The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

  “I expect you at my goddamn ball.” The duke jabbed a finger at him. “The bloody affair is for you.” It had never been about Cedric. None of it. It had only and ever been about the dukedom. “Find a sweet, biddable bride, or—”

  “You’ll cut me off,” Cedric put in with a half-grin. “Of course. How can I forget?”

  His father sputtered and flared his eyes. After all, no one taunted, baited, or denied this man—except Cedric. Then as quick as the flare of emotion had come, it was gone, and the duke smoothed his unwrinkled features into an un-moveable mask. “You’ve gone through a good deal of the funds left you by your mother.”

  He stilled. Yes, with the recklessness of youth, he’d wagered too many of those funds, lavished expensive mistresses with jewels befitting a queen.

  A slow, triumphant smile devoid of all amusement turned his father’s hard lips. “I can see every creditor called in. One word, and not a single credit will be extended you. This residence,” he waved his hand. “Gone. Then where will you be?”

  Forced back into that long-despised townhouse where he’d endured relentless training and schooling on all things pertaining to the dukedom as a boy. To the place where he’d received such caring tutelage under his father. That house of ugliness and learned depravity. “Go to hell,” he said at last.

  His father stuck a finger out once more. “Be at the ball this evening. My threats aren’t idle. Surely you know that, by now?”

  …I told you. One mistake, and you’ll not see light outside this office…

  The old memory slapped at the corners of his mind and he fisted his hands. He’d not let the duke know the influence he’d once yielded and that the memories sometimes crept in. No, Cedric had buried those oldest hurts and pains long ago and shaped himself into a man incapable of feeling anything.

  The duke peered at him a long while and then gave a slow, pleased nod. “I see you understand.” Without giving Cedric another moment to reply, he spun on his heel and stalked over to the door. He yanked it open. “Be there.”

  “A pleasure, as always,” Cedric called after him.

  His only living parent slammed the door behind him.

  Cedric stood, unmoving, and stared at the mahogany panel the duke had left through. With tension thrumming inside him, he looked to the broken bottles littering the floor from his father’s outburst. He scrubbed a hand over his beard-stubbled face. Glass in hand, he went over to the window. Drawing back the crimson brocade curtain, he peered down into the street.

  His father exited the townhouse and paused outside to adjust his elegant Long Eaton top hat. The late morning sun glinted off the blond and silver strands of his hair. With his expensive cloak whipping about his tall, commanding frame, he evinced power and control. Odd, how one could look at a person and see regality and, yet, that was just a fine veneer of a black, ugly soul and depravity that ran in his veins. A depravity he’d passed easily to the son he’d taken under his wing as a boy of five and schooled on everything from future ducal responsibilities to the immoral pleasures granted men of their stations.

  As the duke climbed into his carriage, Cedric released the fabric and let it flutter into place. He carried his drink over to a leather winged back chair and sank onto the edge. He stared over the rim to the mess left in his father’s violent fit.

  For years, he’d thrilled at taunting his father. He’d lived for his own pleasures, and with the debauched clubs he attended, and parties he hosted, had earned a reputation of rake. When other respectable noblemen would disapprove of those ignoble escapades, Cedric’s had been accepted, even applauded, by his father. His lips pulled in an involuntary sneer. Then, would one expect anything else from the man who’d sent a whore to the schoolrooms to administer Cedric’s lessons when he’d been a boy of thirteen?

  Regardless of fatherly approval or disapproval, he’d lived for himself. All the while he found a secret relish in knowing that the one task his bastard father expected of him was one he’d never grant. For the control he’d exerted over Cedric through the years, this had been the secret, but ultimate, show of power and triumph. Yet, ironically, as a young man out of university and now nearly in his thirtieth year, in his base living, he’d run through funds that had once seemed limitless. A gift given him by the mother who’d correctly seen little worth in her only son.

  Now, his father dangled a not unfamiliar threat over Cedric’s proverbial head. He swirled the contents of his glass and stared into the burgundy depths. The rub of it was…he’d no doubt his father would ultimately make good on his promise and cut him off if he were to fail the Falcot line.

  His lips hardened into a tight line. Yet, Cedric would sooner lob off his right arm and left hand than enter into a union for the purpose of propagating the world with legitimate issue bearing his tainted blood. For all the ways in which he had been a selfish bastard through the years, he was not the complete one Society believed him to be. He’d not destroy a wife and ruin a child the way he had been at his parents’ hands. For ultimately, blood let, and blood will tell, and every other cliché statement made about the power of blood.

  Cedric, however, did not require those cleverly written words to indicate what he’d learned long, long ago. He was his father’s son. And as such, he would never fill the world with miserable bastards like himself.

  A knock sounded and he looked up blankly. Thrusting aside the memories of long ago, he called out, “Enter.”

  Avis opened the door and the introduction died on his lips as he took in the crystal mess littering the floor. “The Earl of Montfort to see you, my lord.”

  Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, his only friend, another miserable blighter who possessed a dark soul, scowled. From the hard glint in his brown eyes to the notoriously shocking reputation, the earl matched Cedric in his world of wariness and cynicism. “Montfort,” he greeted as the other man entered the room.

  Montfort stalked over to the sideboard and then paused. He eyed Cedric’s jacket and gaping shirt, and then the mess left in the duke’s wake. “I see you’ve had company.” A sardonic smile formed on the man’s lips. “Next time you’re with an inventive whore, tell the lady to spare the brandy. Not even a whore should come between a man and his good spirits.” With a chuckle, the earl swiped a bottle of whiskey. He poured two glasses and then with one outstretched, made his way over to the seat opposite Cedric.

  Cedric waved off the offering and set down his still full drink. The lure of spirits had, of late, lost their potent dulling of thought and emotion.

  His friend waggled his eyebrows. “More for me then,” he lifted both in salute and with a grip on both glasses, proceeded to drink.

  “Well?” Cedric drawled, sitting back in his seat.

  Montfort froze, the glass midway to his mouth. “Well?”

  Cedric lifted an eyebrow. “So what is the reason for your visit?” After all, life and time had long proven that no one did anything without specific reason or personal benefit; and that included those one considered friends.

  The earl flashed him a hurt stare. “I am offended, chap. Can’t a friend simply pay a visit to…” At the pointed look shot his way, a chuckle rumbled past the other man’s lips. “There is wagering going on at Forbidden Pleasures.”

  The more scandalous of the gaming hells, it was a place frequented by lechers, scoundrels, and rakes. All were men bent on their personal gratifications in a place devoid of even the façade of politeness or decency. As such, it had proven the perfect place for a man of Cedric’s ilk.

  When he remained silent, a sound of annoyance escaped Montfort and he put one snifter down. “Bloody hell, man, would you have me say it? The wagering is about you and your intentions for this evening.”

  “Oh?” Cedric hooked his ankle across the opposite knee. Having known the other man since they’d been boys at Eton, he well knew Montfort was not beyond coming here to influence the wagering he no doubt had steep funds in. The earl was also desperate. He’d inherit
ed a mountainous debt from the previous earl. His circumstances had not been improved by Montfort’s own excessive wagering and, even more, excessive losing.

  “Your clubs or the duke’s ball.” The earl took a long swallow of his drink. “I, of course, wagered on the former.”

  They’d be wrong on both scores. Cedric didn’t have a bloody intention of attending either this evening. “I haven’t decided,” he said noncommittally.

  The other man choked on his drink. “Yes, no doubt,” he said with droll humor after he’d finished his sip. “I am certain the first place you’ll care to be is at that miserable bastard’s polite affair.” He spoke as one who knew Cedric; who knew the lifelong loathing he’d carried for his sire. He knew the only places Cedric had ever truly been comfortable were those dens of sin, where he felt less alone in the evil in his blood.

  Finishing off his first whiskey, Montfort promptly consumed the other in a long, slow swallow. He grimaced and then set his empty glass aside. “Shall we?” he asked, climbing to his feet.

  Neither was the earl above trying to influence the wager, it would seem. Then, Cedric had long ago ceased being shocked by a person’s depravity and weakness. “Perhaps, I will join you later,” he said.

  Despite the low he’d sunk to in life, he’d not enter the living looking like he’d been roused from the streets of London.

  A grin formed on the other man’s lips, which Cedric wagered had not a jot to do with his actual promise of company. “Splendid,” Montfort said and thumped him on the back as he passed.

  After he’d gone and Cedric was, at last, alone, he gathered his black jacket and shrugged into it. When had joining his clubs bore the same appeal as spending an evening amidst polite Society? Forbidden Pleasures and the other hells he’d frequented over the years had been the few places he’d felt he belonged, with other like people—equally emotionless and jaded. He’d studiously avoided those polite balls and soirees. Somewhere along the way, there’d become a tedium to both.

  Attending tonight would serve to, no doubt, silence his father’s pressuring—even if temporarily. However, he’d never lived to placate the Duke of Ravenscourt. Nor would he ever live for that man. His father could go to the devil and someday when Cedric drew his last breath, he’d, no doubt, join his miserable sire in those fiery depths.

  With a hard grin, he started from the room.

  Chapter 3

  She hated gray.

  It was a horrid color that conjured overcast skies and dreary rain. It was miserable and depressing. And it was the color her parents would insist she don. She stared at her reflection in the bevel mirror. Her pale skin, devoid of even the hint of rouges her mother had once insisted on. The painfully tight chignon at the base of her skull accentuated her cheeks in an unflatteringly gaunt way. The high-necked, modest, gray gown concealed all hint of feminine curve.

  Odd, she’d spent so many years missing this place and now what she wouldn’t give to return to her grandfather’s property in Kent.

  From within the glass panel, her maid’s sad visage reflected back. “You look lovely, miss.”

  “You are a dreadful liar, Delores.” She gentled that with a wan smile. “But thank you.”

  Perhaps had they been any other maid and lady, there would have been further protestations. The close relationship formed by them through the years, however, kept Delores silent and Genevieve appreciated that. She did. For she didn’t need lies and platitudes to tell her anything different than what she felt in her heart and saw in this very mirror. She was bloody miserable.

  It had been a fortnight since she’d returned and, in that time, she’d gone through the motions of proper daughter. She’d gone to dreadful fitting after fitting for equally dreadful gowns. She’d been schooled on the lords she might speak to during dinner parties.

  The Earl of Primly. Polite, proper, and safe.

  The Marquess of Guilford. Respectable, loyal brother and son, and also safe.

  The Earl of Montfort. Rake, nearly impoverished, and dangerous.

  And she’d been instructed to not dance.

  Her toes curled reflexively within the soles of her too-tight slippers. Of everything she’d missed of London, the strains of the orchestra and exuberantly moving through the intricate steps of the waltz and quadrille had been some of them. But then, that thrill had come from a long ago time when she’d carried a foolish girl’s dream of a love that conquered all.

  The door opened and she looked to the front of the room.

  Her sister, Gillian, hovered in the entrance. With her pale lavender satin and artfully arranged whitish blonde curls, she could rival the angels in one of da Vinci’s murals. Then Gillian gave her a hesitant smile that transformed her from magnificent to otherworldly in her beauty. “May I come in?” she asked tentatively. But that was just Gillian’s beauty; it transcended mere physical looks and delved deep to a purity and goodness that Genevieve had forgotten existed.

  “Of course.” Genevieve motioned her forward and, with a curtsy, Delores ducked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Her sister glided over and her satin skirts swirled about her satin slipper-clad feet. She stopped before Genevieve and shifted on her feet.

  Strangers. That was what time had turned them into. Two girls who’d once giggled under the covers after Genevieve had returned from balls and put on pretend performances where they’d taken on the role of their proper marquess and marchioness.

  Gillian cleared her throat. “You look…” Her expression grew strained. The youngest Farendale sibling had always been incapable of artifice.

  “Horrid?” Genevieve supplied, in a bid to break the stilted awkwardness that had existed since she’d returned.

  “Never.” Her sister gave her head an emphatic shake. “It does not matter what color skirts you wear or your hairstyle, it is who you are,” she said with the most meaningful of words to pass between them in two weeks. Gillian captured her hands and gave them a slight squeeze. “And I’ve missed you so, so much.”

  Her throat worked. This had been the one person who had missed her. Just as Genevieve, tending the gardens in Kent with the sun as her daytime companion and her gruff grandfather in the evening, had missed the friendship of her sister. A sister who now, for Genevieve’s shameless flirting and subsequent scandal, found herself uncourted and unwanted. “I am sorry,” she managed on a soft whisper.

  Her sister made a sound of protest. “Oh, do not do that.” She squeezed Genevieve’s hands again. “Do not. I would never, ever want a gentleman who’d so judge you and, through you, me.” Gillian gave her a wider smile. “I will find a gentleman who loves me regardless of anything and everything. And you will, too.”

  Find love? The best she could hope for in this old world she’d been dragged back into was a quiet existence devoid of whispers and gossip. There would be no champions or heroes because…they didn’t exist. She shook her head sadly. “Oh, Gillian.” Had she ever been so hopelessly optimistic in love and the belief in a good, honorable gentleman?

  Her sister’s smile dipped. “You don’t believe,” she observed.

  Not anymore and not because she’d been in love with the Duke of Aumere. She hadn’t. She’d been charmed, and in love with their forbidden flirtation and, even just a little bit, the promise of pleasing her parents and securing that coveted title. She was saved from replying and offering any darkly realistic truths to her still-innocent sister by a soft rapping at the door.

  They looked as one.

  “The Marquess and Marchioness have asked you join them in the foyer.”

  It was time. The inevitable reentry. Withdrawing her hand from Gillian’s, Genevieve smoothed her damp palms over her muslin skirts.

  As they walked, her loquacious sister filled the tense silence. “The Duke of Ravenscourt will be our host. Mama believes that means he is trying to arrange a match for his son, the Marquess of St. Albans.”

  Ahh, the wicked, dangerous one to avoid. Neit
her was the irony lost on her; another future duke, those gentlemen who believed the world was their due and were forgiven for jilting their betrotheds at the altar.

  Her sister dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, stealing a peek about as they walked. “I heard Mother and Lady Erroll say he is something of a rake.”

  Of course he was.

  “But even rakes can be reformed,” Gillian said with a girlish innocence that caused Genevieve to miss a step. She stumbled, and quickly righted herself.

  With her beauty, and because of Genevieve’s scandalous roots, a naïve miss like Gillian would be easy prey for those treacherous gentlemen. “No,” she said, the denial ripped harshly from her lungs. “I don’t believe they can.”

  A flash of pity danced in her sister’s green eyes.

  Tension knotted Genevieve’s belly. God, how she despised those sympathetic stares. They were even worse than the sneering, disgusted ones.

  Her sister proved the tenacious spirit she’d always possessed as a small child. “My friend, Phoebe is recently married to Lord Rutland. He was rumored to be the darkest of all the scoundrels and, yet, they are hopelessly in love.”

  They arrived at the foyer and Genevieve promptly closed her mouth. The last debates she cared to have in the presence of their parents were matters pertaining to the heart and rakes.

  The marquess consulted his timepiece.