A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  The woman who had invited them to her Mayfair house this afternoon.

  Genevieve had been surprised when Richard wrote to Augusta, the Dowager Lady Harmsworth, to inform her of his marriage. A week after he’d proposed, she and Richard had wed at Little Derrick by special license. Dr. Barrett had returned from Oxford to perform the ceremony.

  The church had been packed with well-wishers. Sedgemoor and his sister Lydia with her husband. The Hillbrooks. The villagers, including George. Her aunt, who told everyone that she’d promoted the match from the first. Aunt Lucy now lived at Polliton Place in Norfolk, Richard’s family seat, where she flirted like a giddy girl with a handsome local squire.

  That morning in Little Derrick had been Genevieve’s last cordial encounter with her father. Once her article appeared and she’d given the first of several well-received lectures, his pique had been boundless. He’d never forgive her for breaking away, even as he basked in his new status as a baronet’s father-in-law. Since the wedding, her father had renounced parish duties to accept a place at his old college.

  Genevieve’s article had created a flurry in academic circles and had led to numerous invitations to investigate heirlooms of doubtful provenance. She’d been right to fear some backlash as the Harmsworth name again stirred talk. But she’d soon realized that Richard hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed he didn’t care a fig for society’s approval. The malice had quickly faded when it became clear to the world that the bastard baronet and his eccentric wife were beyond the old scandal’s reach.

  Genevieve and Richard had spent their first six months of marriage traveling. A honeymoon in Italy became a tour of medieval sites in Spain and France. So magical to see places she’d read about all her life. Even more magical to see them in the company of the man she loved.

  She’d wondered whether her husband’s lukewarm interest in the Middle Ages would survive imprisonment in the crypt. But he’d escorted her with good grace. When she’d quizzed him on his tolerance, he’d swept her into bed, then pointed out that when she was happy, she was amenable to making him happy. Scholarship hadn’t fully occupied their time, she smiled to recall.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  Heat tinged her cheeks. “I was thinking about that inn above Roncesvalles.”

  He ceased pacing and regarded her with sudden interest. “Were you indeed, you saucy wench?”

  “The painting reminds me of the landscape.” Which was a complete lie, although now she checked the canvas, the rugged scenery conveyed a hint of the Pyrenees.

  “I’m sure.” He prowled toward her, his expression intent.

  Dear Lord. “Richard, you can’t tumble me here. Your mother may come in any moment.”

  “To Hades with my mother.” He slid his arms around her waist. “I want to kiss my wife.”

  “A laudable ambition, my son.”

  Genevieve gasped with embarrassment and struggled to pull free. Richard tensed, but didn’t release her. Instead he turned slightly, like a step in a waltz, and stared over Genevieve’s head at the woman in the doorway. “I’m glad you think so, Mother.”

  He sounded like the supercilious rake who had provoked Genevieve’s dislike at the vicarage. But the Dowager Lady Harmsworth couldn’t see how his hands tightened to bruising around Genevieve’s hips or hear the hitch in his breath.

  “Richard, let me go,” Genevieve whispered urgently, pushing at his shoulders. Her face was on fire. This wasn’t how she wanted to meet her mother-in-law. She’d told Richard he should see his mother alone, the first time he called on her in sixteen years. But he’d insisted upon Genevieve’s presence and she, recognizing vulnerability beneath his stubbornness, had agreed.

  Now she wasn’t certain she’d made the right decision.

  To her relief, Richard’s grip eased and she extricated herself, smoothing the skirt on her dashing teal dress. She retreated a few steps, then faced the woman whose actions had exerted such baleful influence over her husband’s life.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Beauty certainly, and beauty there was. Augusta Harmsworth must be in her fifties, but her bone structure and slender figure made her a striking woman. What surprised Genevieve was that she didn’t look like her son. Where Richard was all golden fairness, Augusta was dark. Raven hair, arching black brows, eyes that seemed at this distance as dark as night.

  Genevieve knew better than to expect maternal warmth. After all, Augusta had avoided her son as far as possible since he’d started university. But there was a wariness about this woman that made Genevieve hesitate before speaking. She glanced at Richard standing motionless beside her. While he didn’t share his mother’s features, something in his set expression echoed Augusta’s.

  Augusta swept in with a commanding manner that reminded Genevieve how this woman had dazzled countless foreign courts. In louche Continental circles, the Harmsworth scandal had added piquancy to her presence. She wore an azure silk gown that must have come from Paris. Richard had inherited his instinct for style from his mother.

  “Pray, don’t let my arrival forestall your plans,” Augusta said coolly.

  Richard took Genevieve’s gloved hand and led her to the sofa. “My wife is still a little shy, madam.”

  Genevieve stifled the urge to kick him. When she’d agreed to this, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might become a bone for the two formidable Harmsworths to quarrel over.

  Lady Augusta approached and sank into the chair opposite the sofa with a grace that made Genevieve green with envy. Since marrying Richard, she’d learned a lot. These days, she made a fair show of navigating society. But never would she manage such poise. Particularly in a meeting that must be difficult for anyone with liquid thicker than iced water in her veins. For all Augusta’s unruffled façade, something about the line of her shoulders indicated turbulent emotion constrained by an iron will.

  “Thank you for telling me about your wedding,” Augusta said.

  Richard leaned against the mantelpiece with a nonchalance that didn’t convince Genevieve. “It seemed appropriate.”

  Augusta arched her eyebrows but didn’t respond. Instead she turned to Genevieve. “My son has forgotten that it’s appropriate to make introductions. I, my dear, am your notorious mother-in-law. And you are my son’s distinguished wife. I hear you’re the toast of academia. I attended your lecture at the Royal Society. Very impressive.”

  Genevieve saw Richard start with surprise. She was surprised herself. And too concerned about her husband’s reactions to this meeting to feel particularly flattered.

  “I didn’t see you,” he said.

  A faint smile curved Augusta’s lips. “I made sure that you didn’t.” She turned back to Genevieve. “Good for you, showing the men up at their own game. And soon you’ll be consulting at the British Museum.”

  Richard stared at his mother as though she’d sprouted a tail and wings. Augusta must have lofty connections. The British Museum offer had only come yesterday.

  “We’re in early stages of negotiations, my lady,” Genevieve said calmly, although her hand closed nervously around the Harmsworth Jewel which hung around her neck.

  Richard had set the relic into a pendant and presented it to her as a wedding gift. She always wore it as a badge of his love and all they’d endured to achieve happiness. To her amazement, a craze for jewelry in the medieval style had arisen as a result. Who would have thought a bookish country mouse like her could set a fashion?

  “I believe they will have a happy outcome.” Lady Augusta’s smile remained. Cool, contained, but not, thank goodness, hostile. She surveyed Richard. “I congratulate you on choosing such a clever wife. I must admit it was unexpected—I imagined you’d marry some brainless chit who would bore you silly within a week.”

  Richard looked astonished, as well he might. It became clear that while the Dowager Lady Harmsworth hadn’t maintained communication with her son, she’d kept a close eye on his activities. He shifted to stand behind
Genevieve and placed one hand on her shoulder, curling his fingers over the skin between her neck and gown. Silently she willed her strength into him. “Once I met Genevieve, I couldn’t marry anyone else.”

  He made no attempt to mask his sincerity. For a long moment, his mother studied him. Her smile became more natural. “I’m glad you found each other. There’s nothing more fatal than an unhappy marriage.”

  Before Richard could respond to that provocative statement, the door behind Augusta opened and a team of footmen set out tea. Genevieve’s hand crept up to hold Richard’s. Once she’d have taken his self-assurance at face value, but not now. Beneath his serene exterior, this meeting stirred emotions that had tormented him since childhood. Behind her, he vibrated with tension.

  Once they were alone, Augusta didn’t pour the tea. The delicate sandwiches and cakes remained untouched.

  Augusta’s finely carved jaw set into a determined line that reminded Genevieve of her husband. The woman glared at Richard in exasperation. “Why don’t you ask me? You know that’s why you’re here.”

  Richard’s hand tightened around Genevieve’s, but his voice remained steady. “You’ve never answered before.”

  Through a bristling pause, Augusta studied her son as if she saw past the gorgeous shell to the unhappiness within. Genevieve knew that the joy he’d found in marriage had healed many of his wounds, but while his father’s identity remained a mystery, one last wound remained.

  “You weren’t ready to hear before.” Another pause. “Now when I see you with a woman you love, I wonder if you’ve changed.”

  “The fact that I’m here indicates that I’ve changed,” he bit out.

  “Richard, ask me.” It sounded like a plea, if such an imperious creature could lower herself to begging.

  Genevieve gripped his hand. Without looking at him, she sensed his turmoil. He inhaled unsteadily before he spoke. “Very well. Will you tell me about my father?”

  For a moment, Genevieve wondered whether Augusta meant to refuse. She had a horrible premonition that this was a spiteful game. Then Augusta lifted a golden locket over her head and extended the necklace toward her son. “This man is your father, Richard.”

  Genevieve squeezed Richard’s hand in reassurance, then released him so that he could move around the sofa toward his mother. “What is his name?”

  “Major Thomas Fraser.”

  Richard’s mother no longer looked quite so composed. Her lips were compressed and lines that Genevieve hadn’t noticed before appeared around her eyes. Her barely concealed agitation made Genevieve warm toward her. She wasn’t quite the chill, distant harpy Richard had painted.

  Richard accepted the locket and spent a few moments opening it, his hands shook so badly. Genevieve bit back the urge to go to him. This wasn’t about her, much as she loved him. This was something he needed to resolve with his mother. Although, by heaven, if Augusta hurt him, Genevieve would stab her with a cake fork.

  When he finally looked at the locket, Richard went as pale as paper. The dread that this encounter would result in damage rather than renewal jammed in Genevieve’s throat.

  Augusta watched him steadily. Genevieve glanced away from the naked regret and anguish in the woman’s eyes. She suddenly understood that whatever had driven a wedge between Richard and his mother, it wasn’t lack of love.

  “Thomas Fraser.” Richard’s voice held no trace of its usual lightness. To Genevieve, it seemed that he struggled to look away from the picture inside. “Tell me about him.”

  “He was a brave man.”

  The muscle in Richard’s cheek twitched erratically. “Was? He’s dead, then?”

  Augusta sat upright, as though facing an inquisition. Genevieve supposed that she did. “He died on a mission to France in 1794.”

  Richard grew even paler. Worried, Genevieve rose and shifted to his side. Blindly he reached for her hand, but his attention remained on his mother. “That was the year I was born.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  Genevieve sensed his roiling reactions. Pain, certainly. Anger. Curiosity avid as a fever.

  Augusta’s lip quivered. It was the first weakness she’d displayed and Genevieve realized that she suffered too. “Please sit down. This isn’t easy. Especially with you looming over me like an ax about to fall.”

  Genevieve waited for Richard to say that it wasn’t easy for him either. He remained silent. When he and Genevieve sat on the sofa, she drew his hand across her lap, holding hard to bolster his courage.

  Augusta’s eyes faltered from her son’s face and she spoke in a low voice. Richard leaned forward as if striving to catch and keep every word. The need in his expression sliced at Genevieve’s heart.

  “My parents were ambitious. They arranged my marriage to Lester Harmsworth when I was only seventeen.” Augusta paused. “I was already in love with a young lieutenant from a good family, but sadly, he wasn’t rich. We planned to run away together, but he was posted to India and my maid confessed our plans. In the end, I buckled to pressure and wed where I was bid.”

  She stopped and glanced quickly at her son, as if expecting criticism. After a crackling silence, Augusta continued, her voice even lower. “I didn’t see my young lieutenant for five years. When we finally met again, he was a major with a fortune in prize money. He came to London while Sir Lester was in St. Petersburg.”

  “So you broke your marriage vows,” Richard said softly, but with such bitterness that Genevieve flinched.

  Augusta was as ashen as her son. “I was a wife in name only.”

  “Because you didn’t love your husband?”

  She shook her head. “No. Because Sir Lester was incapable of the marital act. In any true sense, Thomas Fraser was my husband.”

  “Good God!” Richard’s hand clenched over Genevieve’s.

  “Lady Harmsworth—” Genevieve protested, speaking for the first time in what felt like hours.

  Augusta raised a trembling hand. “Please. I’ve waited almost thirty-four years to say this. I can’t stop now.” Her hand returned to fist in her lap until her knuckles gleamed white. “You know what love is like.”

  It was an appeal for understanding. Genevieve wondered whether Richard could rise above his history to respond. However touching the circumstances leading to his birth, for years he’d paid for what this woman had done with a man to whom she wasn’t married.

  “Yes, I do.” It was tacit acknowledgement that he couldn’t despise his mother for her sins. Genevieve loved him then more than she ever had. She blinked away tears.

  His mother must have recognized his words as a concession too, because her anxiety faded, replaced by a grief that was no kinder for being over thirty years old. “We couldn’t stay away from each other. We had plans to elope to America and make a life together. He’d sell his commission, although a brilliant career beckoned.”

  “Presumably he thought you were worth it,” Richard said with no hint of a sneer.

  Augusta’s faint smile made her look very young and Genevieve had a glimpse of the girl Thomas Fraser had loved so desperately. “He said he did.” She stopped and visibly fought for control. “But he was committed to one more mission. France was in chaos. Thousands murdered. Robespierre mad with blood. They sent Thomas there in secret, but he was betrayed. I’ve never discovered the full truth. After all, I had no official standing in his life. I was merely his mistress.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “His pregnant mistress. Just after Thomas left for France, I discovered that I carried his child.” She brushed the tear away. “You, my son.”

  Augusta visibly gathered herself to finish the tragic tale. “Sir Lester returned from St. Petersburg to a fine baby boy. He had no hope of a child of his loins, so he accepted you as his heir. He loved you. I hope you remember that.”

  Richard stared across the room, but Genevieve knew he sifted memories. “Yes, he was kind to me. I grieved when he died.”

  Augus
ta’s mouth contracted. “I couldn’t save you from scandal. After all, everyone can count and no child grows in its mother’s womb for sixteen months. I can’t even blame you for hating me. After all, my sin fell on your innocent head. But when I heard that you were madly in love with your wife, I had to tell you and… and beg forgiveness.”

  It was the first truly humble thing she’d said.

  Another silence fell. One heavy with years of resentment and regret. Richard had much to blame his mother for and only an afternoon’s confession to place on the other side of the balance. Genevieve longed to hold him close, to tell him that none of this mattered compared to the wonderful man he was, to insist that whatever decision he made, she was on his side. But under Augusta’s tormented dark gaze, she stayed silent.

  Richard kissed the hand he held. Then he released Genevieve and rose.

  Genevieve’s muscles tightened until she trembled on the edge of the sofa. Dear heaven, did he mean to storm out? Augusta had cost him so much happiness, and he’d nurtured a lifetime of rancor.

  He passed Genevieve the locket. She glanced at the tiny, exquisite painting and bit back a shocked gasp. If one disregarded the old-fashioned powdered wig, the man staring from the miniature was Richard. No wonder he’d been so moved to see it.

  The tension between mother and son drew her gaze from Thomas Fraser’s handsome face. Augusta’s eyes were lowered as if she awaited condemnation. Richard still hadn’t moved. The disregarded tea table stretched between them like a thorny barrier.

  Genevieve’s heart melted with compassion for Augusta. How could it not? But her main concern in this encounter remained Richard. How must he feel after today’s revelations?

  When he stepped across to his mother, it was as if the earth quaked beneath Genevieve’s feet. Her hands fisted at her sides as she told herself not to go after him, not to beg him to be kind to this woman who had endured so much. She had to trust Richard to choose his next move.