Then Lady Genevieve had stolen into his father’s library.
Now he knew that paragon was, indeed, real. A slow grin formed on his lips and he took a long swallow of his drink. Setting his glass down hard beside him, he grabbed the scandal sheet once more. Working his gaze over the page, he quickly found her name; bold and dark and so very damning.
With two scandals now tied to the lady’s name, not a single, respectable gentleman would offer Genevieve Farendale his name. Fortunately for the lady, the last thing he wanted, desired, or needed was respectability.
But what about what Genevieve desires?
A frown drove away his smile. Beyond the physical gratification he was sure each woman who warmed his bed knew in his arms, he’d never been one to think of a lady’s desires beyond that. Those creatures had all been the same. They craved wealth and title and expensive baubles.
His gaze remained trained on Genevieve’s name. For in just a handful of meetings, the lady had proven herself remarkably unlike all others. From the skirts she wore, to her loathing for those lofty titles, and her desire for solitary time in the garden of Hyde Park, she did not fit with what he knew of ladies of the ton. Yet, everyone wanted something. What did she want? And more, how difficult would it be to convince the lady who’d been shunned and shamed by Society that she could find freedom from all that censure?
Loathe the title as she might for the perceived attention it would bring, as a future duchess, she could move freely, just for the rank afforded her.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and he looked up expectantly at his butler in the entrance.
“Your mount has been readied, my lord.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement and as the other man turned on his heel, Cedric remained rooted to his chair. For despite his efforts to convince himself of the logic in offering for a lady who had very few options in the marriage market, and his own need of a bride, his insides twisted in vicious knots at the prospect of forever binding himself to a single person. His parents’ union had been a publically miserable one and, given his own similarities to his sire, he could never be a devoted, respectable husband.
But mayhap, given Genevieve’s circumstances, that would not matter to the lady. Mayhap, if they both entered into the match with reason and logic, recognizing it as a business arrangement and nothing more, then the misery he’d witnessed in his own mother before she’d left him to her husband’s efforts would be avoided altogether.
Cedric tapped the rim of his nearly empty glass, distractedly. If he went into the union with the terms clearly laid out, spelled in such a way that the match was mutually beneficial to the both of them, then there would be no worry over entangled hearts or future babes or…well, anything that surely mattered to most women. All matters he wanted no part of. His lips pulled in a grimace.
Except, laying it out in a cold, perfunctory manner, he was forced to recognize that what he would offer to Genevieve Farendale was hardly the romantic match craved by whimsical chits. And make no doubt, for the lady’s clearheaded words and logic in his presence, one who stole into the gardens of Hyde Park and sketched in the privacy of her own company was possessed of a whimsical fancy.
Even with that, she was still the logical choice. They got on well in one another’s company; like friends, if there was ever such a thing as a gentleman forming a friendship with a young lady. She had her heart broken before and no doubt wished to avoid that likelihood again, at all costs. And, of course, the very obvious fact being they both required a spouse.
Fueled by that, Cedric finished his nearly cool coffee and set the glass down hard. He shoved back his chair and before he proceeded to create a list of all the folly in his intentions for the day, he started for the door. As he strode through the crimson-carpeted halls, he took in the scandalous portraits hanging on the walls and the dark, heavy furniture best suiting a bachelor’s residence. The possibility of sharing these rooms with a young lady sent terror churning in his belly.
It will be nothing more than a business arrangement…a convenient arrangement made only sweeter by the desire raging between them.
And that was, of course, assuming the lady said yes. Given Genevieve’s wariness around him and her own past, she was wiser than most women and knew better than to wed a rake. Of course, the lady surely knew by now he could show her more pleasure than she’d ever known her body capable of.
Cedric reached the foyer and accepted the cloak from his waiting butler and then his hat. As Avis hurried over and pulled the door open, Cedric stalled. The moment he stepped through that front door and inside the Marquess of Ellsworth’s townhouse, he’d be abandoning a lifelong pledge he’d taken to thwart his father’s wishes for him. Not truly, a voice reassured at the back of his head. There would still never be that coveted heir and a spare to secure the line. Instead, it would carry on through a distant relative his father disapproved of. Fueled by that assurance, Cedric jammed his black Oxonian on his head, and before his courage deserted him, strode over to the front door and stepped outside.
Having convinced himself of this madness, all that remained was bringing Genevieve Farendale around to his way of thinking.
Chapter 12
Seated on the floor of the nursery room with her sketchpad on her lap Genevieve let her fingers fly over the page. With each slash and stroke of the charcoal, the frustration and rage and restlessness rose to the surface.
Bloody bastards.
Her frantic movements sent a curl tumbling over her brow and she blew it back, not pausing to brush it back. All of them. Her loathsome, former betrothed, who’d so disrespect her. Her father who would hold her to blame. Her mother who would let him hold her to blame. Every last one of them, along with Lady Erroll and her guests could go to the devil.
The charcoal scratched noisily upon the page, as the half-grinning gentleman’s face materialized upon the sheet, revealing the charming, roguish, and, importantly, distracting Cedric Falcot, Marquess of St. Albans.
She bent her head, concentrating on the thick strands of his tousled hair. She had always loved charcoal and, in this moment, hated it for its failure to capture the thickened golden hue of sunshine and barley fields. At last, Genevieve paused and assessed the partially completed sketch of the gentleman as he’d been last evening. Seated beside her sister. He’d been the only guest at Lady Erroll’s who’d not had horror or glee stamped on his face. Instead, there had been that inscrutable expression; an almost nonchalant air of a person so thoroughly bored by it all. Society. The gossip. The falsities. And there was something so very riveting, so captivating, in that. For in a moment of another public shame, there had been someone who’d not looked at her with pity or scorn.
A faint click cut into her musings and she glanced up suddenly.
Gillian closed the door. Unlike all the previous times since Genevieve’s return when she hovered uncertainly, this time she closed the door without request. “I thought I might find you here.”
Yes, because even for the four years of age separation between them, they’d once been the best of friends. Hadn’t her younger sister found her here before all others on the night of her wedding? With an absolute want for words, she said, “Hello, Gillian.” For what else was there to talk about?
Her sister strolled forward and in one effortless move, sank to the floor in a flurry of white skirts. They settled about her, as she dragged her legs close to her chest in a way that would have sent their mother into a fit of vapors. “Father has…” Her words trailed off and, belatedly, Genevieve followed her gaze downward.
Heat streaked across her cheeks as she quickly snapped the damning sketchpad closed. As much as she loved Gillian and had only called her friend, there was something too intimate, too personal, in sharing her unwitting fascination with the Marquess of St. Albans.
Thankfully, her sister continued and let the matter go unsaid. “Father sent your maid looking for you.”
She sighed. “Of course he did.” Jus
t as she’d been unable to hide forever all those years ago, now was no exception. Ultimately she was located, summoned, and brought before her father—the arbiter and executioner of her fate.
Gillian rubbed her chin back and forth over her ruffled skirts. “Do you care to talk about it?” she asked tentatively.
Genevieve stilled, horribly motionless. Exposed by her sister’s discovery and then…
“I’ve no doubt he deserved it,” her sister continued. “You’d never have thrown your water in his face unless he’d gravely insulted you.”
As the meaning of her words sank in, she blinked. Of course with the flurry of whispers following her ignominious departure and her family’s slightly delayed retreat from Lady Erroll’s, the real matter that should command Genevieve’s attention were the implications of her behavior last evening. And yet, it wasn’t. Instead, she was distracted by a rake who’d witnessed that humiliation. What had Cedric, a man so coolly elegant and in possession of his every emotion, thought of such a display? She gave her head a disgusted shake.
“Did he?” her sister asked, pulling her back to the moment. “Deserve it, that is.”
She tightened her mouth. “He most assuredly did.” Genevieve curled her fingers hard about the leather book in her hands. Her nails left crescent marks on the soft leather. “Father will never see it that way.” She was unable to keep the bitterness from tingeing her words. Her parents had as much faith in her virtue and honor as the rest of Society.
“No he won’t,” her sister said quietly. “He wants us to make a match.”
Both their parents did. Perhaps with an equal intensity.
She furrowed her brow, staring with concern at Gillian. Would her younger sister, with her desire to please all, compromise her own happiness? Surely with her romantic spirit, she’d not allow their father to so influence her. “You will make a match,” Genevieve said and claiming her sister’s hand, she gave her fingers a slight squeeze. She, on the other hand, would not. Ever. One scandal could mayhap be forgiven by an old reprobate in desperate need of a bride…such as Father’s friend, Lord Tremaine, but never two scandals. She steeled her jaw. She’d see her father in hell before she allowed him to bind her to that ancient lord.
Her sister’s face pulled. “I do not want just any gentleman.” Which their parents had, by the few events Genevieve attended the past fortnight, diligently thrust in their youngest daughter’s way. “Nor am I concerned about my marital state.” A slight, reproachful frown formed on Gillian’s usually smiling lips. “I am here because…” She darted her gaze about and then scooted closer. “I overheard Father whispering to Mother.”
Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat. “They are sending me away,” she breathed. Where that thought had once roused terror and agony, now a giddy lightness filled her chest; a desperate hungering to put this place behind her and carve out a quiet, albeit lonely, existence for herself in the country. There would be no caring husband and no loving, chubby-cheeked babes. A vise squeezed about her heart.
“Sending you away?” Her sister cocked her head as though that very thing hadn’t been done five years earlier. “No. They are talking about you marrying.”
She fanned the pages of her sketchpad. “Do you mean they are talking about me not ever marrying?” What gentleman would want a perfectly scandalous lady, nearly on the shelf, for his wife? Feeling Gillian’s gaze trained on her face, she made herself go still. And her uncooperative heart again faltered. “What is it?”
“Father wishes you to wed Lord Tremaine.”
Some of the tension eased from Genevieve’s shoulders and she leaned over to pat her sister’s fingers. “I know.”
The other-worldly, beautiful young woman opposite her shot her eyebrows to her hairline. “You know?” Incredulity underscored those two words. “And you are not horrified.”
“Father shared his intentions when I arrived in London.” She’d allowed herself to forget the old widower would be coming to town to size her up; had allowed herself to be distracted from the possibility of even seeing him. Now it all mattered not. For the horror to dog her since she’d fled Lady Erroll’s, a little thrill of triumph increased her heart’s beating.
Gillian searched Genevieve’s face. “And you did not tell me?”
At the wounded glimmer in Gillian’s expressive eyes, guilt swiftly doused all that previous, unholy enjoyment. “Oh, Gillian,” she said softly.
“I am your sister and you act as though I am a stranger,” she said faintly, accusatory. “And I know it is wrong and petty of me to speak of our relationship even now, but I wish to be your friend. I hate seeing you alone and you are so determined to be alone.”
She started. Since her return, she’d mourned the loss of her friendship with Gillian and lamented the loss of her brighter, more cheerful, self. Was her solitary state something she’d imposed upon herself as a means of protection? “You are right,” she said quietly and surprise lit her sister’s face. She hugged her sketchpad close, finding comfort in its solid, reassuring presence. It had been there when not even her family had. “I have spent so many years alone, Gillian,” she said, needing her sister to understand. “Grandfather—”
“Was cold and miserable?”
“No,” she said with an automaticity born of truth. That was how Society saw the old Earl of Hawkridge. That was how even Genevieve herself had. Those opinions had been fabricated by a girl’s fears of the austere, stately earl. “Grandfather has a clever wit and a dry humor,” she said, defending the man because it was important Gillian knew that, of their miserable family, Grandfather never was, nor ever had been, the problem member. “He is old, though.” She could not keep the sadness from creeping in. “He spends much of his days resting or sleeping. But when I was there, he was more a friend to me.” Unable to meet the other woman’s probing stare, Genevieve dropped her gaze to her knees. “But I no longer know how to be around company.”
“Bah, you were always cheerful and witty.”
Her sister’s unintended slight, earned a sharp bark of laughter. Goodness how she’d missed her raw honesty and innocent sincerity. But then her mirth died. “I will try to be more a friend to you.” To go back to the way they’d been when they were sisters, crafting ways to drive their parents mad.
Gillian narrowed her eyes. “And you’ll not keep secrets from me?”
She opened her mouth, but then followed the pointed stare to the book clenched in her fingers. Cedric. “There are no secrets.” I am a liar. There was a kiss that seared my soul and burns on my mouth even still. But there would never be anything more. Rakes did not rush to take brides and certainly not ruined ones. Not that Genevieve wished to be his bride. Except…what would it be like wed to a man such as Cedric? Her parents’ union had been coolly formal, with barely a smile between the couple and certainly never laughter. Marriage to Cedric would, no doubt, be thrilling and filled with passion. Butterflies danced wildly in her belly at the forbidden prospect.
“I daresay I would rather see you wed to a charming gentleman like the Marquess of St. Albans than Lord Tremaine,” her sister said jerking her back from such fanciful and, more, dangerous musings.
If Genevieve was of the marrying sort, she would most assuredly choose Cedric over an old widower, trying to beget heirs on her like a broodmare. With a man such as Cedric as her husband, there would at least exist laughter and desire in a marriage. A thrill fluttered in her belly. “Yes, well, neither is truly an option.” There were none.
A knock sounded at the door and, as one, they looked to the front.
Delores peeked her head inside. Light streamed into the nursery. “Lady Genny?” Her gaze landed on the sisters stuck in the corner. “Oh, there you are, miss.” A look of pity flashed on her face.
The time had come.
“His Lordship has requested your presence in his office.”
Even as she’d been expecting it, her stomach dipped. Mustering a smile for her sister’s benefit, she shoved t
o her feet. “Delores,” she said as she walked over and gave her sketchpad to the young maid. “Will you deliver this to my rooms?” The young maid nodded and then rushed off.
Genevieve stared after her a moment. It had been inevitable. Of course, all great shows of disobedience were met with a stern lecture. This, however, was no mere disobedience. This was another great scandal when she’d been so thoroughly warned. The floorboards groaned, indicating her sister had moved, and she cast a look sideways to Gillian.
“Perhaps if you speak to him,” Gillian said hopefully, with every word demonstrating the extent of her innocence. “If you explain how His Grace offended you, then he’ll be understanding.”
Many words had been leveled at the Marquess of Ellsworth: pompous, arrogant, respectable. Among them, however, understanding had never been one of them.
“I will speak to him,” she promised.
Her younger sister held out her elbow. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
“No,” she said, gentling that refusal with another smile. “I’ll visit after my meeting. I promise,” she added, when Gillian still hesitated. The last place she’d have the innocent, still-hopeful young woman was outside Father’s office while he delivered a dressing down like she was a recalcitrant child. She sank her teeth into her lower lip…or worse, a harlot who’d visited shame upon the family once more.
Without the benefit of her sister’s unwavering support, Genevieve made her way through the corridors. This moment was remarkably like another. And mayhap, if she were fortunate, like that long ago night, she’d be sent away.
But then what? a silent voice needled. Did she truly wish to be a relative forever dependent upon the charity of her family?
A short while later, she found herself seated at the foot of her father’s desk while he scribbled away at those very important ledgers that commanded more attention than his daughter ever had. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. No, the only notice he’d paid her had been when she’d brought shame to his name and title. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. And who she might wed. Why, when the then recent Duke of Aumere had set his cap upon her for that too-brief a time, she’d brought pride. That fleeting emotion had been quickly replaced with his furious disdain. All the old annoyances boiled to the surface and threatened to spill over. She fisted her hands on her lap. “You wished to see me,” she said tightly.
The Lure of a Rake Page 13
