Her sister sighed. “Very well.” With slow steps, that only earned a deeper frown from their parents, Gillian made her way to the earl.
And as utterly miserable as it was being cast out by Society, there was an unexpected freeness that came in being spared from their parents’ scheming machinations to see her wed. They’d quite happily and eagerly orchestrated her meeting with the Duke of Aumere all those years ago and, as such, she could do without another carefully selected gentleman. She cast a quick look back to where her innocent sister now conversed with the leering gentleman. A frown turned Genevieve’s lips. Her parents would see their youngest daughter with another heartless, dishonorable cad, all to secure a title and respectability for her. Nay, it was about more than respectability for Gillian. It was about a restored sense of honor to the marquess and marchioness.
If she ever had children, which she assuredly would not because of the whole lack of suitor and husband business, then she would put that child first. She’d never impose her will or Society’s expectations, but rather love and nurture in ways her own parents had remarkably failed.
Genevieve came to a stop before Francesca, who hopped up from her seat.
“Oh, I am so happy to see you,” the woman exclaimed before she could say anything.
“And I you.” That warm greeting was really the greatest kindness Genevieve had known since she’d entered Lady Erroll’s.
An older, reed thin gentleman with a shock of white hair, climbed more slowly up, and Genevieve went still. The hazel eyes marked him as the Viscount Dailey. “Lady Genevieve,” he greeted, his voice booming. “A pleasure, indeed. Francesca has told me so very much about you.” He patted his daughter’s hand. “I will allow you ladies to speak. No need to have a bothersome papa underfoot.”
“You are never a bother,” Francesca said adamantly and leaning up on tiptoe, kissed his cheek in an affectionate display that only earned censorious stares.
She took in the kindness sparkling in his eyes and the sincere smile on his lips. How was it possible there was this warmth between a parent and child? Envy tugged at her heart, witnessing the devotion of a gentleman who’d indulge even a scandalous friendship for his daughter, if she so wished.
A young woman seated on the chair across from Francesca promptly stood and sailed off in a huff. At that cut-direct, Genevieve’s neck went hot. “I am so happy,” and relieved, “you are here,” she confided. For as miserable as London had been these now sixteen days, there had been kindness from the lovely woman…
And Cedric. There had also been an apology and a meaningful talk of art from that unlikeliest of figures.
Francesca slipped her arm through Genevieve’s. “Come, let us walk. You must tell me about that skill you possess.” Less than discreetly, she motioned to the departing wallflower. “For five years I’ve endured so much miserable company and, yet, you have this ease of just,” she snapped her fingers once, “ridding yourself of them.”
A startled laugh escaped Genevieve, earning reproachful stares from the surrounding guests.
A companionable silence fell between them, as they walked slowly along the perimeter of the room. Unbidden, she sought a taller, golden-haired gentleman who knew of Friedrich and Turner out amidst the guests.
“He does not come to these affairs.”
She cast a startled glance at her partner in misery.
Francesca leaned close and dropped her voice to a faint whisper. “Your waltzing partner.”
Genevieve shot her gaze about to determine whether anyone had overheard. Alas, who would have attention for two wallflowers; even the scandalous Farendale one. “I don’t—”
The young woman snorted. “I saw tapping toes, Genevieve,” she reminded her.
Promptly closing her mouth, Genevieve let her false protest wither.
They looked to the front of the room as a servant came to announce dinner. “I do hope you at least have a pleasant guest who doesn’t slurp his soup and chat about his hounds,” Francesca whispered. She sighed. With the station difference between them, she’d never be graced with the young woman as a dining partner. Which begged the question—
“Lady Genevieve, I have learned I have the honor of partnering you for dinner.”
A chill ran along her spine as that smooth, polished voice sounded beyond her shoulder. No. Surely her mother’s friend would at the very least spare her this humiliation and not use her as an oddity on display. Then what was the basis of those two matrons’ friendship? She stiffened and on numb legs, turned.
He was softer around the middle, with slightly fuller cheeks, but the chestnut hair that hung to his shoulders marked him the same. The same man who’d betrayed her and ruined her, and who even now stood smiling before her. As though they were friends. As though he’d not shattered her world with the lies on his lips.
Aware of Francesca staring between them and the flash of concern that lit her eyes, Genevieve’s fingers curled into reflexive balls. For an instant, she thought to flee. This was a world she wanted no part of, so why subject herself to this public humiliation? But she would be damned if she slunk off like a coward in the night for his treachery. “Y-Your Grace,” she greeted and sank into a curtsy. God, how she despised the faint tremor to that word.
“May I present my wife, Her Grace, Duchess of Aumere?”
Was he mad?
An icy revulsion seeped from the flawless golden beauty’s blue eyes. “How do you do, Lady Genevieve?” By the loathing that coated her words, she’d gladly see Genevieve in hell.
Francesca gave her a slight nudge, startling her into movement. She dropped a curtsy. “Your Grace, the pleasure is mine,” she lied.
The duke proffered his arm and, for a sliver of a moment, Genevieve considered leaving him as he was and curtly rejecting that offering. The ton, however, would erroneously view that as testament for resentment and envy. She slid her fingertips onto his elbow and allowed him to escort her to the dining room, in absolute stoic silence.
Her sister on the arm of Lord Erroll, shot a quick, concerned look over her shoulder.
“You look as beautiful as you always did, Genevieve,” His Grace said, the words so faintly spoken, she strained to hear.
She flexed her jaw. Did the man truly speak of her beauty with all of London’s most respectable guests watching on?
“Nothing to say, sweetheart?”
“I am not your sweetheart,” she bit out tightly.
They filed into the dining room and as they found their respective seats, their chairs were pulled out. With thanks to the young servant, Genevieve slid into the chair and promptly ignored the duke. Society, her parents, the duke, they could all go hang. She’d not be baited and taunted by this man.
The first course of the customary white soup was set before the assembled guests. Even as her stomach churned from being thrust beside the duke, as long as she was eating, she’d be spared from speaking. Picking up her spoon, Genevieve raised a spoonful to her mouth.
“I never believed you would be so ruined, Genevieve. You must believe that.”
She choked on her bite and setting the silverware down with a noisy clatter, she grabbed her water and took a swallow. “Are you mad?” she seethed. With those words, he revealed himself to be either a demmed fool or a bloody arrogant bastard. Then, he was no doubt both. “Did you think I would just be a little ruined?” All ruin was the same. In a Society where a lady’s virtue and familial connections mattered above all else, there was no recovering from a blight upon, either.
From across the table, her sister caught her eye and gave her a look of support, and pleading which served to ground her.
“This is hardly the place to discuss such a matter, Your Grace,” she said, priding herself on the smooth, even deliverance of those words, when she wanted nothing more than to hurl the contents of her glass in his arrogant face.
“Then where can we speak?” he asked with an urgency in his question.
“In hell on a S
unday,” she said with a forced smile, grateful when the gentleman on her opposite side paid her an obligatory remark that required answering.
As she sat through the infernal affair, she counted the passing seconds, as they rolled into minutes. Each moment signaled a point closer to the end of this display and through it, resentment built inside. Not for this heartless cad beside her, but for the parents who’d subject her to this gross humiliation. All to what end? To appease the gossips?
A slight clamor at the front of the room provided a brief diversion and she looked absently as the butler appeared with an unpunctual guest, who no doubt thought the world was his…
Her breath caught. Attired in immaculate black breeches and an equally midnight coat, the snowy white cravat, loosely folded, hinted at a gentleman who didn’t give a jot about time or whether that measurement stopped altogether. Cedric did a quick sweep of the room, before his gaze ultimately landed on her. The heat of his eyes threatened to bore through her. Why was he here? Why, when by Francesca’s own admission he was a man to studiously avoid polite affairs?
“Lord St. Albans,” Lady Erroll called out eagerly. “You are late, my boy.”
“Forgive me, madam,” he returned with his usual charming half-grin. “I was recently given a valuable lesson on punctuality, so you must forgive me.” He directed those words to Genevieve.
“It seems you might benefit from another,” she said, chortling at her own jest, while the other guests laughed about her.
“Indeed, madam.” He slid his gaze briefly to Genevieve once more. “It is a lesson I’d very much welcome, too.”
Her skin burned hot and not at his slight teasing but rather the remembered feel of his hands on her person, the masculine scent of him.
Their hostess thumped the table. “Prepare a spot at the head for Lord St. Albans,” she instructed a footman. “Not every day I have a duke and a future duke at my table.” She chortled. Within moments, a setting had been laid, and a servant showed him to his respective seat, on a slight diagonal from where Genevieve sat…beside, Gillian and an unfamiliar lady.
Ever charming as only a rake could be, he politely engaged the young woman beside him. An unwelcome, unwanted, and decidedly unpleasant sentiment ripped through Genevieve. Something that felt very nearly like jealousy, and…an unfair anger that he should be so casual and calm while she’d been plopped alongside her bloody former betrothed.
Cedric looked her way and her cheeks warmed at being caught studying him. As indecent as it was to hold his eyes from across the table, his powerful stare locked with hers. Did he remember their kiss even now? Was he thinking of their talks of art and…? He inclined his head in a polite, perfunctory manner and then with an infuriating calm, turned his attention to the guest at his opposite side. Gillian.
An ugly jealousy unfurled within her. It tightened the muscles of her stomach and curled her toes until her feet ached, as the pair so easily conversed. For gentlemen like the Marquess of St. Albans assuredly did not wed…until they had to and when they did, they invariably married those bright-eyed, optimistic ladies like her ethereal sister and not said lady’s long in the tooth, too pale sister with a fiery scandal to match her strawberry tresses.
Genevieve had convinced herself all these years that she was content with the practical life devoid of emotional connections. She’d convinced herself that she’d become a practical, logical, sensible woman; a woman well past the bloom of her first blush, content to sketch and pour over her books of art. Only to be proven a liar before the same Society who’d cast her out.
She wanted so much more.
Things she would never have. A family, an art room of her own, a garden with which to tend…
“I want you still.”
A dull humming filled her ears and she slowly turned her head. “I beg your pardon.” Surely she’d imagined the duke’s words. Surely he was not so very brazen, so bloody arrogant that he’d—
“My circumstances were dire and your finances were not enough.” The duke spoke with the same boredom he might in discussing the weather. She sat numb. That is why he’d jilted her? For a fatter purse? Not for anything beyond the material. He’d ruined her life because of his craving and need for wealth. She curled her fingers tight about her spoon to still their tremble, all the while wanting to rake her nails over his face.
“I never stopped wanting you, Genevieve.” He spoke the way he might praise a worthy mount and she gritted her teeth. The duke leaned close. “And there is no reason we cannot still be together,” he whispered and slid his hand under the table.
She froze as with his large, gloved hand he squeezed her thigh ringing an outraged gasp from her lips. The spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering noisily upon the rim of the porcelain bowl. At the peculiar looks thrown her way, she swiftly smoothed her features. It wouldn’t do to be discovered with the venerable Duke of Aumere with his hand caressing her leg. Of course, she’d be the one to blame for encouraging him so. Fighting to quell the fury sucking at her rational thoughts, she discreetly placed her hand on her lap and made to move His Grace’s fingers, but he retained his hold.
“It could be so wonderful between us, sweetheart.” His stale, wine-scented breath slapped her cheek.
“I’ve instructed you once. Do not call me sweetheart” With unsteady fingers, she grabbed her glass. Water droplets splashed over the crystal rim. “Remove your hand, Your Grace,” she said using her goblet to shield her lips.
He responded by moving his hand higher, sliding his fingers between the juncture of her thighs, bunching the fabric in a noisy manner. She froze as a thick curtain of rage descended over her vision, momentary blinding. How dare he disparage her name with his lies and now sully her with his indecent touch? Suddenly, the hatred she’d carried for him and the cold world in which they dwelled snapped. With a hiss, Genevieve hurled the contents of her glass in his face, gleefully relishing the way he choked and sputtered.
Gasps went up about the table. The sound faintly dulled by the rasp of her own frantic breathing.
Those loose chestnut strands, hung limp over the duke’s brow, as His Grace sat immobile, water dripping from his face.
Oh, God.
Reality pulled back the earlier rage and hatred, leaving in its place, a slow-building horror. The collection of guests, Genevieve included, watched in stupefied shock as the duke dabbed at his face with the crisp fabric of his dining napkin and then as one, the entire table looked to her.
Francesca with pride and encouragement.
Gillian with her usual gentle concern.
Her gaze collided briefly with Cedric’s thickly hooded lashes and unable to meet his stare, she fixed on but two pairs of enraged eyes. A mottled flush marred her parents’ equally fleshy cheeks. Wordlessly, she shoved back her chair, rose to her feet, and then walked from the room with her head held high.
Her father’s warning to “Attract No Notice” blared in her mind as she made her undignified march away.
Chapter 11
Not for the first time, in the course of the same week Cedric found himself remarkably…awake before the noon hour. And more remarkably—alert.
Seated at the breakfast table with his steaming black coffee at hand and his plate untouched, Cedric scanned the front of The Times.
In another shameful scandal, Lady GF, the elder amidst Lady Erroll’s esteemed guests gathered to dine, dumped her bowl of white soup on the Duke of A’s lap. The lady’s actions speak to her fury at having been denied the distinguished title of Duchess.
It is also said…
Cedric tossed the paper down beside him, where it landed with a fluttery thump. The whole of the ton had even less sense than he’d credited them over the years, which was saying a good deal. The closest to truth that had existed on the page was that white soup had, in fact, been served. Beyond that, however, the sheets contained nothing more than fabricated truths, manipulated by the lords and ladies who’d been in attendance, and churned out
by a paper to spread through respectable households.
He grabbed his coffee and blew on the steaming brew. Though, in his estimation, the lady’s magnificent show with her glass of water had been too splendid for the papers to fail to properly report the detail. Before humiliation had burned her cheeks, there had been fire. It had lit her eyes ablaze and spoke of the passion he’d already tasted in her kiss.
What had precipitated that display? Did Genevieve, in fact, harbor sentiments for that fop, Aumere? He frowned over the top of his glass. Surely the thoughtful, spirited creature he’d met in the park had more sense to have any affection for one such as Aumere?
His mouth tightened reflexively and he forced his lips to relax. It hardly mattered whether the lady wanted to tup Aumere or Prinny himself, or any gentleman. What did, however, matter was that very public display and her rushed departure…and his own father’s recent threats.
For with the sole reason he’d accepted an invitation to Erroll’s deucedly dull affair gone, and a scandal left in her wake, Cedric had sat, grinning at the appropriate moments and adding a charming repartee as needed. All the while, his mind had worked through the implications of Genevieve’s actions…and what that could, nay, would mean for him. After years of swearing to never wed and propagate the Falcot line, his hand had been suitably forced. Really, forced through his own recklessness these years with funds left him by his mother. Where the prospect of wedding a proper, demure lady caused his palms to dampen and his gut to churn, following Genevieve’s breathtaking display, the earlier seed planted by Montfort had grown. And following his departure of that infernal-after-she’d-left affair, the seed had continued to grow.
He required a wife. However, he’d little interest in a proper miss who was expecting babes and a bucolic tableau of marital affection and pretend bliss. What Cedric required was…a wife. Nothing more. Nothing less. What woman, however, would give up the dream of a family and be content with a rake for a husband, living a life where they each carried on their own, very separate existences. Until just this week, he’d have said such a paragon did not exist.
The Lure of a Rake Page 12
