Genevieve smiled. “Then let us begin.”
The sun beat down on Cedric’s neck and perspiration beaded on his brow. If anyone had told him one week and one day ago that he’d be not comfortably closeted away in his clubs but on his knees in his neglected gardens, tearing out weeds alongside a respectable lady, he’d have laughed in the humorous bastard’s face.
He paused and dusted the back of his hand over his brow, using the brief break to study his fully engrossed in her task wife. Digging a small hole, she replanted a small, twig-like scrap. A strawberry strand fell across her brow and she blew it back, but continued working.
The sight of her in her modest gray skirts, working away, momentarily froze him and a dull humming filled his ears. He was not a gentleman who found pleasure in the close company of others. Montfort was a friend, but their relationship had been forged as two miserable buggers who’d delighted in thumbing their noses up at polite Society.
This—a wife, a person, who desired his company—he did not know what to make of. He didn’t want a person to be dependent upon him as his mother had been dependent upon his father. For ultimately, he’d fail Genevieve in the same way his father had failed his mother…and selfish bastard that he was, Cedric still loathed the idea of destroying her unfettered smile. He didn’t want to be responsible for her happiness, because if she let him, ultimately he’d be the one to destroy it. A name he could give. Her freedom. Those were safe matters of practicality. But to join her in the gardens and sketch alongside her only built this false, fragile world between them, which was destined for failure.
He scrambled to his feet and Genevieve pulled her attention from her task. “Cedric?” There was concern underscoring her soft inquiry that only roused the terror in his chest all the more.
“I have business I must see to.”
Her expression fell. “Of course.” Yet so much emotion bled from the depths of her eyes, that his mouth went dry; emotion he didn’t know what to do with. He turned to go. “What manner of business do you oversee?”
Her words froze him. Had they been uttered by any other woman, they’d have been accusatory in nature. Genevieve’s, however, conveyed a curiosity to know more about him. Cedric momentarily eyed the door, contemplating a swift answer and a swifter retreat. Instead, he lazily collected his jacket. “I won property in a wager and have been working to see it restored to its former greatness.”
Her lips tipped down in the corners. “You won it?”
He frowned, hearing the slight reproach there. “You disapprove?” he asked, instead. If she disapproved of wagering, what would she say to the truly dissolute lifestyle he’d lived these years? It would shock her into regretting the very marriage she’d entered into yesterday.
Genevieve stretched her back, momentarily diverting his attention to that languorous sight, which conjured all delicious memories of making love to her last evening. “It is hard to approve of wagering,” she said quietly, pulling him back from his desirous musings. “Particular wagering that sees a man divested of his properties.”
He fastened the buttons of his jacket. “If it weren’t me, it would have been another,” he pointed out, not knowing why her ill-opinion should matter. When was the last time he’d ever cared about what anyone thought of him?
“Yes, well, two wrongs infer one right.”
In one fluid motion, Cedric swept her to her feet and brought her to his chest. “Have you always been this proper, Genevieve?” he asked, brushing his lips to the sensitive skin behind the lobe of her ear, ringing a breathless laugh from her.
“Are you trying to distract me?”
He moved his lips lower, to the spot where her pulse pounded in her neck. “Is it working?” he breathed against her satiny soft skin.
“I-Indeed,” she rasped.
“I will delight in teaching you the joys of wickedness.”
They were the wrong words to say. A solemn look replaced the earlier lightness etched in the delicate planes of her face. “You’ve been so immersed in wickedness that you’ve lost sight of the joys of life around you.”
Her words, devoid of teasing, spoken more to herself, penetrated the indifferent attitude he’d adopted these years. He loosened his hold on her, but did not relinquish her from his arms. “What do you find joy in? Sketching? Gardening?”
Her skin pinked under the faintly mocking emphasis he infused in those words. “You would condemn my pursuits without knowing them?”
“Touché.”
Genevieve settled her teeth in her lower lip. “We know so little about one another,” she said more to herself.
Yes, and he quite preferred it that way. All of this was entirely too much. Too much probing, and…talking, when he didn’t speak to anyone. Ever. Not about anything that mattered, anyway. “Come,” he whispered, lowering his lips to hers. “Shall we continue where we were before Montfort’s interruption?” Bloody Montfort.
Genevieve turned her head and his lips grazed her cheek. A slight frown marred her lips. “You don’t care to speak of yourself, do you?” She peered at him closely. “Rather, you don’t truly wish to speak of anything of importance.”
Disquiet rolled along his spine. How much she saw, this woman he’d bound himself to. She looked when no one else bothered. In a bid to reclaim control of his tumultuous thoughts, he forced a lazy grin and stepped away from her. “What is there to know about me that you don’t already know?” he drawled and gave a roll of his shoulders. “I enjoy my clubs and gaming hells. I like to wager and drink and attend wicked parties.” He added that last part in a bid to silence any further questions from the lady.
Genevieve furrowed her brow. “Wicked parties?” Instead of proper shock, there was a healthy dose of curiosity and he silently cursed.
For now that he’d mentioned the whole wicked parties business, distaste burned in his mouth at actually speaking of what those entailed. He gave a tight nod.
Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Ah, as in the masquerade Lord Montfort will host?” He went still. Surely, she didn’t know of Montfort’s annual masquerade? “Hmm?” she prodded when still he said nothing.
“What do you know of—?”
His feisty bride snorted. “It’s hardly a secret when mention of it appears in The Times…” She paused. “As well as wonderings as to whether the newly married Marquess of St. A,” she gestured to him. “That would be you. Plans to attend.”
Regardless of where it appeared, he’d not discuss Montfort’s orgies. Not with her. His friend closed out every year with a scandalous affair, attended by only the most jaded souls. “Montfort’s…masquerade,” a term which could only be loosely applied, “is not until the end of the Season.” As such, there really was no need to further discuss—
“What makes them so very wicked?”
They were the manner of event no proper, respectable miss would be in attendance. It would be a den of sin, visited by only the most depraved, scandalous lords and ladies…and suddenly, the idea of her being part of those festivities gave him pause. “They are different than events you are accustomed to.”
Her lips twitched. “Well, that is hardly enlightening.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Rather a disappointing description by a man rumored to be a rake.”
Rumored to be? By God, she truly didn’t know whom she’d married. What did she take him for, then? On the heel of that, terror slithered a slow, torturous path around inside him. Surely, she didn’t see him as anything…more? “I am,” he gritted out, determined to disabuse her of any potentially romantic sentiments.
She tipped her head at that bloody endearing angle so he didn’t know if he wished to kiss her into silence or grit his teeth and storm off.
“I am a rake,” he said through clenched teeth, lest she forget precisely whom she’d married.
“Do you take me for one of those simpering misses who’d be outrageously shocked?” she shot back, wholly ignoring his statement.
There wasn’t a thing si
mpering about Genevieve.
Then, she dusted her palms together. “Very well.”
He cocked his head. “Very well?” What was she on about, now?
“You’ve joined me in the garden and sketched with me. I’ll allow you to take me to one of Montfort’s wicked parties when it comes, Cedric, and then I’ll form my opinion.”
Cedric closed his eyes a moment and, in his first attempt at prayer in the whole of his life, he prayed for patience. Of course, he’d been drawn to a marriage of convenience with Genevieve because of her unwavering spirit…after all, if he was going to be eternally bound to someone it should, at the very least, be someone interesting. But this…a spitfire who’d insist on attending Montfort’s orgy? This woman he didn’t know what to do with.
“Are you praying, Cedric?”
He opened his eyes and found Genevieve staring boldly, more questions in her eyes. “No.”
She slowly nodded. “Yes, well, I didn’t take you for the praying sort.” Did she just insult him? He was still too flummoxed by her earlier question to take proper offense.
Not only had his wife neatly maneuvered her way deeper into his world. She also, by her questioning, expected more than a functional, purposeful arrangement that allowed them to live their separate lives and merged their lives in a way he’d not truly considered. And he needed to regain a foothold of his life. “You are not going.” It mattered not if Montfort’s ball was today, tomorrow, or ten years from now.
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 noisily 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 Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 50
