The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

  She had a tenacity that could have ended Boney’s bid for domination better than all the greatest armies combined. “Will you be attending?”

  He always did. He had quite enjoyed the carnal sin he’d found with the masked strangers there. “I will.” Years prior, that unflinching affirmation would have come because he was wholly immersed in sin and wickedness. His palms moistened. Now, this need to go was a desperate attempt to hold on to a piece of who he was; a part that felt like it was rapidly slipping away.

  “He is your friend. You are my husband. I will be there, too,” she said calmly and then casually wandered over to her neglected garden tools.

  Her words, however, roused images of Genevieve as the carnal feast presented before a room of lascivious, depraved lords all waiting a chance to avail themselves to her luscious body. “You’re not going to the bloody party.” The words exploded from him.

  She stopped, hand on her small garden shovel and looked back. “What did you say?” A faint breezed stirred the air.

  He counted to five and when he trusted himself to speak, managed four words; “You are not going.” He’d safely insulated himself from all caring and feeling years earlier. He’d not lose any more pieces of who he was.

  She held his stare and he looked unflinchingly back, braced for her fight; wanting it. “Very well,” she said. With that, she returned her attention to her gardening.

  Cedric frowned. He should be pleased with her capitulation. It was what he’d desired, after all. And yet…there was this rush of disappointment. “That is all?” he eyed her warily.

  Genevieve paused from her work and lifted another blonde-red eyebrow. “Is there something else for us to discuss?”

  He shook his head jerkily. And like the demons of hell were at his heels, Cedric fled.

  Chapter 19

  Later that night, Cedric stood before the bevel mirror in his chambers. His valet helped him ready into his evening attire for a night out in a ritual that was everything predictable and familiar.

  And yet, nothing, all at the same time, was familiar. As such, he needed to regain control of his rapidly careening out of control world.

  His gaze caught the smooth glass and he took in the tight lines at the corners of his mouth, his furrowed brow. Waving off his servant, Cedric proceeded to knot his own cravat. Wordlessly, he accepted the proffered black jacket and shrugged into it.

  “I’ve had your carriage readied, my lord,” Avis murmured.

  He nodded slightly and dismissed the servant. With Avis gone, he was left alone with nothing but his own thoughts.

  I am married.

  He was married, when he’d vowed to never bind himself to any woman in that eternal state. Yet, in a week’s time, his father with his threat had flipped Cedric’s life upside down. When presented with the prospect of abandoning his comfortable lifestyle, marriage to Genevieve Farendale had really been the only palatable option. A match between them was one of a practical nature that required no emotion…except…

  His gut clenched.

  After turning away Montfort to tend gardens alongside his wife that morning, he’d detected more in her eyes. She wanted more. Expected it. She asked questions that he didn’t have answers to. And it scared the bloody hell out of him. Because he wasn’t capable of more. He was an island. Very much a tall, impenetrable fortress at the center of a sea.

  Squaring his jaw, he strode to the front of the room, yanked the door open, and stepped out into the hall.

  A startled shriek rent the quiet, followed by several soft thumps. His wife, clad in her modest nightshift and wrapper stared at him, her lips parted in a soft moue of surprise. Several books lay scattered at her feet. “Cedric,” she greeted and her intelligent gaze took in his immaculately clad frame. Disappointment lit her eyes. “You are going out.” It would seem they’d picked up where they’d left off in the gardens.

  He opened and closed his mouth several times, as they remained frozen, locked in some silent battle of the wills. Then Genevieve schooled her features and dropped to a knee. “Not that you are not permitted to go out,” she said, before he could speak. “You are, of course, permitted to do whatever it is you wish. I just wish…” She clamped her lips closed and began to hastily collect the leather books.

  She wished what? To accompany him? To have him remain behind with her? What was it? Tamping down the questions, Cedric stared at her as she neatly stacked her pile; warring with himself. He should go.

  With a sigh, Cedric strode over and fell to his haunches beside her. She paused and looked questioningly to him as he gathered the leather tomes. “You’ve quite the collection of reading material,” he said with a wry smile.

  Genevieve gave her head a little shake and then jumped to her feet. “Yes, well, you do have a marvelous collection of works on art. My father’s library was vastly neglected in this area.” There was an animated quality to her words that matched the excitement in her eyes, momentarily freezing him. He preferred her like this. Lively and eager for his company, to the disappointed, disheartened woman he’d known since the garden. She cleared her throat and held her arms out.

  He followed her gaze to the stack in his grasp. “Where do you wish them?”

  “I do not require help, Cedric.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye. For he wished to help. “I was taking them to my room, and…” Cedric started for her chamber door. He shoved it open and stepped inside. “You may set them down on my nightstand,” she said softly. He deposited her collection of books beside her bed.

  His wife hovered at the entrance of the room and the soft glow cast by the hearth leant a translucent quality to her nightshift. He took in the dusky brown hue of her nipples, pressed against the front of the garment. A wave of lust slammed into him. “Close the door,” he commanded softly.

  She cocked her head.

  “Close the door,” he urged.

  Her eyes formed moons and she hurriedly slammed the door. As he stalked over, her chest moved in a frantic rhythm and she laid her back against the wood panel. He came to a stop before her, and then layering his elbows on either side of her slender figure, he framed her within his arms.

  “I want you,” he said, his voice roughened with desire. When would he tire of his innocent, wide-eyed wife? Mayhap, once he had his fill of her, he could go back to the carefree rake he’d been.

  Her lashes fluttered and she turned her face up to receive his kiss. Their mouths met in a passionate, almost ruthless, dance. There was no gentleness, but rather a desperate hunger that came from two people who wanted to meld their bodies in the most primitive of ways. He lowered his hands to her hips and dragged her hard between the vee of his thighs so she could feel his aching shaft pressed against her. She cried out and he reveled in the sound of her desire. He dragged a trail of kisses from the corner of her mouth, downward to her neck, her décolletage, and lower. Then dropping to his knees, he shoved her modest nightshift up, exposing her creamy white thighs to the night air.

  Her breath caught. “Wh-what are you…” Her words ended on a hiss as he parted her legs and positioned his face between the apex of her thighs. Then he slid his tongue inside her molten hot folds. “Cedric!” She cried out and her legs buckled. “Surely, this is forbidden.”

  “Shh,” he whispered against her womanhood, until a keening moan exploded from her lips. “Let yourself feel, Genevieve. There is no shame in wicked. Only splendor. Let your body feel it.”

  She stiffened and then with a cry, let herself go, undulating into his mouth, taking what he offered. Twining her fingers in his hair, she held him close. All the while he thrust his tongue in and out of her, in the mating ritual that brought a franticness to her thrusting. He sucked on her nub. Then her body went taut and a piercing scream split her lips as she came in his mouth. He continued to wring every last drop of pleasure from her and then he freed himself from the confines of his breeches. Cedric pushed to a stand and parting her legs, he thrust home. The door rattled noisi
ly as he pumped, over and over, until she was moaning once more in his arms. And he reveled in it. Celebrated it. When he had nothing to truly give her, he could give her this pleasure. Sexual gratification he knew. It was safe.

  “Cedric,” she wailed and the sound of that sent him spiraling over the edge of desire into a world of pure color and light.

  A shuddery groan escaped him as he poured himself inside her and then replete, he collapsed against the edge of the door, catching himself at his elbows. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears as his wife ran her long fingers up and down his back.

  “That was wonderful,” she said, a wistful quality in those words coming faintly out of breath, as though she’d run a long distance.

  It had been wonderful. It had been the mindless act he’d performed too many times to remember, but her release, in its purity and newness, roused a masculine sense of pride. Except, as Cedric drew back and removed the kerchief from his pocket then proceeded to clean her, an uncharacteristic awkwardness he’d never before known, descended. Why did he not know what to say? Hell, why was there even a need to say anything? They’d both had their pleasure and now could go about their own affairs. As he adjusted his garments, his skin pricked with the intensity of Genevieve’s eyes on him as she righted her nightshift. She sought words from him. What were they? His feet twitched with the need to flee the unrestrained emotion spilling from her too-honest eyes.

  “Will you join me?” she asked, a veritable Eve before him. Genevieve motioned to the books on art resting on her nightstand and he blankly followed her gesture to the stack.

  This question she put to him, this intimacy, was far greater than the passionate explosion between them moments ago. He cleared his throat. “I’ll not interrupt your plans for the evening.”

  She snorted. “My plans, Cedric? I’m not going anywhere. I haven’t been anywhere since we were married.” She arched an eyebrow; her meaning clear. His wife wished to accompany him out.

  He straightened his cravat, adjusting the slightly wrinkled knot. Beyond a place in his bed, ladies didn’t ask for much from him. That this one did roused a greater terror than facing down the Queen’s regiment without a weapon in hand. Cedric started for the door. He’d just grabbed the handle, when Genevieve called out.

  “What are you doing?” his wife spoke in clipped tones.

  He wheeled slowly around and then sighed. Genevieve stood with her arms folded at her chest. Of course, a lady of her spirit wouldn’t take to being summarily dismissed. Through her thick, strawberry lashes, fury sparked in her eyes. When he remained silent, she drummed her fingertips on her arm. “Are you leaving?”

  By the fiery glimmer in her direct gaze, he was one erroneous word away from a display he’d rather do without. He tugged at his neck piece. “I pledged to meet Montfort.” For years, he’d never accounted for his actions or decisions and he squirmed, discomfited with her show of spirit and the questions she’d put to him.

  Silence reigned, punctuated by the ticking of the clock. “Montfort,” she said at last, and by the way she managed to stretch those syllables into forever, hinted at her slow-building fury.

  “I never presented myself as something other than I am, madam,” he said dragging a hand through his hair. He’d not led her into this union with the promise of anything beyond security and freedom. Her words and actions these two days were those of a woman who expected more…nay, desired more. Nor did it truly matter what she did hope for or expect of their union. Or it shouldn’t. Perhaps he was not as much a heartless bastard as he’d believed these years. He captured her delicate chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipped her head up. “You do not understand,” he said quietly.

  “Then make me,” she said with a steely insistence.

  “This is who I am.”

  She planted her hands akimbo. “That isn’t an answer, Cedric.”

  Ultimately he’d fail her. His blood was his father’s and she would invariably become the same broken figure in the gardens below that his own mother had been. And he’d rather she hate him now and retain her spirit than see her turned into that empty creature at his hands. He tried to make her understand. “I visit my clubs and attend mindless ton amusements and—”

  “And you come in here, make love to me, and leave.” Crimson suffused her cheeks and she jutted her chin up. “You’ll give me your body, but that is all, like I am nothing more than the whore Society purported me to be.”

  A thick curtain of black fury fell over his vision. At the ton who’d so condemned her and himself for this vitriolic rage at the word she ascribed to herself. “You are no whore,” he bit out. “I’ll not continue this discussion,” he muttered and made to leave once more.

  “No, you’ll run, instead,” she said quietly, those words more powerful than had she roared them from the top of her lungs. “Just as you do every night.” She twisted that dull-blade of truth inside, like a dagger that carved away at years of indifference.

  His entire body jerked. She’d accuse him of cowardice? But then, aren’t you? Have you ever met anything or anyone more terrifying than Genevieve and her hold over you?

  “A whore is what you’d have me be, Cedric.” Her words echoed around the room. “I am nothing more than a mistress who shares your name.” She turned her palms up. “I married you, for what? My financial freedom? My own security? How does that not make me a whore?”

  He snapped his teeth so hard, pain shot along his jawline. “Do not say that,” he said sharply. We had a bloody goddamn arrangement. This probing had never been part of it…

  He braced for her additional fury, welcomed it. But alas, she proved as unpredictable as she’d been since his father’s ball. “Those…amusements where you find your…pleasure,” she began unexpectedly. “You have attended them since you were in university, no doubt.”

  Earlier. He’d had his first whore at thirteen. He’d not taint her ears with that ugly truth.

  “Do you enjoy going to them?” Her softly spoken question cut across his silent musings.

  He considered her question. Did he enjoy them? She nodded. Cedric started, not realizing he’d spoken aloud. “It is what I know,” he said with a frown. Feeling burned, he released his gentle grip on her chin and took a hasty step away from her.

  Genevieve wandered over to the nightstand, drawing his gaze to her every slow, deliberate movement. She perched on the edge of the mattress and picked up the top copy of her books. “I used to love London,” she said softly. “I thought it was very grand and romantic and exciting.”

  He curled his hands. Her former betrothed. Why should it matter that she’d thrilled at the gentleman’s presence?

  “Yes, how very grand it all seemed.” She absently fanned the pages of the book. “The orchestras and scandalous waltzes.” Genevieve lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Once more with her unwitting words, she proved the depth of her innocence. “I do love to waltz, you know.” Actually he hadn’t. What else did he not know about the woman he’d married? “The evenings that seemed unending. The magnificent gowns. I thought how much I loved the thrill of it all.” She lifted her gaze from her book. “Until I was sent away to the country and came to find a freedom that existed outside the confines of London. Joy driven by your own interests and not what Society believes your interests should be. Wagering. Waltzing. Shopping. What is the purpose of all that?”

  Cedric shifted on his feet as the unabashed honesty of her admission shook him. This world he lived in was one he’d been born to; one that, by the very nature of his blood, had become one that was comfortable to him. “There is something to be said for the comfort to be had in familiarity.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. A small smile hovered on her lips. “But the thrill of the unfamiliar…now that is something to revel in.” Silence fell, punctuated by the snapping hiss of the fire in the hearth. “Stay,” she urged.

  His mouth went dry. “I cannot,” he said hoarsely.

  Before he did some
thing borne of madness like join her in that bed to peruse those books on her nightstand, Cedric spun on his heel and marched from the room like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels—and left.

  Chapter 20

  In the following weeks Genevieve and Cedric settled into a predictable routine.

  She would rise first, and he, much, much later. During the day, they sketched and read and gardened.

  And if the days were to stop at four o’clock in the afternoon, one would say they were the model of a devoted, loving couple. Which was, of course, madness. There was no love in a formal arrangement such as theirs. But each evening…for seven weeks three days, two hours, and a handful of minutes, if one wanted to be truly precise, Cedric left.

  Oh, there was lovemaking. Scandalously during the day and then sometimes when he returned in the dead of night, from wherever it was he went. Then, the papers had proven quite valuable in indicating just where her husband spent the later part of his days and nearly the whole of his nights.

  On her haunches, Genevieve glanced up from the small hole she now dug to where her husband now sat. With his eyes closed and his head tilted toward the sun, she used the moment to study him. He had the look of a bronzed Apollo; the manner of beauty that still quickened her heart, these weeks later.

  He opened his eyes and not wanting to be caught gaping like a fawning schoolgirl, she quickly devoted her attention to the moist soil. Genevieve reached her fingers into the soft patch to remove a large rock and her fingers collided with a fat, slimy earthworm. She gagged, nausea broiling at the back of her throat, and quickly yanked her hand back.