A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  Genevieve saw him whiten as she firmed her grip on her petticoats. She bent to collect the lantern before she shoved past him toward the door. All the time, she raged at herself and the scheming Sir Richard Harmsworth, curse his black soul to hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Papa, Lord Neville assaulted me last night.” Genevieve placed her hands flat on her father’s desk and leaned forward to capture his attention.

  She’d only had a couple of hours’ fitful sleep, pistol under her pillow in case Lord Neville returned. Or that wretch Richard Harmsworth tried his luck. But nobody had appeared until Dorcas arrived with tea.

  Some foolishly optimistic corner of her heart had imagined that her father might check that she was unharmed. Instead, after returning from Leighton Court he’d retreated to his library. By now, she should be inured to her father’s disregard, but every time he proved how little he cared, it cut anew. Her aunt had fussed about her all morning, horrified at the abduction and cursing Lord Neville for a villain.

  “What nonsense.” Her father looked annoyed as he glanced up from his book. “You caused a deal of trouble last night, Genevieve. I can’t be pleased with you. It quite spoiled the evening.”

  “Lord Neville pressed his attentions.” This morning she felt completely battered. Her body sported bruises, and more insidiously, the untried muscles between her legs ached. “You must forbid him the house. And Greengrass too.”

  Her father looked troubled. “His Grace made this ridiculous claim last night. I don’t know what you all hope to achieve with this slander. I told him then that Lord Neville is a gentleman.”

  “What about this?” She straightened and touched the mottled bruise on her cheek with a trembling hand. A fichu hid the bruises on her neck. “I’m not in the habit of imagining men attacking me.”

  “Genevieve, his lordship wants to marry you.” Her father’s hands twisted in his lap.

  “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Outrage choked her. Surely her father couldn’t think that after last night she’d want to be in the same room as Lord Neville, let alone marry the swine. “He tried to force me.”

  Her father shook his head in disbelief. “It’s a good match, Genny. If you marry him, you’ll be settled, secure. What will become of you when I’m gone? There’s no money.”

  Her father hadn’t called her Genny in years. The nickname only pressed the knife deeper into her heart. She considered telling him of the offers for the Harmsworth Jewel, then realized that he’d still choose toadying to his patron over protecting his daughter. Anyway, she couldn’t sell the artifact. Not knowing what she did.

  “Even before last night’s events, I couldn’t marry him,” she said dully. “He’s too old for me.”

  Her father’s anger flared. Not, she noted with chagrin, on her behalf. “He’s been generous.”

  She regarded him with horror. “So I should sell myself to him?”

  A hiatus in his hand wringing. “You’d be a lady in a great house and close enough to continue working with me.”

  Of course his convenience was paramount. If she married Lord Neville, her father retained patron and assistant in a neat package. An ocean of disappointment drowned her rage. She should have guessed that her father wouldn’t take her side. That liar Richard Harmsworth was the only person prepared to stand up to Lord Neville for her. What an appalling revelation.

  “Don’t you care that he hit me?” she asked in a small voice.

  Her father looked hunted. “You mustn’t dismiss his many kindnesses because of a childish spat.” He adopted the pious expression reserved for his sermons. “We can’t be unchristian.”

  “No, let’s not be unchristian,” she said bitterly, turning away to hide her distress.

  He stood and touched her arm. “Genny, I know that something’s frightened you. But for your own sake, consider Lord Neville’s proposal. I’m sure today he’s repentant. Your innocence makes you blind to a man’s passions.”

  Shamed color flooded her cheeks. After last night, she was innocent no more. But her voice remained steady, even as wretchedness weighted her belly. “Lord Neville attacked me. I won’t overlook that for the sake of your comfort.” She steeled herself to say what she should have said long ago. “And I’ll no longer let you claim credit for my work.”

  Her father snatched his hand away and retreated. “What is this? You’re getting above yourself, my girl. You’ve been an able assistant, but purely an assistant.”

  She jerked her head up and stared at him. The morning light through the window lay plain on his face. He looked tired, petulant, and completely sure of himself. She’d long ago accepted that fundamentally he was weak and self-centered. But this denial tested the boundaries of credulity. In the last five years, the vicar hadn’t written one published word. Even commissions to authenticate some item or confirm an obscure piece of family history had been her work.

  The tantamount importance of her article about the Harmsworth Jewel had never been so clear. How glad she was that she’d kept the truth about the artifact to herself. She needed to establish her academic reputation. And she needed to do it soon.

  “I’ve been more than an assistant,” she said shakily.

  Her father’s jaw set in an obstinate line. “Years ago Lord Neville approached me about making you his wife. I should have arranged the wedding before pride gained this hold over you. You’ve become arrogant, Genevieve, and rebellious. Remember what we both owe Neville Fairbrother.”

  Bile rose in her throat. Her father resented her upsetting his cozy world. He’d forgive her if she allowed everything to continue as before. No, even worse, he’d forgive her if she bolstered the lies about his work and married Lord Neville.

  She’d rather die.

  Richard awoke to shadows and the unmistakable aroma of horses. The bed beneath him was unaccountably hard and rough beams supported the ceiling above his head. He blinked, sneezed and wondered where the hell he was.

  Immediately he remembered. Bundling his coat into a makeshift pillow, he’d slept in the vicarage stables. Even with Cam’s footmen on watch, he couldn’t leave Genevieve unguarded. Then the night’s exertions had taken their toll and he’d nodded off, bugger it.

  “Who’s there?” a husky voice asked.

  He recalled now what had disturbed him. A woman’s crying. Fierce concern banished all drowsiness. He rolled onto his side in his dark corner of the loft and discovered Genevieve huddled against the far wall.

  “Genevieve? What’s the matter?” He rose into a crouch, struggling to see her. Sun forced its way through the cracks in the boards, but he discerned little beyond her outline. She curled into the wall with her knees raised and her shoulders slumped forward.

  She stiffened and hunched away. “What are you doing here?” she asked, the snap failing to mask her voice’s rawness.

  His lovely girl was crying as if her heart broke. Over what he’d done last night? The thought winded him.

  “I slept here last night.” He stood and stretched tight muscles. “I meant to stay awake to make sure you were safe.”

  “But you didn’t.” She sounded bitter and unhappy.

  “I’d have heard if there was trouble.” As he brushed away the straw clinging to him, he hoped to God that was true. Desperate not to scare her into scarpering, he strolled across to the narrow window and pushed the shutters open. The sun was high in the sky. Sweet air flooded the loft, dissipating the equine tang.

  He turned back to Genevieve. Even with the window open, it was difficult to see. He could just make out the discoloration on her cheek where Fairbrother had hit her. Richard tamped down his fury at the sight.

  He shrugged with assumed carelessness. “If you and I were alone in the house with only Dorcas as chaperone, it would look bad.”

  Her wariness was so powerful, it felt like a physical presence. “As if you care.”

  He frowned. “Of course I care.” More than she knew, although after their quarr
el, now wasn’t the time to declare his feelings. He sucked in a breath redolent of hay dust and warm air and sneezed again. “That covers why I’m in this deuced inconvenient rat hole. What’s your excuse?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said sullenly, raising one unsteady hand to brush away her tears.

  “Too bad,” he said easily, dropping to sit beside her. The urge to take her into his arms gnawed, but after last night, he was uncertain about touching her. It was patently obvious that she was still furious. Rightly so, he reluctantly admitted.

  “Leave me alone,” she muttered, burying her head in the arms she propped on her knees.

  “No,” he said in the same pleasant tone. He rubbed his hand over his bristly jaw. He needed a wash and a shave. He needed a clear conscience. None were likely to come his way in the next little while. “Tell me why you’re crying.”

  “I don’t have to tell a liar and a fraud anything. If you had the sensitivity of a… a brick, you’d go away. Far, far away.”

  He winced at her description. But how could he leave her when she was unhappy? Her tears made him feel like she peeled his skin away an inch at a time.

  Still pretending serenity, he stretched his legs out and propped his bare shoulders against the roof sloping behind them. Light was dim in this corner. Which was undoubtedly why she’d chosen it. He sneezed again. All this movement kicked up a devil of a dust storm. “I’m a blockhead of a man, my darling. No sensitivity at all.”

  She glared at him out of eyes swimming with tears. “I hate you.”

  His heart clenched into an excruciating fist, but he made himself sound calm, uninvolved. “I’m sure I deserve it. Did I make you cry?”

  “As if you could.”

  The temper narrowing her eyes was an improvement. His lips stretched in a wry smile. “That’s a relief.” He paused. “If not me, who?”

  With her hair covered in dust and cobwebs and her face stained with tears, she seemed heartbreakingly young. He had a glimpse of the child Genevieve, mourning her mother in the hidden temple. She’d have been a difficult girl, curious, intelligent, prickly. Adorable.

  She scowled. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” He dared to tug a wisp of hay from her untidy hair. He was a scoundrel to find encouragement when she accepted the intimacy. “You may as well tell me. I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

  Briefly he thought she might resist. After all, they were both aware that he had no real claim on her. Resentment firmed her jaw, offset by her mouth’s vulnerable softness. “My father wants me to marry Lord Neville.”

  “Like hell he does!” Richard stared at her, too disgusted to be angry, although anger lurked close.

  “I told him to ban Fairbrother from the house.” Hopelessness glazed her eyes.

  She looked so alone. Genevieve against the world. Richard longed to stand as her champion. But to his regret, his lies made the offer unconscionable. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

  “So he should. What about the abduction?”

  Her delicate throat moved as she swallowed. “Apparently I exaggerate.”

  Richard began to stand. “I’ll tell him exactly what happened. He can’t keep living in Cloud Cuckoo Land. You’re not safe as long as Fairbrother’s got the run of the house.”

  She grabbed his arm, dragging him down again. “No.”

  Despite his wish to play the gallant protector, he was only human. Her touch shuddered through him like lightning. “He won’t listen to me because he knows I’m not Christopher Evans?”

  She shook her head and her hand tightened around his bare bicep. Dear God, how he wished he’d rescued his shirt last night. Sitting here half-naked gave him too many ideas. “I didn’t tell him who you are. He’s had so many shocks lately.”

  Just like Genevieve to consider the old man’s feelings, no matter how badly he’d treated her. Richard’s shoulders relaxed with ill-deserved relief. He’d assumed that today the vicar would show him the door and he’d have to scuttle back to Leighton Court.

  “Then why can’t I add my account?” How it must chafe that her father wouldn’t accept her word. Or perhaps the old reprobate did, but refused to jeopardize his comfort.

  She blushed and looked away, releasing him, although the imprint of her fingers lingered like a brand. His gut knotted when he realized that she was deathly ashamed. “He might wonder what we got up to last night.”

  Privately Richard thought the selfish old haddock wouldn’t care what his daughter did as long as it didn’t affect his convenience. “I gave one of Cam’s footmen a note for the duke, saying that if the vicar asked, I returned to Leighton Court and you slept at the vicarage. It was the best I could do to save your reputation.”

  She didn’t look particularly reassured as she faced him directly. “I wish you’d go. I’ll never sell you the jewel. You destroyed any chance of charming it away from me last night.”

  He gave a huff of hollow laughter. God help him, he’d moved way beyond conniving to obtain the jewel. Right now, he’d happily fling the blasted gewgaw into Sedgemoor’s pond and applaud as it disappeared into the mud. It had caused nothing but trouble.

  “I won’t leave you unprotected,” he said flatly.

  “I’ve got my gun.”

  “With you now?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got mine. Fairbrother won’t catch me napping.”

  “I did.”

  “I know,” he said glumly, folding his arms over his upraised knees.

  To his dismay, tears welled in her eyes once more. She leaned away to hide her loss of control, but not quickly enough.

  “Darling, I hate to see you cry,” he said helplessly. He reached for her, then pulled back. He’d scuppered all chance of mercy the moment he’d admitted his identity.

  “Leave me alone.” The hands over her face muffled her voice.

  “Genevieve, I’ll fix everything.” He hoped like hell he wasn’t lying again.

  Her shoulders heaved and a strangled sob escaped. She wriggled away, but he had her boxed against the angled roof. He stared at her in despair. London lauded his social adroitness, yet he blundered around Genevieve like an elephant in a peony garden. No wonder she couldn’t stand a bar of him.

  Another sob. Her head bent and her nape under the untidy chignon seemed heartbreakingly vulnerable. She was a strong, determined woman, but right now she looked as fragile as glass.

  Hesitantly, knowing she despised everything about him, he cupped that warm, smooth skin under the line of hair. Automatically, he stroked her, soothing her much as he’d soothe Hecuba.

  Her breath hitched. He waited for her to wrench away.

  She stiffened. Preparing to reject him, he guessed.

  Oh, well, he’d asked for it. He couldn’t accuse her of leading him on. She’d made it perfectly clear that she wanted him to leave the barn. Then preferably leave her life altogether.

  Her muscles bunched under his hand. Would this be the last time he touched her? The prospect shriveled his heart like a grape in the desert sun. Touching her was life to him. The greatest punishment she could inflict was to send him away.

  He struggled to imprint this moment on his memory. The warm autumn sunlight limning her with gold. The flaxen tumble of hair. The soft skin under his palm. The faint scent of flowers and Genevieve.

  He’d never forget her. He’d love her till he died.

  She made a strangled sound, then shifted. Not away but forward. A drift of hay, a scrabble of limbs, a twist of her body and two arms lashed around him as if expecting protest.

  Protest? Not in this life. He was in heaven.

  “My darling…” he choked out and caught her against him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Genevieve was in trouble. Worse trouble than the madness of again surrendering to this man. Even when she’d been so angry with him that she’d wanted to shoot him where he stood, leaving Richard last n
ight had been like hacking off a limb. Now that he held her, she felt whole again. It didn’t matter that he’d lied. It didn’t matter that he stayed for his own purposes and his purposes promised grief for Genevieve Barrett.

  Those things should matter, but when he wrapped his arms around her as if he’d readily defy the world for her sake, she couldn’t make them matter. She was a lost cause.

  She was about to become more lost.

  Frantically she stretched up, rising awkwardly on her knees. She mashed her mouth against his. Last night when she’d marched away, she’d told herself she never wanted to kiss him again. That proud resolution crumbled to dust mere hours later. He tried to jerk free, but she grabbed his shoulders to keep him near.

  “Genevieve, you don’t want this. You hate me, remember?”

  “I hate you,” she growled, straining against the hands holding her away.

  This close, his features were out of focus, making it impossible to read his expression. But she could smell his arousal. Before last night, she couldn’t have identified that hot scent, but now, she recognized that his hunger matched hers.

  His voice was hoarse. “I’m that odious rascal Richard Harmsworth. I’m the man you wished to Hades last night.”

  “I still wish you to Hades.” She did, as long as he took her with him.

  “Then why are you touching me?” His voice vibrated with wild despair as his hands kneaded her arms.

  “Don’t you want me to touch you?”

  “I don’t want you to hate me more than you do.”

  He’d resisted last night—at least at first. Then, as now, he’d struggled to act with honor. The thought shuddered through her, made her realize that he wasn’t a complete swine. Of course he wasn’t. He’d saved her from Lord Neville, and she was almost sure he’d done it with no ulterior motive. Then he’d tried to return her safely to the vicarage.

  The chink of light in his dark, dark soul made her more determined than ever. “You talk too much.”