richard, Genevieve had felt cold to the bone. Although that wasn’t altogether the season’s fault.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, the stylish phaeton turned into the back lane. When she saw Richard, bundled into a caped coat, his hat at a jaunty angle, her heart hiccupped. As he passed, she caught a flash of his face. His features were set and determined. He looked more like the man who had rescued her from Lord Neville than the man who had mocked her inept stitchery.

  “Who is that, dear?” her aunt asked from her chair near the fire.

  “Sir Richard,” she said without turning. The carriage disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  “That’s nice.”

  Curious, Genevieve glanced at Aunt Lucy. She sounded remarkably calm about the famous beau’s visit. A distinct contrast to her excitement when Genevieve had told her that Christopher Evans was really the fabulously wealthy baronet Richard Harmsworth. Genevieve had taken her cue from Sedgemoor and repeated the story about Richard guarding the Harmsworth Jewel from Lord Neville. Lord Neville who had killed himself a fortnight ago to escape prosecution for theft.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” she said flatly.

  Her aunt laid aside her knitting and shot her a withering look. “Of course he’s come back, Genevieve. Don’t be a henwit.”

  Well, that put her in her place, she thought, flopping back against the window embrasure. She hadn’t been nearly so certain she’d see him again. After all, she hadn’t heard from Richard since their quarrel.

  Unexpectedly it was Sedgemoor who had sent her a couple of notes informing her of developments. The inquest into Lord Neville’s death had brought in a verdict of suicide. No alternate theories had arisen. Greengrass, named as a person of interest, had vanished without trace.

  Thanks to Lord Hillbrook, the world now knew the scope of Lord Neville’s criminal activities. No wonder the man had lived in the country where he could display his ill-gotten gains without questions. No suspicion in Lord Neville’s suicide had fallen on either Richard Harmsworth or Camden Rothermere. As far as Genevieve knew, her name was never mentioned.

  She’d pored over the London papers, seeking details of the brouhaha that engulfed the Fairbrothers, reaching as high as Lord Neville’s top-lofty nephew, the Marquess of Leath. Actually if truth were told, she’d searched like a love-struck adolescent for the merest mention of Richard Harmsworth. Every time she saw his name, in connection with the Fair
brother scandal or detailing his appearance at some glamorous event, their hours together receded further into the realm of fantasy.

  She couldn’t imagine a man who hobnobbed with the king telling her that he loved her. She couldn’t imagine such a man returning to wrench her from the melancholy limbo that had gripped her since his departure.

  If she’d ever felt herself above the common run of her sex, she felt that no longer. She was as capable of making a fool of herself over a man as any naïve dairymaid or giggly miss at Almack’s. She couldn’t even find comfort anymore in her dreams of scholarly acclaim.

  Richard had made no promises, no plans for the future. She couldn’t accuse him of raising false hopes. But she loved him. Hope, false or real, had become the breath of life. With every day of her lover’s absence, that breath became fainter. Until she’d convinced herself that everything was over between them. Even worse, they’d parted in rancor.

  Yet here he was, rolling along in his carriage as though he hadn’t left her to lonely torment for fourteen whole days. Was he here to convince her to publish her article? Or out of politeness? After all, he’d deceived everyone in Little Derrick. His scruples must insist upon apologizing to the Barretts for his falsehoods.

  If he apologized to her, she honestly thought she’d brain him with her sewing box.

  Dorcas appeared. She looked like someone had struck her with a cricket bat. “Sir Richard Harmsworth, missus.”

  “Please send him in,” Aunt Lucy said before Genevieve could respond.

  Dorcas performed a shaky curtsy and held the door open. Richard strolled into the tiny parlor and Genevieve understood why Dorcas acted like she’d witnessed a heavenly apparition. For all her turmoil, Genevieve felt rather that way herself.

  “Mrs. Warren, your servant.” He swept off his hat and bowed to Aunt Lucy with an elegance that contrasted sharply with this rundown room. He turned to Genevieve. “Miss Barrett, a pleasure to meet you again.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly, standing and feeling completely inadequate to handling this resplendent creature.