The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

  As soon as the words left Francesca’s mouth, she softly cursed. “Oh, Genevieve, I did not mean…” She let the partially eaten pastry fall to the delicate porcelain dish before her. “That is…”

  “It is fine,” Genevieve assured her with a reassuring smile. Her friend only spoke the truth. It was that truth that had brought her ’round to her plans for the evening. Nervousness mixed with excitement and kicked her heart up another beat.

  “I’m quite rubbish with words. What I meant to say is that I am certain the marquess is most devoted.”

  Cedric had proven himself devoted…only in the most wicked ways one would expect a rake or rogue to be devoted. Memory of his touch in the early morn hours, sent heat racing from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Yes, there was no shortage of passion between them. With his artful caress and attentiveness in bed, he’d proven himself a tireless lover…when he wasn’t absent in the evening. She firmed her lips. Well, that was no longer enough. She’d tired of carrying on a separate existence with her friends while he went off to whatever club or hell he wished. She wanted all of him…or nothing.

  Liar.

  Her stomach turned over itself. For was she truly prepared to be entirely closed from his life?

  With a frustrated sigh, she set aside her sketchpad and reached for the porcelain teapot. To give her fingers something to do, she proceeded to pour herself a cup of tepid tea. Yes, how very tiresome this London life had become. It was a wonder that her husband so loved this miserable place.

  But then…she didn’t know the enjoyments that kept him so occupied…

  Ignoring another sharp twinge in her breast, she tightened her mouth. She would. Soon she would step inside his world, even as he’d not invited her in. Even as he’d expressly forbade her from entering. Then, her days of blind obedience had ended when she’d been sent away five years earlier.

  Footsteps sounded on the hall and she jerked her gaze to the door.

  “Lady Gillian Farendale,” the butler announced.

  At last.

  “Gillian,” she greeted as the butler backed out of the room.

  “Hullo, Genny.” A stack of newspapers in her fingers, Gillian stepped inside the room, just as she did every week since Genevieve had been married. This time, however, the slightly forced, more than concerned smile customarily wreathing her lovely face was tipped in a mischievous turn. “Francesca,” she greeted. Between bites, Francesca lifted a hand in greeting. She returned her attention to Genevieve. “I have the information you—”

  “Shh,” she said, looking pointedly past her shoulder.

  Shifting the scandal sheets in her arms Gillian, shoved the door closed with the tip of her slipper and then carried her papers over to where the ladies sat. She dropped the stack down on the rose-inlaid table, rattling the tea cups.

  Genevieve shot a hand out and steadied the pot. “As you know I asked you both here today…” she repeated.

  The young ladies stared expectantly back.

  “Gillian, you mentioned you have the information?”

  Her younger sister nodded. She reached for the papers on the table and shuffled through them. “This arrived from Honoria just before I came. It arrived during breakfast.” Her pulse quickened its tempo and she resisted the urge to grab the page from her sister’s fingers. “Mother was staring,” Gillian prattled, artless as always. “I tucked it within the scandal sheets and otherwise distracted her.”

  Her lips twisted wryly. Of course, beyond the gossip rags, there was no reading material their mother approved of. As such, seeing Gillian make off with those pages would hardly be grounds for suspicion or concern.

  Of which there should be.

  And certainly would be, were their mother to have known.

  “What is it?” Francesca asked. She alternated her stare between the sisters.

  Genevieve came slowly to her feet. She crossed over to the front of the room, locked the door, and turned slowly around. After all, she couldn’t risk Cedric entering and interrupting this particular exchange. “It is about my husband,” she whispered.

  Worry filled Francesca’s expressive eyes. “Are you happy?”

  The unexpectedness of that question stalled her thoughts. Was she happy? After years of being hidden in the country, she was now forever free of her parents’ influence. She was able to sketch and garden all day without fear of recrimination over her subjects. But was she happy? Her gaze wandered to the door. Sometimes she was happy. In fleeting moments spent with her husband during the day, when she could pretend that they were something more… “Yes,” she said, at last. “And also no.”

  “That is what I thought,” Gillian said with a knowing nod. “I see you several times a week and I cannot help but see the desire for more in your eyes.”

  She firmed her mouth. Yes, and she had the same hope. “This is why I’ve asked your help.” She looked to Gillian. Had she been so very transparent? Did Cedric know, even now, and that was why he went about his pleasures in the evenings? “Gillian, were you able to learn?”

  She held her breath, until her younger sister gave a little nod. “Yes. Phoebe and Lord Rutland had been off for the country. As such, it took longer for me to communicate with her.”

  “Rutland?” Francesca asked, befuddlement in her tone. “The scoundrel?” Her eyes formed round moons.

  “Oh, he’s no longer a scoundrel,” Gillian said reassuringly and patted the other young woman on the knee. “Now, he is quite content and hopelessly in love with Phoebe.”

  Envy dug its vicious talons inside.

  Her sister slapped her fingertips to her mouth. “I am sorry, Genevieve. I didn’t mean…”

  “It is quite fine,” she assured. Except it wasn’t. She knew it and her friends also knew it. It was also why she’d required assistance from her sister…and a stranger who’d been a scoundrel, who now loved his wife. Or at least by Gillian’s admission, anyway. Mayhap those rakes and rogues were incapable of reform. Genevieve only knew she’d not truly be happy—until she tried.

  She drew in a steadying breath and reclaimed her previously vacated seat. “My husband and I are, at best…friends.” Friends who made passionate love nearly every day and laughed together during the days and who parted ways in the night. But friends, nonetheless, as he’d said to her long ago in the gardens, when they’d but recently met. And for most women, that arrangement would be enough. Not her.

  “Friends?” Gillian snorted.

  With her faint mockery of that word, Gillian would sully the one thing she did share with Cedric.

  “There is nothing wrong in having just friendship with your husband,” Francesca said, and patted Genevieve on the hand. “But there is also nothing wrong in wanting more.” Her friend spoke as one who knew and who wanted more. And one who deserved more.

  She looked blankly to the stack of scandal sheets in her sister’s package. Just as Genevieve deserved more.

  “My husband is attending the Earl of Montfort’s…party.”

  The other young ladies said nothing. After all, what proper, respectable, unmarried lady spoke of those outrageous affairs, only whispered about on the pages and in ballrooms?

  “And I intend to go,” she said into the quiet. “However, the actual location of the earl’s event is only sent to invited guests.” Of which she’d never be.

  Silence met her announcement. She looked between them. She’d not known what she expected. Perhaps mild shock? Horror? Not this…silence.

  Then, two like smiles formed on the other women’s lips.

  Her sister leaned over and swiped a note from the top. “Here.” With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it at Genevieve. It fluttered onto the edge of her lap and she quickly grabbed it to keep the pages from sailing to the floor.

  Quickly tearing open the note, Genevieve skimmed the page. Nothing more than an address stared back.

  Francesca leaned over her shoulder. “What are you looking at?” Her eyes went to the same pl
ace Genevieve’s did.

  “The location of the earl’s wicked party,” Gillian explained. “The Marquess of Rutland, I expect, has an easier time obtaining such information than you or I ever would,” Gillian explained.

  Lifting her head, Genevieve favored her sister with a smile. “Brava, Gillian.”

  “I do not understand what makes the event so scandalous,” Francesca muttered and searched her gaze over the tray of largely eaten pastries.

  No, neither did Genevieve. She could only begin to suspect.

  Gillian grabbed a scandal sheet and tossed it to Francesca who caught it. “Go on. Read it,” her sister said. “Front and center of the top page.”

  Ah, front page news on this Cedric story. Wanting to be a coward and ignore whatever words were contained on those pages, she kept her stare trained on Gillian while Francesca read aloud.

  “…The Earl of M’s scandalous affair, no respectable lord or lady will attend. It is rumored the guest list will include the gentleman’s closest friend, the recently wed Marquess of SA. There are no surprises that the gentleman finds his pleasures else—” Francesca gasped and dropped the page as though burned. “That is horrid.”

  Genevieve’s fingers twitched with the urge to crumple the pages into a neat ball and hurl them into the low-burning hearth.

  “Have a pastry, you’ll feel better,” Francesca said, waving the lemon-filled tart out.

  “He gave you his name and owes you his love and loyalty.” Gillian’s quietly spoken words were more powerful than any roar or shout. They contained truth and expected Genevieve to confront the marriage she’d entered into.

  “She is right,” Francesca said quietly, echoing her own thoughts.

  Her only two friends in the world exchanged a look. Genevieve would have to be blind to fail to see the pity seeping from their revealing eyes. Nausea churned in her belly and she swallowed back the bitter taste. Did they expect she would be one of those miserably sad wives who’d don a sad frown and never attempt to make her life better? No. That had been her of long ago. Not anymore.

  She firmed her jaw. “Cedric made me no promises of more…but I want more from him, anyway. I want to be part of his life.” There was something freeing in breathing those words into existence. A weight lifted. A lightness in her chest. And for the first time in the nearly eight weeks since she’d been married to Cedric, she smiled. A true, honest, smile devoid of sadness. Genevieve bent down and fished around under the sofa. Her fingers collided with a heavy box and she lifted it up. She dropped the package beside the tray of pastries and it landed with a thump.

  The two ladies looked as one to the package.

  Filled with a restlessness, Genevieve surged to her feet. “I have tired of it,” she said and needing space between herself and the two, sympathetic ladies, she retreated. “Every day he sketches with me.”

  A whispery sigh escaped Francesca. “How have I not known that? That is hopelessly romantic.”

  Yes, it was. And it was something only Genevieve and Cedric shared. “And we garden together and that is a good deal more than most couples have. But I am tired of carrying on as a blissful new bride during the day while he goes out on his own, every night.” Every. Night. She began to pace. “Though, it is quite a deal better than most unions, certainly our parents’,” she said, pausing a moment to give Gillian a look, needing her to know she deserved more, as well. “I want it all. I want his friendship, and his heart, and a life together.” She slammed her fist into her palm and continued her frantic movements. “And I’ll have it all or noth—” Genevieve spun and at the rapidity of the abrupt movement, the room dipped. She shot a hand out and caught herself against the edge of a nearby side table.

  “Genevieve?” her sister asked, concern lacing her words.

  She blinked several times, driving back the fog. “I am fine,” she said. Pfft. Now I’ve become one of those wilting, swooning sorts. She stiffened her spine. “In every way.” Or she would be. She’d convinced herself of it, until Gillian came in here and yanked the world out from under her feet to confront the truth—she wanted more.

  A humming filled her ears.

  “Genevieve?” Francesca’s inquiry came as though down a long hall.

  She again blinked. Energized once more, she motioned to the box. “Open it.”

  With tentative fingers, Gillian removed the cover of the box. Pushing back the tissue paper covering the article contained inside, she withdrew the seafoam satin dress from inside. With gold overlay capped sleeves and a band of gold underneath the bodice, the piece shimmered and shined with a beauty fit for a mermaid. Wordlessly, she stood and let the garment cascade to the floor. The pleated fabric fluttered and danced, highlighting the delicate gold flowers etched through the hem of the gown. It was…

  Her two loyal friends spoke in unison.

  “Magnificent,” Fanny whispered.

  “It is my gown for this evening,” Genevieve said with a smile. “I am no longer going to sit and wait in the wings while my husband goes about his affairs. I am going to the Earl of Montfort’s scandalous party and I am going to bring my husband up to scratch.”

  *

  The gown given her by her sister, was splendid. Gripping the edge of her vanity, Genevieve grunted and sucked in her tummy as Delores tugged hard at her stays.

  As the young woman managed to lace them, she released a labored breath. Her maid, humming a jaunty tune, rushed to the bed and collected the satin garment. “It is a beautiful dress, my lady,” she murmured, as she drew it over Genevieve’s head and then pulled it down.

  It was beautiful. She stared at her reflection. The fabric hugged her frame indecently, with her large bosom straining the fabric in such a way they shamefully threatened to spill out. It just… “It does not fit,” she said, blushing as she took in her own outrageously clad frame. Is this the manner of gowns the ladies who attended those scandalous parties donned? Either the gown did not properly fit or she’d added a stone to her weight. She wrinkled her nose. Which really didn’t make sense as her appetite had not been as it usually was.

  “No, I do not expect it would,” Delores said with a smile in the mirror.

  Perplexedly, Genevieve stared as her maid began working the intricate ties down the back of her gown. Whatever did the young woman mean?

  “I began letting your stays out nearly a fortnight ago,” Delores said, her gaze trained down on her work. Letting her stays out? Then her maid looked up from her task and their stares collided. She blinked several times in rapid succession. “You did not realize,” she blurted.

  Genevieve gave her head a shake. “Realize what?” Except even as the question left her lips, the truth slammed into her. She gasped and touched a hand to her lips. The frequent bouts of nausea, the fatigue… Her mind raced as she sought to remember the last time she’d had her monthly courses.

  “I expect you are nearly seven weeks along, my lady,” her maid happily supplied for her and then finished lacing Genevieve’s gown.

  Seven weeks along. She opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out. A baby? The dream of a child she’d abandoned and given up hope on after her banishment to the countryside. And now there was marriage and Cedric… Genevieve touched her still flat belly. There was now a baby. A joyous thrill unfurled; a shocked awe that sent thoughts tumbling through her head.

  Grateful for Delores’ distraction as she saw to Genevieve’s hair, she considered Cedric. All noblemen desired a son, that necessary heir. But would he be equally happy if the child was a girl? Her heart pulled. She imagined he’d be one of those fathers who lifted his babe upon his shoulders and raced about the house to the woes of the nursemaids. He’d never be the cold, emotionless figure her own father had been. Tears misted her eyes.

  “Yes, that is quite common, my mum said,” Delores said, as she gently pulled her back into an intricate coiffure. “The weepiness and nausea and fatigue. All of it.” She angled Genevieve. “Turn this way a bit, my lady.” She p
lucked a hair comb from the vanity.

  Genevieve winced as it pressed into her scalp. Continuing her happy whistling, Deloris worked. Genevieve’s mind sought to process her recent discovery. She would be a mother. Another sheen of tears filled her eyes. And she would be nothing like her own mother. She would be loving and there would be laughter, and her child would be free to sketch and garden or fence or sculpt, or do whatever it was that brought her joy. Or him. Mayhap it was a boy; a boy who had loose, golden curls and a mischievous smile like his father.

  “There you are, my lady.” Delores moved and Genevieve’s gaze caught on the stranger staring back at her. The strawberry blonde curls artfully arranged half-up, half-down in a clever haphazard manner. Several curls hung over her back, while others dangled over the front of her décolletage, bringing attention to the maid’s masterful work.

  She’d only seen herself as, at best, passably pretty, and even that passable prettiness had been dulled by the hideous gown and garments her parents insisted she don. Staring at herself, as she was now, there was a freeness that roused a breathless excitement. She was no longer the silent, tucked away daughter of the Marquess of Ellsworth, but rather a woman…who with Cedric’s practical offer, had found freedom.

  And by the lively glitter in her eyes, there was great joy in freedom. He might not ever love her, or give her affection, but he had given her this important gift. A smile softened her full mouth. And he’d given her another precious gift, too.

  “You look beautiful, my lady,” her maid said on a reverent whisper.

  Genevieve continued to study the bright-eyed stranger before her, and with her visage bathed in candlelight staring back, she acknowledged that she was, if not beautiful, at least…pretty.

  “Now for the mask.” Delores gathered the seafoam piece adorned in crystal and placed it over her eyes. The mask settled heavily on her face, obscuring much of her cheeks, and she struggled to breathe a moment. Whyever would anyone wish to attend any event so? Uncomfortable. Stifling. Beautiful as the delicate piece was, there was a falsity to the article that she chafed at.