The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

“Never going to marry, were you?” his father taunted, twisting his maniacal triumph all the deeper, so that fury rose up potent inside him, cutting off all words and logic. “Did you believe I didn’t know of your interest in that lady? The same one who kept you closed away in my library.” The duke arced his cane in a slow circle. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until Cedric wanted to grab it, break it, and beat the ruthless bastard with it. “How do I know that, you wonder?” his father looped his ankle across his opposite knee. “Surely you’ve gleaned by now, I know everything. Including your library visitor in the middle of my ball.” Cedric’s mind stalled. “You see, my servants are very loyal to me, Cedric. Very loyal.” He gave him a meaningful and, more, triumphant look that sent fury skittering along Cedric’s inside. “I know you’ve begun,” he said as he peeled his lip back in a sneer, “sketching again, since you met a certain scandalous lady.”

  By God, how did he know that? Fury melded with embarrassment; it lanced through him. Were there any secrets from this man?

  “And now you are gardening?” The duke threw his head back and erupted into a humorless, if exultant, laugh, until Cedric’s fingers twitched and he was besieged with the urge to bury his fist into his father’s smug face.

  Oh, God. How neatly he’d been maneuvered. In Genevieve, he’d believed she was the one choice that he’d had, a decision to wed her that went against the lifelong vow he’d had to never marry. And he’d merely been led into that union by a seed planted by Montfort and fed to him by his father. And through that, Genevieve had been a pawn in his father’s machinations; ultimately finding herself with Cedric for her husband when she’d deserved so much more. This emotionally deadened bastard was, once more, proof of the ugly flowing in his veins. This night, from Montfort’s party to his exchange with Genevieve in the schoolroom to this farcical drama, was just proof why he’d no right to her or getting any child on her. His tightly held control snapped. Cedric slammed his glass down hard enough to send liquid drops spiraling over the rim of the glass. “Say whatever it is that brought you here,” he seethed. “And get out.”

  “Surely you must see the humor in it from my end?” his father went on as though he’d not spoken. He spread his arms out, that cane dangling from his fingers. “You, who’ve been so adamant to shirk your responsibilities, now married…and…by accounts, besotted by your wife.” His neck heated and he resisted the urge to yank at his cravat. “And the way you ran after her this evening.” He chuckled. “Well, she must mean something to you.” Those words were spoken as though he could not puzzle through that very real truth.

  “What game do you play?” he managed to bite out through the rage consuming him. The air left Cedric on a swift exhale. The bastard…

  “How have you, of all people, not yet gleaned that I will not be thwarted?” Another slow, ugly smile split his father’s lips. “Besotted by your wife. No doubt, bedding her every night, hmm?” A dull flush heated Cedric’s neck. “It is only a matter of time before you get me my next heir.” He abruptly stopped swinging his cane. “Checkmate, Cedric.”

  He started. He’d not taken care the way he had to ensure Genevieve remained childless. Cedric flattened his lips into a hard line. He’d not be so unwise in the future.

  For once again, his father, the master manipulator who’d orchestrated his life, had maneuvered him in the most final of ways, into a state he’d pledged to never take part in. Cedric gripped his snifter so hard, the fragile glass cracked under the weight of his palm. But there was one area in which his father was wrong. By God, he thought he’d have the ultimate victory over Cedric? He’d see the old bastard in hell first. Setting aside the glass with a trembling palm, he folded his arms at his chest and gave him an equally cold smile. “Ah, yes, it would seem that way. You’re so determined to have a future heir. But there will never be a child.”

  His father snapped his eyebrows into a single line. “What are you saying?” he barked.

  Reveling in the sudden reversal, Cedric widened his smile. “I may be married, but as you know, there are ways to ensure there will never be children, Your Grace.” He delighted in the ever-narrowing of his sire’s eyes. “Or, given the number of bastards you’ve littered about England, perhaps you do not know that. But, I repeat, there will never be children.” The duke dropped his brow. “Checkmate.”

  Chapter 24

  Checkmate…

  She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Genevieve had long known no good could come from listening at keyholes and, yet, she’d done it anyway. The only reason she’d been in this very corridor was because she’d had to pass her husband’s office on her way to her chambers.

  And now, coward that she was, she wished she’d never appeared at the doorway, uninvited.

  …revenge…

  Her stomach turned.

  …there will never be a child…

  Touching a hand to her belly, a panicky laugh bubbled past Genevieve’s lips sounding like cannon fire and she froze, praying they’d not heard her. Praying that she’d not heard what she’d heard. For an instant, she entertained the possibility of running. Running away from this frigid meeting between ruthless father and angry son, and continue running until she forgot all about the ugly that existed on the other side of those walls. Except, for all that had come, she’d never been a coward.

  With silence reigning, she schooled her features and stepped into the entrance of the room. Shock marked the harsh, angular planes of her husband’s face. Unable to meet his gaze, she slid her stare beyond his shoulder…and collided with the cynical eyes of his sire. The man eyed her with cold, emotionless eyes. Is this what her husband would become? A chill stole through her. Unnerved by the piercing emptiness of that stare, she looked to her husband.

  Cedric met her gaze and there was a remarkable crack in his composure that he easily concealed, replaced by an unflappable calm that sent fury roiling through her. How could he be so calm, after being discovered with his whore and now uttering such cold words about their marriage? Because those words were true… He never promised me anything more than his name. She’d simply allowed herself to believe from a handful of endearing acts, carried out by a stranger, that there was or, at the very least, could be something there.

  Again, sliding her gaze away, she found her father-in-law. “Your Grace,” she greeted, again, priding herself on the steadiness of those words. From the corner of her eye, she detected the flash of annoyance in her husband’s stare.

  “He is leaving,” Cedric replied before the duke could respond.

  The slightly bored looking gentleman stared at her with an emptiness in his gaze. “I was just leaving,” he said, climbing to his feet. Collecting his cane, he strode over to the door.

  She stepped inside and allowed her father-in-law to step around her. Without so much as another glance for her or his son, he swept out and left Genevieve with a rather uncertain fate looming before her. Is this what her husband would one day become? A hard, unfeeling man who looked through her and not at her? And for the first time since she’d bound herself to Cedric and this family, the ramifications of that hasty decision rocked her unsteady world.

  “I am sorry you heard that.” Once again, words he’d uttered in truth that he only regretted her hearing for the implications it would have. “I should have instructed you to stay away,” her husband said at last, through tight lips. He shoved himself from the edge of the desk and made his way over to the sideboard.

  Annoyance stirred. “Do you mean like a dog, Cedric? Or a dull, biddable wife who stays at home while you bed your whores?” She spoke in clipped tones that caused a momentary falter in his steps. If he thought he’d acquired an acquiescent, biddable bride, he was to be disappointed. She found strength in her fury, for it prevented her from thinking of how, in the span of an evening, he had torn apart her every happiness.

  She stared at his retreating back. By God, he meant to carry on as though she’d not been listening at his door and heard all manner of confound
ing and agonizing words. Entering the room, Genevieve drew the door closed behind her and rested her back against it for support. “Why would you say that?” she asked quietly.

  “Why did I say what?” he asked, not picking his gaze up from the drink he now poured. As though that singular task of pouring and consuming spirits was so much more important than her…or, more importantly, their future. All of it. Any of it.

  “About never having children,” she clarified, quietly.

  Cedric settled the decanter down with a firm thunk. “Because there will not be,” he said with a damning matter-of-factness as he carried his glass around the opposite side of his desk and claimed a seat. He took a sip and then settled his snifter down. Then in a dismissive manner, he opened the middle drawer, withdrew a sheet, and reached for a quill.

  He would simply move on to other matters as though he’d not neatly stated the remainder of their existence together. “What?” she repeated, trying to muddle through the madness of this exchange.

  He paused and glanced up. In his eyes was reflected back her own confusion. “We’ve already discussed the matter of children,” he said the way an instructor might tire of doling out the same lesson to a recalcitrant student.

  Her mind moved from a stall to a run. They had spoken of children and he’d promised he’d see them cared for. Genevieve pushed away from the door and the wood panel rattled noisily. “Yes, we did.” She stopped before his desk and planted her hands upon her hips. “You promised…”

  His sound of annoyance cut across her words. “I promised you’d never have to care for children and you won’t.” Cedric sighed. Who was this cold stranger she did not recognize? Where were his charming grin and his teasing words?

  “I do not under…” …Nor will you have to worry after children… “Do you believe yourself unable to sire children?” she ventured.

  He cocked his head. “Unable to…?” A hard grin formed on his lips. “Oh, I’ve no doubt the potency of my seed. The number of bastards my father has littering England is testament of that.”

  Genevieve pressed her fingertips against her temples and rubbed. “I don’t understand,” she said once more, knowing she must sound like the veriest lackwit. “We’ve made love.”

  Cedric carried his drink over to his desk and perched his hip on the edge. “I’ve not taken precautions before. I promise to…rectify that in the future.”

  Bile burned at her throat and she choked. “Precautions?”

  He gave a tight nod. “There are…ways to ensure you do not become with child.”

  Now he’d have this discussion? A hysterical laugh bubbled up past her lips and she stymied it with her fingers. The irony of his timing not at all lost on her. Cedric spoke with such a cool remoteness. She sought glimpses of the gentleman who’d been tending the gardening beside her. “When you said I’d never have to care for child—”

  He cut in to her words with a sound of impatience. “I meant because we’ll never have to worry after offspring.”

  Worry after offspring? Is that how he viewed children? Then, should it surprise her when a man who seeks out his own pleasures each night and attends torrid affairs like Montfort’s? The earth dipped and she gripped the edge of the nearby sofa. The gentle assurance he’d made before they’d married, a promise given, she’d so horribly misunderstood. “I did not know,” she whispered. “I misunderstood.” And what a monumental misunderstanding with which to build a union on. Except…none of it made sense. “But, you did not take care.” Many times. Many, many times. Her cheeks exploded with heat and her tongue could not move for the scandalous words to speak of what they’d done.

  Glass between his hands, her husband shifted his weight. “Mistakes on my part.” With every admission, his words confirming the ugliest murmurings she’d heard from the opposite side of the door, ripped a wound inside her heart that could never heal. He looked down into the contents of his drink. “Surely, given what you…witnessed tonight.” Montfort’s. “You see why it is best that we do not bring a child into this world.”

  She folded her arms close to where his babe even now rested. Her stomach pitched. Given her failed betrothal with Aumere, she’d abandoned the hope carried by all young ladies—of a loving, doting husband and a passel of babes. In one short night and in one stunningly practical, but beautiful, offer of marriage, Cedric had allowed her to open her heart to all those long-buried dreams. Unable to meet his coolly blank gaze, she dropped her eyes to that untouched page on his desk. “But there…” Is a babe. “Has to be a child. For the succession of your line,” she said quickly, lifting her gaze. Needing him to want this child.

  “I do not give a jot about the Falcot line,” he said, drumming his fingertips on his glass in a staccato rhythm that set her jaw on edge. “Long ago I resolved to never have children.”

  “But why?” She hated the faintly pleading edge to the question there. He was a stranger. In every way.

  Her husband shifted. “Children are so important to you?” he asked with a discomfort she’d never before seen from him and one she doubted he ever showed the world, in any way, for anything.

  It did not escape her notice that he’d failed to ignore her question. “They are.” How little they truly knew one another. He knew she enjoyed art and she knew he was a skilled artist, albeit a silent one. But on the things that mattered in a marriage, what did she truly know of him? Nothing.

  “If they are so important, then after this evening you surely see how you are far better off without children from me.” Cedric grimaced and took another drink of his brandy. “I am sorry for the confusion on that score,” he said as he settled his glass down.

  Genevieve shoved away from the chair and swept over in a rustle of noisy skirts. “You are sorry for the confusion?” she parroted back, planting her palms on the high-backed leather chair opposite him and leaning across the surface. “You did not purchase me the wrong ice at Gunther’s, Cedric. You did not lose the place in my book.” Her voice climbed with an increasing urgency. He flexed his jaw, but said nothing for so long that her fingers twitched with the urge to slap him, or shake him, or to rouse some kind of emotion in him. When he remained silent, she pressed him for every last truth. “Did you marry me on a matter of revenge against your father?”

  Because even as entering into a union on a matter of convenience had slashed at her still-hopeful, romantic heart, this truth threatened to shatter all those moments she’d built up between them.

  Cedric held his palms up.

  “Did you?” she rasped.

  “I care for you,” he said softly. Care not love. Then…she skimmed a bitter gaze over him. Given what she’d seen and heard this evening, the Marquess of St. Albans was incapable of that sentiment. No, he hadn’t ever given her reason to believe there would be love or children. Which made this all the worse. It made her folly her own and it was a mistake that could never be undone.

  She recoiled. In ignoring her query, he’d answered it with more affirmation than any words. “My God.” The words escaped her as a prayer and she again dug her fingers into her temple. She swayed.

  “Genevieve,” he said, concern lacing that hoarse utterance as he came to his feet.

  “Do not,” she cried out, stumbling away from him. “Do not come near me.”

  And a man who chafed at being given any direction from anyone, including his own sire, remained at his desk.

  Genevieve began to pace as truth settled in and drove back the girlish whimsy she’d not even realized herself guilty of until this moment. And with each furious step, and her new husband staring on, she accepted with a staggering clarity—this was her fault. Cedric had never made her promises of more. He’d never pledged affection. He’d never spoken of a future with them joined as a loving couple. Those were castles she’d built of sand within her mind and heart…ones she’d not even realized she’d constructed—until this moment. But now, there was a babe and a father who did not want that precious life. Genevieve jerke
d to a sudden halt. She raised her gaze to his. “I have so desperately wanted to be part of your life and I wanted you in my life.”

  “Genevieve?” There was a gruff quality to that word, which spoke of a man as uncertain as she herself was; two strangers trying to work through a delicate, uneven balance between them.

  She motioned to her gown. “I donned this dress and thought to be the bold, proud woman asserting her presence in her husband’s life. Tonight,” bile burned her throat and she swallowed it back, “witnessing that party you so enjoy attending and listening to you with your father, I realized something.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I do not want to be part of your life, Cedric. I do not wish to be part of any of your world.”

  His expression grew shuttered but, otherwise, he gave no indication he’d even heard her. Of course, did she truly expect her admission should matter to him? Genevieve gave her head a sad shake. “If you’ll excuse me.” She walked with steady, even footsteps. But as she stepped out in the hall and found freedom from his stony gaze, she sprinted down the hall. Her breath came hard and fast as she raced away from every vile word her husband had uttered. A shuddery sob tore from her lungs as she reached the shelter of her room. She shoved the door open and slammed it hard behind her.

  “My lady?” Delores called, rushing over. “Are you all right?”

  She would never be all right again, because she’d done something the height of all foolishness—she’d fallen in love with her husband.

  Her maid folded Genevieve in her arms. “Come, my lady, ’tis not good for the baby.” Which only caused Genevieve to cry all the harder.

  Now what?

  Chapter 25

  The soft scratch of Genevieve’s charcoal filled the quiet. Sitting so very still for so long as she had, her back ached and through that pain, she shifted but continued working. She found a healing in each line drawn, in each brush of the charcoal over the page.