From the pale pink of the wallpaper to the floral Aubusson carpet, in this room, time stood still. She wandered over to the canopied bed and trailed her fingertips along the ivory coverlet. Why, even the upholsteries were the same. The only thing that had been missing from this nauseatingly cheerful room—had been the girl who’d slept within these walls. Setting her gloves on the rose-inlaid side table, she perched on the edge of the mattress and passed her gaze about. It collided with the only splash of green in this pink and white space.
Shoving to her feet, her legs carried her unbidden over to that rounded, porcelain perfume bottle. With numb fingers, she picked up the piece, a gift given long ago, and liquid sloshed around inside. She fixed on the bucolic couple painted within the center of the bottle; a loyal love knelt at the feet of his sweetheart—their happiness forever suspended in time. How singularly wrong that any piece of him should remain in this room when she’d been sent away. Genevieve tightened her grip about the fragile piece; her knuckles whitening.
A tentative rap sounded at the door and she yanked her head up. “Enter,” she called out, quickly setting the bottle down.
The door opened revealing her maid, Delores—the one loyal figure she’d known these years. “Hullo, Lady Genevieve.”
She mustered a smile. “Delores.” The foolish part of her soul where hope still dwelt had believed Gillian or her mother would be there. Yet, why should they? For the time that had gone, Genevieve may as well have been a stranger. Time had marched on. They’d lived their lives, and she…well, she had lived hers.
Delores gave her a small, encouraging nod. “His Lordship has summoned you.”
Genevieve’s weak attempt at a grin faded. Already?
“Yes, Lady Genny.”
She gave her head a shake, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. Genevieve nodded. “I’ll be but a moment,” she assured the young woman who nodded and then backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Genevieve stood there a long moment with the porcelain clock atop the mantel marking the passing seconds. Nothing her parents had ever done had ever been without purpose. The lavish wedding celebration they’d planned for their eldest daughter to the sought after Duke of Aumere. The abrupt and lengthy exile of that same daughter. Of course, her return would have been driven by some motives which could only be a product of her father’s wealth, power, or title. Nervousness twisted in her belly and she fixed on the passing ticks of the clock.
With the powerlessness in her existence these years, and even in this impending meeting with her father, there was something so wholly empowering in keeping that same faithless, shameful parent waiting. She sighed. Alas, all good moments came to an end. Time had taught her that in spades. Squaring her shoulders, Genevieve stalked over to the front of the room and, unhesitant, opened the door. Silence reigned in the corridors.
But she’d wager the remainder of her sanity that servants laid in wait, holding their breath and listening for that long-overdue meeting between father and daughter. Stepping outside, she picked her way along the carpeted halls, onward to an office she’d been summoned too many times to remember. She’d been summoned there as a girl who’d earned his displeasure for her scandalous sketches and paintings. And again as a young woman who’d secured the match of the Season and, for a fleeting moment, earned his pride and approval.
Then there had been the last meeting in that dreaded office. The meeting when her father, the person who’d helped give her life, had spat at her and pledged to never let her set foot in these halls again. Genevieve reached his office and came to a stop. She stared at the silver handle.
When she pulled that door open, she would reenter a world she’d never again wanted to be in. It would be like ripping open the bandage on the darkest mistakes of her foolish youth, and the resentments and pain she’d managed to bury these past five years.
She firmed her jaw. She’d been called whore, liar, and wanton these many years. But no one would ever dare call her coward. Genevieve knocked once.
“Enter.”
Even as she’d been expecting it, she jumped. That thunderous boom had not been diminished by time. It still carried the weight of power and strength it always had. Genevieve pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He didn’t even deign to look at her.
She stood there, much like the recalcitrant child summoned to these rooms years and years earlier, awaiting the scolding to be laid out. Those were times when governesses and nursemaids had failed to tame her. She stood there…as though she’d never been gone. Look at me. Look at me and acknowledge me after five years. Tell me you were wrong.
Her father tossed down his pen and picked his head up. But for the faint dusting of gray at his temples and several wrinkles on his high, noble brow, there was no hint of aging. He was the same man who’d so easily shipped her away. “Genevieve,” he called out and, jolted into movement, she pulled the door closed.
No need to give the servants easy access to the gossip about the Farendale whore. “Father,” she said and came forward. She did a quick look about for her mother. Of course, she’d not bother to be here. Why should she? She’d had her other perfectly unscandalous daughter to worry after. The muscles of her stomach tightened and she hated that she should care still about their disregard. Without awaiting permission, Genevieve moved to the leather winged back chair in front of his desk and sat. “I trust you are well?”
Her father’s mouth tightened. “The scandal has not gone away,” he said without preamble.
“I am also well. Thank you for asking,” she said deliberately needling. By the vein bulging at the corner of his eye, she was one wrong utterance away from one of his notorious diatribes. “The scandal? Which scandal do you refer to?” And yet she’d always been hopelessly troublesome.
He opened and closed his mouth several times. “The scandal,” he bit out.
Genevieve inclined her head. “Ah, yes. Of course.” She paused and gave a solemn nod. “My scandal.” She drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair until he pointedly glared at her hand and she stopped mid-movement.
“You would be so flippant,” he said in frosty tones. “You speak so very casually without a regard for the fact that Gillian is gossiped about.” The marquess banged his fist on his desk. “Not a single suitor.”
A frisson of guilt unfurled inside for the sister who’d be so marked as an immoral creature, all because of Society’s opinion of her. “I am sorry,” she said softly and folded her hands on her lap. She studied the interlocked digits. With but four years separating them, Gillian had been her loyal friend; albeit a young one. She’d lain upon Genevieve’s coverlet and pleaded for tales of the balls and soirees she’d attended and the suitors who’d earned a dance.
And now, by her father’s account, Gillian had never known those perceived thrilling moments herself because of Genevieve’s scandal. That hungering to return to the obscurity of the countryside filled her and she launched her appeal. “I do not see how my being in London will serve to benefit Gillian. I can only serve as a reminder. Would it not be best if you allow me to return?” Please. Please let me go. Was there really much life for her in Kent, though? A voice needled at the back of her mind. Was that the future she dreamed of? One in which she was the detested, shameful child without any control of her future and fate?
Her father folded his arms at his chest and eyed her contemplatively. “We have tried purging your memory from Society. The whispers have only persisted because of your stay in the country. Speculation of a…” His cheeks turned a mottled red. “Child.”
“Ah, of course,” she said dryly, while inside she seethed with a gnawing fury. Her stay in the country? That was what they should call it? Not, the banishment forced upon her, but rather, a stay? She remained silent, wishing him to state his piece so she could be gone.
“No,” her father said at last. “We’ve tried hiding our dirty secret.” Which would be her. She was that dirty secret. “To n
o avail. The only thing we did not do…” She went still. Oh, good God, no. “Is face it head on.” No. No. The litany ran around her mind.
Genevieve gave her head a slow shake. “I do not understand,” she said with a calmness she did not feel. All the while praying that the long travel and fatigue muddled what he truly meant.
“You need to be reintroduced into Society.” That handful of words conjured a foreign beast removed from its natural habitat and reinserted into its proper home. Then, is that not how my own parents see me? “Society needs to see you are a proper lady now. Once Society’s fascination with you has died, then your sister can resume a normal life and find a suitable husband. It worked for the Moore chit after she was jilted and it will work for you.”
The least of import to that speech pertained to a young lady she did not know. For with the long-case ticking loudly, she stared unblinking at her father. That was his plan? Thrusting her back into the scornful world which had sharpened their claws on her once hopeful, whimsical self? She gave her head a shake. “No. That will not work.” For so many reasons. Too many to even enumerate. “Furthermore, who would marry me?” she blurted, interrupting him, just as he made to speak. No one. No one unless he was truly—
“A desperate gentleman,” her father supplied. “One who requires a wife.” With cool, methodical movements, he pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew a note from inside. He laid it on the table.
Even as she did not want to know what was contained on those pages, Genevieve craned her head and quickly skimmed the page.
Lord Tremaine?
She knew that name. Her mind muddled through. How did she know that name? Genevieve froze. Lord Tremaine, one of Father’s friends from his Oxford days. Widowed twice, with a bevy of daughters. She shook her head. Surely he was not suggesting…? Surely…?
“Tremaine’s wives never birthed him an heir.” The muscles of her stomach tightened reflexively. “He will be arriving in London within a fortnight to assess your suitability.”
“My suitability?” she choked out. As though she was a bloody broodmare.
He continued as though she’d not spoken in horrified shock. “He is not opposed to marrying a girl with a scandal, as long as she can be a proper wife and bear him an heir,” he said, tapping the page. “He’ll overlook your sins and restore this family to respectability.”
As the shock of his words abated, a healthy, seething rage built within her. “My sins?” She shook from the force of her fury. Layering her hands to the side of the chair, she gripped it to maintain calm. Yes, she had been a flirt. A shameful, wicked flirt. If she could go back and not be the coquette who’d seduced with her eyes, then she would have happiness, a family, and stability. But that had been the extent of her crime. She’d never been the whore the ton whispered of. Nor the liar her betrothed and his bastard of a brother had proven themselves to be.
“You are to conduct yourself with dignity and honor and proper decorum,” her father went on. He peeled his lip in a sneer and raked a hard stare over her, and she sank back under the force of the revulsion there.
As much as she despised herself for caring, how could a daughter not feel shame at such open loathing?
“You will wear colorless skirts.”
Did he truly believe she gave a jot about the fabric of her gown? “Would you have me don white or ivory?” she asked in a smoothly emotionless tone as she angled her chin up.
Either he failed to note or care about her mocking response, for he continued as though she’d not even spoken. “I’ll not have you batting your lashes at rakes and rogues. When you go out, you are to take your maid and a footman. When you attend ton functions, you are to sit primly on the sidelines with the matrons.” He ran through his perfunctory list with such precision her head spun. “You are not to attract any notice, whatsoever.”
Why, he thought her incapable of proper behavior? Despite his ill-opinion and her own flirtatious ways years earlier, Genevieve, in five years, had buried that spirited part of her soul. She had carefully crafted a reserved, proper figure in her stead. Then, her father would have had to speak to her through the years to know as much. “Am I permitted to take meals with the family? Or am I to be confined to my room, then?” There was, however, still the matter of her loose tongue.
The marquess pounded his fist hard the desk, rattling the crystal inkwells and she jumped. “By God, this is not a matter of jest,” he thundered. “You have forever marked this family. The least of what you can do is make this right, as much as you are able, for your sister.” And the fight was sucked out of her. “Is that understood?”
She sat there trembling; not unlike the same girl she’d been five years earlier. Do not be that girl. Not anymore. Except, for the pleasure Genevieve found in exerting herself over her father, she loved her sister more. “Abundantly, my lord,” she bit out. Her father would order her return to London, with neat plans to order her life and bind her forever to a gentleman. Given the oppressiveness she’d known at her own father’s hands, did he truly believe she’d marry one of his aged friends?
“You are dismissed.”
Genevieve came to her feet. The click-clack of her father’s pen indicated he’d returned his attentions to matters which were of import to him.
And just like that, she was dismissed once more.
Chapter 2
“By God, where is he?”
Lying on the leather button sofa of the library in his bachelor’s residence, Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, turned his head and looked to the entrance. A small grin hovered on his lips as he rescued the bottle of brandy from the foot of his seat. Turning on his side, he filled his empty snifter and then set the crystal decanter back on the floor.
“Y-Your Grace, His Lordship is otherwise busy.” The thick walls muffled the stammering of his inexplicably loyal butler. He really deserved an increase in wages.
“…busy.” The Duke of Ravenscourt’s snort penetrated the wood.
The door flew open, with such force it bounced off the back wall. His father stuck his leg out to keep it from slamming in his face. The Duke of Ravenscourt took in the jacket hung haphazardly over the back of the sofa, the nearly empty bottle, the full glass, and then he settled his icy blue stare on Cedric. “Get out.”
It spoke volumes to Avis’ foolish devotion that the hard, unyielding command of the duke did not send him immediately fleeing. Instead, he gulped, looking hopelessly to Cedric.
Taking mercy on the young servant, he swung his legs and settled them on the floor. “That will be all,” he assured the man.
Avis dropped a respectful bow and then backed quickly from the room but not before Cedric detected the flash of relief in his eyes. Yes, that was long the effect the ruthless Duke of Ravenscourt had on all. Reviled, feared, and hated by even his own children, there was not a sliver of warmth in the bastard’s hardened heart. Only, over the years, Cedric found that his father was just a man…a man with the same weaknesses and vices as him. That realization had broken down the myth of invincibility around the old duke.
“Father,” Cedric drawled. Taking a sip of his brandy, he shoved lazily to his feet. “To what do I owe the honor of—?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth, Cedric.” The duke shoved the door hard and it slammed closed with such force it rattled the doorjamb. He stalked over and skimmed his stare over the bottles littering the floor. “I don’t give a damn if you drink yourself to death—”
“How heartwarming,” Cedric murmured, touching a hand to his chest.
“—but not before you do right by the Falcot line.”
Ah, yes, because nothing had ever mattered more than that distinguished title that went back to the time of great conquerors. Not even the man’s children, certainly not his bastards, and never the long-dead wife who’d dutifully given him two legitimate issues before conveniently leaving the duke a young widower.
Cedric took a sip of his drink. “Isn’t it rather early in the day to hav
e this conversation?”
His father snapped his blond eyebrows into a single line. “It is four o’clock in the goddamn afternoon.”
Cedric glanced over to the tightly-pulled curtains. “Is it?” God, how he’d delighted in taunting the old bastard. It was one of the true enjoyments he found in life.
In a not uncommon show of temper, the duke swiped his hand over the long table positioned at the back of the sofa. He sent the bottles and snifters tumbling to the floor in an explosion of glass. “I have been tolerant of your carousing and womanizing. I’ve indulged your excess wagering.” A vein throbbed at the corner of his eye. “But if you think you’ll shirk these responsibilities, I’ll see you cut off without a goddamn pence.”
He grinned wryly and propped his hip on the arm of the sofa. Ah, the cut-you-off-without-a-pence threat. Cedric made a tsking sound. “Come, Father, I’ve merely sought to live to your esteemed reputation. Everything I learned about being a future duke, I learned from you.” Placing his own desires and interests before all else, living for his own pleasures, drinking, wagering. All of it had been learned at the foot of this bastard. The most important lesson inadvertently handed down, however, was the selfishness in saddling oneself with a wife and children—either legitimate or illegitimate. And in that, Cedric would have the ultimate triumph over the driven duke.
“And you’ll not have to abandon those pleasures.” His father tightened his mouth and moved on to his pragmatic explanation. “I understand your aversion to saddling yourself with one woman, but you can take a proper bride, do right by the line, and still warm every whore’s bed you so wish.”
Cedric tightened his fingers on his snifter. “How very practical,” he drawled, earning another frown. Yes, that was what the miserable bugger had done with Cedric’s own mother. He’d wed a flawless English lady, given her two legitimate babes, the requisite heir, and then she’d even done him the service of dying in short order. Why, it was everything a heartless, miserable letch like his father could have hoped for in a ducal union. Unfortunately for the old Duke of Ravenscourt, there was one slight, but very important, difference between them. Cedric didn’t give a bloody jot about the ancient title. It could go to the grave with his father and Cedric would quite gleefully kick dirt upon both as they were lowered into the ground.
The Lure of a Rake Page 2
