Genevieve widened her eyes to large green pools. “Never tell me you’ve never noticed the difference between country air and London air?” Shock underscored her words. “Cedric Andrew,” she said, when he remained silent.
The servant closed the door behind them. “Then I shan’t tell you.”
“It is impossible to not note it,” she said sounding both befuddled and beleaguered that her husband hadn’t noted the same drastic difference. “It smells…” She wrinkled her mouth in a preciously endearing manner. “Cleaner and pure. And the stars…”
His wife, the gardener and artist, preferred the country. That truth was reflected in the faraway distance of her gaze. Cedric reached over and scooped her up, startling a squeak from her as he settled her on his lap. “I will just have to teach you how splendid London is,” he whispered against her lips and then he took her mouth under his in a hard kiss.
A breathless sigh escaped her and he slipped his tongue inside swallowing that sound of her desire. She angled her neck, allowing him greater access to her mouth. The carriage lurched forward, jolting them apart. Her cheeks flushed and her chest rising and falling with the evidence of her breathless desire, Genevieve captured his face between her delicate palms. “And I intend to show you all you’ve missed these years, Cedric Andrew.”
And because he did not know what to do with the depth of emotion in her eyes and promise that belied the marriage of convenience they’d both agreed to, Cedric took her lips once more in a kiss, so that all he could focus on was this desperate hunger for Genevieve Grace and not the sea of meaningful questions he did not care to explore.
Chapter 17
She’d not seen her husband since they’d entered his townhouse, nay, their townhouse. Genevieve found the gilt clock atop the fireplace mantel where a small fire burned, six hours ago.
It had been six hours since they’d arrived, greeted by the line of assembled servants.
The housekeeper Mrs. Fennyworth, had shown her abovestairs…where she had been waiting ever since. Surely, her husband had not left her on her wedding night. Surely, he’d not sought out his clubs or…a dark, ugly, niggling thought slid in…visited someone else.
…I am a rake…
“Are you sure you are not hungry, my lady?” Delores asked.
Looking up quickly from the sketchpad on her lap, Genevieve shook her head. “No, I am quite well. You may leave the tray.” With the knots churning her belly, the last thing she cared for was food. “That is all, Delores,” she said softly. “You may go.”
The young lady nodded and then quickly hurried across the room. She pulled the door open and gasped. “Oh, excuse me, my lord.”
Genevieve whipped her gaze to the entrance and her fingers curled tight on the book in her hands as Cedric stepped aside, allowing the maid to make a hasty retreat. Her heart tripped a beat at the sight of him. Absent of his jacket and attired in nothing but his white shirtsleeves, breeches and boots, he closed the door and leaned against it. With a cool elegance, he propped the sole of his boot against the wood panel. Her mouth went dry. No gentleman had a right to such sophisticated ease. She hopped up from the Louis XV red, giltwood Duchesse and her sketchpad tumbled forgotten to the floor.
By the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips, he’d noted her scrutiny. “Genevieve,” he greeted on a satiny whisper.
Nervousness tripped inside her belly. “C-Cedric,” she fiddled with the charcoal in her fingers, belatedly realizing the dark mess she’d made of her already slightly stained fingers.
“You did not take an evening meal,” he observed, his gaze going to the untouched silver tray that had arrived several hours ago.
She’d spent so much time worrying he’d not come, that she’d not given due attention to nervousness of what it would mean when he did arrive. “No,” she conceded, unable to the keep the disappointment from her words. No bride cared to take her first meal as a wedded woman in her chambers, alone.
Cedric pushed away from the door and stalked over with long, sleek steps, then came to a stop. His gaze fell downward and she appreciated the thick luxuriance of his golden hair. Her fingers twitched. Surely a wife was permitted the luxury of running her fingers through those strands when she wished? And…
She registered his still otherwise diverted attention and she belatedly followed his stare. Drat. His partially completed likeness stared back at her. Embarrassment curled her toes into the thin Aubusson carpet.
Wordlessly, he sank to his haunches and scooped up the book. She dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from ripping that book from his hand. That book which had served as a window into her thoughts, dreams, and actions, for the past four, nearly five years. He remained crouched at her feet and she braced for that gentle teasing and mischievous smile on his perfect lips. Instead, he flipped through the pages. The crackle of the thick sheets turning loud as a shot in the quiet room. He lingered on the gardens she’d tended in her grandfather’s Kent property.
“They are my grandfather’s,” she said into the silence, needing to fill that thick void.
Cedric glanced up a moment. “You miss it.” There was faint surprise in those words which were more statement than anything else.
“I do,” she replied, anyway. She reclaimed her spot on the chaise. “I cried as though I might break when my parents sent me to him. I loved London.” Not unlike Cedric himself still did. “And I hated Kent from the moment I arrived at his country property.” The memory trickled in of those earliest days. The fear and anxiousness around the heavily wrinkled, gruff, ancient earl who growled more than he spoke. Until he’d ordered her outside and so desperate to be free of those growls, she’d looked at the world anew. “What I wouldn’t give to be back in the country,” she said softly. “While I was there,” she motioned to the butterflies etched in black. “I noticed all those things I previously missed in my family’s brief trips to Father’s country seat.”
Cedric stared questioningly back.
“The beauty of night’s song; the birds and crickets chirping in harmony. The sky is bluer and when you lay on the grass and stare up at the sky you see nothing but an endless blue, so that you think you can stretch your fingers up and touch the heavens.”
He hooded his thick, blond lashes. She balled her hands into fists and braced for his witty repartee but, instead, he resumed his study of her book. “You are quite good,” he said, with the same matter-of-factness of an instructor speaking to a favored apprentice.
“Thank you,” she murmured. There was something so raw and exposing in having one’s work examined so.
He flipped to another page that contained his partially completed and abandoned likeness, and paused.
“I’ve not completed sketches of people,” she explained, when still he said nothing. Perhaps it had been all the years she’d spent away from people, at a time when art had been her companion. “The angles, the shadows,” she continued motioning to his image. “My proportions are disastrous.”
In one fluid movement, he shoved to his feet and claimed the spot beside her. His broad, powerful form swallowed the space of the lounge. “Here,” he murmured, rescuing the charcoal still hopelessly staining her fingers.
Her breath caught at the electrifying thrill of that too-brief contact.
Cedric flipped to an empty page in the sketchpad. He swung his muscular leg over the opposite side of the chaise, straddling it, and then he guided her between his legs.
“Wh-What are you doing?” the tremulous whisper slipped from her lips as his breath, scented with brandy and mint, filled her heady senses.
“Providing you an art lesson,” he said, his tone so calm, so very matter-of-fact, it slightly steadied her rapidly beating heart.
“Y-you are an artist?” she asked with some surprise. Pleasure blossomed in her chest; at this deeper connection shared between them. “What else do I not know about you?” And how she longed to learn every detail.
“Shh,” he whispered against h
er ear. “Questions later.” Bracing the open leather book in their left hands, he brought his other arm about her, enveloping her in his embrace.
Her lashes fluttered wildly. How had she failed to note, until this instant, how very erotic creating art was? Because she’d not received a lesson from Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, was why.
“When you sketch a person’s likeness,” he said softly against her ear. “You must use the negative space to check the shapes between the features.”
His quietly spoken instructions momentarily pulled her out of the eddy of desire she’d been swirling in. Genevieve cast a look over her shoulder. “I don’t—”
“You must imagine a straight line down the model’s face, directly through the pupil. From that line, you must think, where are the eyes placed in relation to it? Where is the lip set?” Placing the charcoal in her fingers, he proceeded to guide them over the page. “When you are sketching people, Genevieve, it is the details about a person that makes the portrait unique,” he murmured. “Are the lips properly full? And the lower lip slightly narrow?” The scratch of the charcoal on the page blended with her slightly rasping breaths.
How was he so unaffected? How was he able to think of art when their bodies were flush as, together, they created the work upon the page, as one?
“You do not need to overaccentuate the features, but on some subjects, this one,” he clarified, “you can slightly overemphasize the curve of a hip, the fullness of the lips…but then…some subjects are perfection and to overemphasize is a travesty.”
Through the thin slip of fabric of her nightshift, her body tingled. To keep from dissolving into a puddle of desire in his arms, she concentrated on their fingers as they danced about the page. They went on that way until their purposeful strokes transformed the empty page into… Her fingers trembled at the familiarity of her visage as it stared back.
Cedric immediately righted the charcoal in her grip and proceeded to finish the sketch. “You are perfection.”
Perfection.
Of course, his were the words of a rake or rogue but, in this moment, with their love of art shared between them, it felt like something more and another thrill went through her at this bond. Cedric continued his mastery over the page until a familiar room materialized; lined with books and a scandalous piece of artwork, and seated at the edge of that room in her bare feet was her. From her slightly parted lips, to the glimmer of passion in her eyes, he’d expertly captured the maelstrom of emotion she’d known that day in his presence and every day since.
Their first meeting.
She registered the silence and, blinking, she looked down at his suddenly still fingers and the completed sketch he lay down in front of her.
“And that is how you create the human form, Genevieve.” He brought his mouth close to her ear and worshipped the sensitive shell with the softest kiss. Then, folding his arm about her waist, he drew her closer to him so her back was pressed against the hard wall of his chest. “You are perfection.” His smooth baritone washed over her as he trailed his mouth lower to the sensitive skin just behind her lobe.
Genevieve’s pulse jumped and she angled her head to better open herself to his ministrations. “I expect you have said that to any number of women,” she whispered and closed her eyes, savoring the delicious explosion of sensation buffeting her senses.
“Yes,” he confessed softly. With his large hands, he palmed her breasts through the modest fabric of her nightshift. “But this is the only time I’ve ever meant it.” Her nipples puckered at his skilled touch and she proved herself the shameless wanton she’d been accused of all these years, for she leaned into his expert caress. Not allowing her anymore words, Cedric angled her around and devoured her mouth with his.
His was the unbridled, unapologetic kiss of a man fueled by desire and there was something heady in knowing she’d moved this gentleman in this way. He guided her leg over the chaise so they each straddled the upholstered seat. The wickedness of her positioning rucked her nightshift high above her thighs, but Cedric would not allow her the deserved modesty. Instead, he wrapped his hands about her hips and dragged her closer to the vee of his legs. Her womanhood throbbed with a tender awareness, only heightened by the drag of the upholstered fabric against that forbidden flesh.
Delicious shivers fanned out and she leaned into him, meeting his kiss, tangling her tongue with his in an erotic dance. She moaned into his mouth and raising her hands, twined her fingers in the long, luxuriant strands of his golden-blond hair.
He growled his approval and that primitive sound rumbled up from his chest as he deepened their embrace and she boldly turned herself over to him.
Cedric had had scores of women in his life. Inventive whores, clever courtesans with wicked mouths, eager widows. Wanton women. Women whose depravity had only been matched by his own. Not a single one of those women had raised his blood to this feverish pitch, as did his wife. With her blend of bold and innocence, there was a sincerity to Genevieve’s every movement that only fueled this fierce hungering for her.
He ran his palms down the small of her back and slid his fingers under the generous swell of her buttocks, holding her close. A low, keening moan escaped Genevieve who melted even further into his touch. Fueled by that breathless sound of her desire, Cedric clasped her white nightshift at the hem and tugged it over her head, exposing her as he’d ached to since their first chance meeting a week earlier.
He studied her with a hungry gaze. He’d always favored women with generous breasts and, yet, Genevieve’s small mounds with engorged pink buds, caused desire to blaze inside. His bride followed his gaze and her skin pinked with his focus. She made to hug her arms close to her chest. “Don’t,” he commanded gruffly.
Genevieve hesitated and then lowered her arms to her side.
Incapable of words, he explored her. Palming her right breast, he weighed it in his hand. “Softer than satin,” he murmured. He captured her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the peaked bud.
A throaty moan spilled past her plump lips. “A proper, respectable lady should not feel this way.” Her head fell back, accentuating the length of her neck.
“A proper woman should feel this way,” he said, his voice roughened with his need for her. He lowered his head and claimed the neglected tip of her left breast in his mouth.
Genevieve cried out and curled her fingers in his hair, anchoring him close. A hungering for her rolled through him, threatening to draw him under. Buffeting his senses and reveling in the reflexive undulation of her hips, he continued to suckle her, laving the swollen bud, teasing it, tasting it until the room reverberated with the echo of his wife’s breathless pleas.
Suddenly, he stopped and she cried out a protest but Cedric only shoved to his feet and, in one swift moment, swung her into his arms and carried her to the four-poster bed at the center of the room. Passion glazed her green eyes as he laid her carefully down.
Not taking his gaze from hers, he stepped back and proceeded to disrobe. She widened her eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head and revealed his naked chest to her innocent stare. The blush on her cheeks deepened, but she did not look away. Until he tugged free his boots and breeches. His brave bride stole a quick peek at his jutting erection and then whispered something that might have been a prayer. “A-are you certain you’d not care to continue with our art lesson?” Her breathless stammer raised a small grin.
And he, who’d long abhorred all hint of innocence, was enthralled by this woman’s artlessness. “Quite certain, love,” he whispered.
Genevieve looked up at the ceiling, past his shoulder, over at the hearth, anywhere that was not him. “It really was an invaluable lesson,” she rambled. “I am quite eager to put all your lessons to use.” As though she’d registered the suggestiveness of his words, she shot her gaze to his. “That is, your art lessons.”
With a gentle smile, he came down over her, bracing his elbows on either side of her so she was
folded in his embrace. He touched his lips to her closed eyes; first one and then the other, and then he trailed his mouth down her cheek, before ultimately finding her lips. Some of her hesitancy melted away. Genevieve reached for his kiss, but he hovered with their breaths dancing and melding. “I have wanted you from the first moment I saw you in the library, Genevieve. I wanted to lay you down and waken your body to the passion within you.”
Emotion leapt in her eyes and, later, he’d allow himself the panicky fear of the truth behind those words. For now, all he could focus on was spreading her cream white thighs and burying himself deep in her honeyed warmth. “And I have wanted you.” Her husky contralto sent a bolt of lust through him. Then, his spirited wife closed the faint space between them, twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
A groan of approval rumbled from Cedric’s chest. They continued to mate with their tongues in an age-old rhythm that matched his rapidly beating heart.
Needing to taste all of her, Cedric dragged his mouth in a deliberate trail, lower, to her neck, downward to her small breasts, and then he slid a hand between them and found her hot center with his fingers.
A little hiss exploded from Genevieve and she shot her hips off the bed, arching into his caress. “Cedric,” she moaned as he parted her folds and toyed with her center. Her wet warmth coated his fingers and slicked his entry as he slipped a finger inside her.
“That is it, love,” he encouraged as she lifted into his caress. She bit her lip and worked herself against his palm. He continued his deliberate ministrations until her movements grew frantic, hinting at her rapidly receding control, and then he withdrew his fingers.
She cried out a protest, but he slid his body over hers and positioned himself at her well-readied, hot entry. He slid his shaft slowly inside her tight walls and an agonized groan lodged in his chest. Cedric stilled and welcomed her heat as it enveloped him. In all the women he’d taken, he’d never made love to a virgin. He’d made it a point to avoid those mewling women. Rather, he’d preferred the women who graced his bed to be as skilled as the most practiced courtesan. Staring into Genevieve’s flushed face, there was an overwhelming emotion; one that he could not explain, a gratefulness that no other had ever known her in this way.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 48
