The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

  She drew in a steadying breath. Now, came the part of meeting her husband…at an event he’d expressly forbade her from attending. She steeled her jaw. She loved Cedric and she’d no doubt, if not now then in time, he could come to love her. But it most certainly would not come if they carried on their separate lifestyles. “Have you—?”

  “The carriage is readied and waiting, my lady.”

  Genevieve nodded. She should move, but instead she remained fixed to the floor. The scandal sheets and gossip columns spoke in veiled, sparse words, about where her husband went and the activities he took his enjoyment in. Going to the Earl of Montfort’s event this evening, uninvited, Genevieve would have her first true glimpse of the world Cedric had immersed himself in all these years. And part of her feared what that glimpse would mean…

  With the click of the door resonating in the quiet, she smoothed her palms along the front of her satin skirts, and before her courage deserted her, started for the front of the room.

  Chapter 22

  Cedric sipped from his third crystal flute of champagne and, with a detached gaze, skimmed his gaze over the Earl of Montfort’s ballroom. Transformed from an elegant hall into this den of sin, a dais had been set up at the front center of the room alongside a small orchestra. Half-clad couples took their pleasures with one another against the Scamozzi columns while others put themselves on lewd display, availing themselves to the other guests’ charms at the makeshift stage set up.

  The chandeliers cast a shimmery glow off the satiny gowns of scandalously clad ladies in attendance, and an even shinier glow off the perspiring bodies of the women in flagrante dishabille. He’d never favored polite ton events. The impolite events…well, these had always been the ones he’d been quite at home, attending. This restlessness in him now was, no doubt, a product of too many of the very same affairs. In all, it was a sight he’d viewed too many times apparently. For there was a tedium this night.

  Cedric downed the contents of his glass and motioned over a servant. A young, partially-clad beauty sidled up to him, an invitation in her smoky eyes. Ignoring the offering there, he swapped his empty flute for a full one.

  “You’ve not availed yourself to a single beauty, yet.” He stiffened as Montfort, in a blatant absence of a mask, came up to him. An arm wrapped about the young, nubile woman at his side, he toyed with her naked breast. The other man made a tsking noise. “You’ve become a good deal more selective since your marriage.”

  “And weren’t you just recently speaking of the benefit of finding a wife,” Cedric said dryly. “Throwing lavish parties is hardly going to get you out of the mire of your circumstances.”

  “Indeed.” Montfort nibbled at the masked woman’s ear, eliciting a breathy giggle. “But this is so vastly preferable to marriage, isn’t it?” He skimmed a hand down her body and brought her closer against his frame. “Then, I was a fool pushing the Farendale chit your way, when she could have neatly improved my financial circumstances.”

  Cedric’s body jerked erect, as an insidious thought slithered around his mind like a venomous serpent. Montfort and Genevieve, together. The other man laying her down and… His fingers tightened reflexively upon his flute, until the blood drained from his knuckles. Though she deserved better than Cedric as a husband, she’d deserved a whole lot more than Montfort.

  His friend continued with a nonchalance that made him want to slam his fist into his mouth. “A meek-mouthed lady who wanted nothing more than your name and who is quite content to allow you to seek your own pleasures?” His friend sighed. “You have all the luck, chap.”

  Is that how the world saw Genevieve? There was nothing meek about her. Contemplative. Whimsical. Intelligent. But never meek-mouthed. And for the first time, with the Earl of Montfort’s guests looking in his direction and whispering, the implications of being here as a married man spoke volumes to Society about his and Genevieve’s marriage.

  He took another drink and then steeled his jaw. What did it matter if the ton saw exactly what was there? Because it makes her a target of Society’s gossip and whispering… Just as his being here invariably did.

  Where he didn’t give two goddamns on a Sunday what they said about him, Genevieve, who snuck away behind high-hedges and hid in libraries, did care. Very much. For the truth of it was, she’d certainly gotten the rotted end of the marital deal in the arrangement they’d made. Yes, the lady had her freedom and ability to move freely about Society. But a lady with her soft and gentle spirit, no doubt craved more; love and sonnets and pretty words and quiet nights reading and sketching. Not quick, frantic couplings against the doorway like a Covent Garden doxy.

  For the first time since his friend had proposed Cedric marry Genevieve, he considered…her—and all she’d given up in becoming his wife. He’d never much liked himself. He liked himself a good deal less in this moment.

  Then, from across the length of the room, his stare collided with the tall figure of a graying man, too powerful for a mask; a hated figure. It may as well have been a glimpse into his own future, thirty years from now. His father surveyed the spectacle unfolding at the front of the room. Then, their stares collided.

  Of course, with the level of sin and depravity featured in this room, it was the perfect place for a man such as the duke, but he’d also learned long ago to be suspicious of his father’s movements and motives. “What in hell is he doing here?” Cedric gritted out.

  “Who?” Montfort followed his stare and then yanked at his cravat. “Can hardly say no when the Duke of Ravenscourt requests something, chap. Surely you know that.”

  Actually he did. All too well.

  “Lord St. Albans, I would recognize you anywhere.” The husky purr sounded over his shoulder, yanking his attention from his father and Cedric stiffened. “Why am I not surprised to see you newly married and rid of your wife so very quickly?”

  The Baroness Shelley, with her lace overlay satin gown of crimson, had the look of a sinful Eve and where one time the sight of her dampened dress layered to her delicious curves would have enticed, now he found himself comparing his previous lover to a respectable woman who now had the benefit of his name.

  “Baroness,” he drawled. Accepting her fingers, he raised them to his mouth for the requisite polite greeting. He made to release her, but she wrapped her clever fingers around his wrist, maintaining a talon-like grip.

  Montfort grinned and lifted his head. “I shall leave you to your amusements. The evening’s entertainments are beginning,” he said. Sketching a bow, he backed away with his companion in tow.

  “I miss you in my bed, Saint,” the young widow whispered, ignoring the earl’s departure, as other guests hurried to the seats about the dais.

  “I’ve been otherwise occupied,” he said dryly, ignoring her angry pout. He made to pull his hand back but she wouldn’t relinquish her hold. Absently, Cedric stared at the young, naked beauty being led to the center of the dais. The crescendo of the orchestra’s discordant music filled the ballroom as the woman allowed herself to be tied upon a four-poster bed at the front of the room. Through the years, with their equally wicked proclivities, Cedric and the baroness had been lovers on and off. One time, he would have escorted her to the center of the hall with everyone looking on and availed himself to her body.

  “You’ve neglected me for too long,” the baroness persisted, catching his hand once more.

  “You’ve never been one to beg,” he softened that rejection with a wink and made to pull back. What was to account for the ennui?

  The baroness retained her hold. “I’d believed you were preoccupied with that mealy-mouthed virgin you wed,” she said on a sultry purr, skimming her fingertips down the front of his lapel. “But seeing you here,” she leaned up and her champagne-scented breath caressed his ear. “Seeing you here, I know you’re still the same wicked lord who has warmed my bed. I want you,” she whispered. She opened the clever ties at the front of her gown, revealing herself to him and, unbidden, his
gaze wandered down to her enormous breasts as he braced for a rush of familiar lust. “That is it. You like what you see.” She drew his hand to one of the generous cream white swells. “Take me here, as you did at Montfort’s last party, with everyone watching. You know you would like that. You know you want that,” she enticed, like the devil with that apple held in hand. “I want it.”

  And he should want her, too. Yet, staring down at her blousy flesh and rouged nipples, he was singularly unmoved. He did not want her. Just as he’d been unaffected by her bold advances in his father’s ballroom, now too was he uninterested in her blatant offering. He made to remove his hand, but she layered her spare one over his, anchoring him in place. Annoyed by her cloying attempts, he steeled his jaw. “I…”

  A noisy commotion sounded at the front of the hall and he looked to the entrance of the room to the figure who’d attracted the crowd’s notice.

  The breath stuck in his chest. From her vantage, the splendidly curved woman at the top of the stairway surveyed the room as though she were a queen, assessing her subjects. The glow of candlelight cast by the chandeliers illuminated her pale green satin gown in a soft shimmer while the light danced off the strawberry blonde tresses artfully arranged about her scandalous décolletage. Cedric devoured the sight of the siren. There was something so very familiar about her and, yet, all at the same time, not.

  Over the heads of the other guests assembled in Montfort’s ballroom, their gazes collided. Then she looked to the forgotten woman at Cedric’s side, the woman whose breast he still touched, and the tremulous smile on the satin-clad Athena’s generous mouth withered. She spun in a flurry and rushed from the ballroom.

  The air left him on a swift whoosh. Genevieve. His wife? Surely not. But he’d be blind to fail to note her piercing gaze through that mask, or the shocked hurt he’d seen there. Oh, God, what was she doing here in this sin of decadence? She was the only goddamn goodness in the world and he’d ushered her into the darkest depths of depravity. His stomach revolted.

  “Saint?”

  Nausea twisted in his belly; the bitter, acrid taste of bile. Ignoring the petulant chiding of the baroness, he disentangled himself from the determined woman’s grip and sprinted through the ballroom. Moving between copulating couples and lovers embracing, he set out after her. His pulse came hard and fast in his ears. He’d convinced himself these weeks that their marriage was an empty one. With the horror and pain that had contorted her face, he was forced to recognize the truth—he cared.

  He had to find her.

  *

  Gasping and out of breath, Genevieve raced through the marble hall, desperate to be free. Of this place. Of the sight of the sins her husband enjoyed. Forbidden deeds no respectable person should ever witness. Acts she could not imagine sharing with anyone other than Cedric.

  You fool. You fool. You fool. It was a litany inside her head.

  A shuddery sob burst from her lips. This was his world. This was the dark ugly he’d spoken of. And now that she’d seen it, she wished to un-see it and burn the memory where all other hideous thoughts went to die.

  But she could not.

  Just as she could never cease to remember the sight of his long fingers on another woman’s naked skin. That beautiful act they shared every night, now forever sullied by the truth that she’d never truly mattered, nor any of those beautiful joinings she’d believed special. It had all been nothing more than empty, physical couplings he shared with so many other women. Why, he’d no doubt returned many evenings and sought out her bed after worshiping the bodies of other women…

  Her stomach pitched and she gagged. Another cry escaped her as she turned the corner and promptly collided with a tall, powerful frame. The air left her on a whoosh as she sailed backward and landed hard on her buttocks.

  The gentleman easily pulled Genevieve to her feet and steadied her. Incapable of words, she gave her dazed head a shake. “What an inviting welcome to the evening’s festivities,” a hated voice drawled.

  She stiffened, as the Duke of Aumere’s words sent waves of revulsion rolling off her skin. “Release me,” she bit out and yanked herself away, but he retained his hard, punishing grip.

  The duke flared his eyebrows. “Beautiful, Genevieve,” he murmured, as though he’d solved a difficult riddle. Then he tossed his head back and roared with laughter. He’d not even known it was her.

  What manner of gentlemen were these? Faithless cads, depraved, heartless bastards. Cedric had spoken about the blackness of his world. Naively, she’d just failed to realize how ugly it was. What an innocent fool he’d, no doubt, taken her for. She wrenched away from the duke’s hold once more. “I said release me,” she seethed, finding a safe fury in her anger as it dulled the agony of her husband’s betrayal and the death of her dreams.

  “Do you know, Genevieve,” Aumere murmured contemplatively, lowering his face to hers. “I don’t think I shall.” He crushed his mouth to hers and she struggled against his punishing hold, but he easily gathered her wrists in a ruthless hold that would raise bruises.

  He groaned and her alarm and fury grew. My God, he is aroused by my struggles. A panicky desperation filled her as she twisted against him. Then he stuck his tongue inside her mouth.

  In the end, salvation came in the unlikeliest of forms. She gagged, and Aumere drew back. “I’m going to be ill,” she rasped and then promptly threw up at his feet. The duke cried out and she swayed; an inky blackness pulled at the edge of her consciousness. Dimly, she registered a furious growl and looked to the sound of the beast who’d come upon them.

  Her husband stalked forward, hands outstretched. The harshly beautiful planes of his face were etched in a black fury. She huddled into herself, hastily backing away. The sight of his tall, powerful form striding forward sent despair spiraling inside her already breaking heart. She wanted to slam her fists into his face over and over until he was empty and broken inside like she herself was. How was it possible to both love a person and hate him all at the same time? Their gazes collided and in his blue depths was a host of regret, pain, and shame.

  Odd, she’d expect a soulless man incapable of such emotion. Then it was gone so she expected she’d only imagined it. Of course Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, was incapable of any and all emotion.

  “St. Albans,” Aumere greeted. “I would suggest we’d enjoy the pleasures of your wife together, but the chit had the bad form to cast up her accounts—”

  Cedric felled him with a single blow and came down over his form. As he rained his fists down in an impressive display of fury, Genevieve hurried away. Her chest rose hard and fast, as she escaped him; this man possessed, she did not recognize. Her ragged breath filled her ears as she continued her flight.

  Not waiting to see if her husband followed, she shoved past the butler and pushed the door open, sucking in desperately needed breaths as she searched the line of carriages. Her feet were in agony from her race through Lord Montfort’s home. Genevieve yanked off her slippers and then raced down the steps, onward to the safety of her carriage.

  Her driver jumped down from his perch, concern radiating from his eyes. “My lady?”

  “Home,” she managed to rasp, accepting his hand as he assisted her inside the carriage.

  Then, within the confines of her carriage, she yanked her mask free and hurled it to the floor. As the conveyance lurched forward, she sank back against the squabs of the bench and promptly wept. What a fool she was. She’d donned her gown and mask not truly thinking about the manner of party she’d attend. She’d known the world her husband dwelled in was a wicked one, but not…this. The tableau she’d witnessed of the other guests; lovers wrapped in wicked embraces, while others watched. Her husband enjoying the softness of another’s skin. She cried all the harder and huddled against the bench. He’d worshiped that lady’s breast the way he’d worshiped hers so many times. I believed his caress meant something more…

  Her chest ached from the force of her sobs
. She’d believed he could care for her. She’d believed so many things. In him. Of them. Of a life together; with their child… She sobbed until her body ached, never more grateful than when her carriage drew to a stop outside her home.

  Home. This was no home. She buried her face into her hands and wept until she shook with the force of her despair. This was the cold, empty life he’d offered and she’d foolishly accepted. Only to realize now, in this moment, she wanted more. So much more.

  For her.

  For her child.

  Tears continued to seep down her cheeks. The driver drew the door open and she placed her shaking hand in his and allowed him to help her down. Then, finding her feet, she sprinted the remaining distance up the steps.

  And God love Avis, he stood at the entrance with the black wood panel agape. As though he’d been waiting. The man averted his gaze and she sailed past him.

  No doubt, he’d had the sense to realize his mistress was mad in attending that sinful affair and wouldn’t last amongst his employer’s world. She cried all the harder, the tears pouring from the place where despair and agony dwelled, and stumbled up the steps. Uncaring of the scandal she left in her wake, she sprinted down the corridor. She skidded to a stop outside a particular door and then shoved it open. Stumbling inside, she allowed her eyes to adjust, finding a solace in the inky darkness.

  The empty schoolroom, and in this closed-in, untouched space, she closed the door behind her and sought out the corner. Sinking to the floor, she drew her knees closer to her chest and dropped her chin atop the smooth satin fabric, her life coming to an ironic, full circle.

  Chapter 23

  Cedric’s carriage rolled through the crowded streets of London. With the infernally slow pace set, the tension thrumming inside him grew and grew until he thought he would snap under the weight of it. After he’d bloodied Aumere senseless and peeled himself off the man’s inert form, he’d had to have his carriage called. By then, Genevieve had been long gone. How many minutes had passed since she’d stepped into the ballroom and then promptly stumbled out?