A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  He wore a royal blue coat, and a gray-and-white-striped waistcoat that fitted him within an inch. His faun breeches displayed not a wrinkle and his boots were so shiny that she’d see her face more clearly in their black leather than in her mirror upstairs. A gold fob glinted in his pocket and a sapphire pin the color of his eyes adorned his impossibly complex neck cloth.

  If this was what he usually looked like, she could understand his shock when she’d accused him of overdressing as Christopher Evans. The man who stared at her with a quizzical light in his beautiful eyes belonged in a painting by Raeburn or Lawrence. Hecuba sprang down with more spirit than she’d displayed in a fortnight and twined around his long legs.

  “Sir Richard, how good of you to call.” Her aunt rose to lift the purring cat and shot Genevieve an annoyed glance, wordlessly insisting that she gather herself. “Would you like tea?”

  “How kind,” he responded smoothly.

  Genevieve supposed he’d always possessed this effortless assurance. When he’d first arrived at the vicarage, she remembered wanting to puncture his conceit. Today he looked as out of place in their untidy parlor as she would dancing on-stage at the Theatre Royal.

  A silence descended and he sent Genevieve a questioning look. Her aunt struggled to restrain a wriggling Hecuba.

  “I’ll see about a fresh pot. Genevieve, will you entertain our guest?” Aunt Lucy’s voice developed an edge. “Perhaps he’d like to sit down after his journey from London.”

  Genevieve continued to gape at Richard like a rag-mannered hoyden. Or even more mortifying, like a starving urchin outside a pie stall. This gorgeous man couldn’t have told her he loved her or kissed her or dragged her to safety through stinking mud. Somewhere there must be another Richard Harmsworth. The man she knew well enough to tease and scold and love.

  “I can’t claim to have come so far, Mrs. Warren. I’m at Leighton Court for the next few nights.”

  “Is His Grace in residence? I hadn’t heard.”

  “No. But he’s given me the run of the place.”

  “Please sit down,” her aunt said. “I won’t be long and you and Genevieve know each other so well.”

  As she retreated to her window seat, heat tinged Genevieve’s cheeks at her aunt’s unintentional double entendre. She and Richard did indeed know each other, in ways a vicar’s daughter should never know a man to whom she wasn’t married.

  Genevieve stared into her lap, feeling awkward. She’d never been tongue-tied with Richard, even when she believed he was a lying thief. Especially not then. But this man was a stranger.

  She heard the parlor door close.

  “Alone at last.”

  She jerked her head up. He’d chosen a chair to her right. His eyes brimmed with laughter and she didn’t trust that note of fond exasperation, just because she so desperately wanted to hear it. “Don’t mock me.”

  “Why not? You’re acting like a ninnyhammer.”

  “Charming,” she snapped. “You’re blond again.”

  The change in his hair was part of what left her so unsettled. The gleaming gold suited him much better than muddy brown. But she couldn’t relate to this shining Apollo, even as her heart clenched with hopeless love. She wanted Christopher Evans back. She could imagine Christopher Evans needing Genevieve Barrett in his life. She couldn’t picture this epitome of fashion sparing a glance for her rumpled person.

  Self-consciously he touched his hair without ruffling its perfection. It was like he was made of marble and paint and enamel, not flesh at all. She struggled to recall the hot press of their bodies. The memory was hazy.

  “I can’t say I miss that damned sticky paste.” When she didn’t reply, he sighed. “I’m sorry I took so long to return. It’s been a devil of a few weeks, dealing with Fairbrother’s death and ensuring the scandal never touched you.”

  “Thank you,” she said ungraciously.

  She hated that he saw her so clearly. What she really wanted was for him to sweep her into his arms and kiss her and tell her that he loved her and that he forgave her for being a witch last time they were together. How she wished she wore her gold silk instead of this faded blue muslin. Except her good dress was seasons out of date and couldn’t compete with his splendor.

  He leaned forward and for one breathless moment, she wondered if he’d take her hand. “Where’s your father?”

  Her breath escaped in an exhalation of bewilderment. “He’s been in Oxford since Lord Neville’s death.”

  His patron’s suicide had devastated Ezekiel Barrett. He’d categorically refused to believe the reports of illegal activities, not to mention the attempt on Genevieve’s life.

  “Genevieve—”

  She stood on shaky legs. “I suppose you’ve left Sirius at the stable. I’ll go and see him.”

  “Genevieve, I’m sorry I didn’t adequately appreciate what you offered to do for me.”

  It seemed he did mean to apologize. Was that indeed why he was here? “It’s of no importance.”

  Annoyance darkened his features and fleetingly he looked like her Richard. “Damn it, yes, it is important. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Oh, no. That sentence never boded well. She braced for bad news, even as frogs the size of ponies jumped about in her stomach. “What?”

  He slid a hand into his coat and produced a letter. “Read this.”

  Not sure of his purpose, she accepted the sealed paper with a shaking hand. Did he say farewell in writing? “Is it from you?”

  He scowled. “Why the devil should I write to you? I’m right here.”

  For how long? He’d stayed away two weeks without a word. And she remembered Mrs. Meacham’s magazines saying that he sought a high-born wife.

  A faint smile warmed his expression. “I promise it won’t bite.”

  Reluctantly she opened the letter, then gasped in surprise when she saw the heading. She sank back onto the window seat. “It’s from the British Museum.”

  His smile intensified. “Yes, it is.”

  Curiosity forced its way through the fog of misery that had enveloped her since he’d marched away in a temper. “It invites me to lecture next month.” She raised her head and stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  He stood. “I showed them the jewel and told them what a genius you are. Dr. Partridge had given me a copy of the article so I had more than my limited eloquence to bolster my claims. The trustees were slavering to have you address them before I’d finished.”

  “But—”

  He swept over her quibbling. “You won’t surrender your dreams because of me, Genevieve.”

  “I wrote to Dr. Partridge withdrawing the article.”

  “He’s merely delayed publication while you reconsidered. I told him you had some final threads to tie up.”

  “You visited him?”

  “He’s not the world’s most scintillating company.”

  No, he wasn’t. She blinked at Richard in speechless admiration.

  He stepped toward her. “Don’t be angry. You’ll have everything you ever wanted.”

  Except you.

  The thought went unvoiced. He still hadn’t mentioned love.

  He eyed her with uncharacteristic diffidence. “Are you angry?”

  “I feel like I’ve been carried away in a whirlwind.” She glanced down at the letter on her lap. “The British Museum?”

  His smile conveyed satisfaction. “You can’t say no. If you do, I’ll look like a deuced fool.”

  “It feels unreal.”

  “You’ll be famous.”

  Famous and alone. Right now, that seemed a punishment rather than a reward. “But it will bring the Harmsworth name into disrepute.”

  He shrugged. “We Harmsworths are used to that.” He paused. “Don’t deny me the pleasure of seeing you take your rightful place in the world, Genevieve. Between lawyers and magistrates, I’ve spent the last two weeks chasing dry-as-dust scholars. If you cheat me of my triumph, I’
ll sulk until Christmas.”

  So like him to trivialize his massive efforts on her behalf. She’d be churlish to refuse something that he’d taken so much trouble over. She didn’t underestimate the obstacles to gaining her a public hearing at such a prestigious institution.

  She’d once called him St. George—now he’d set himself to slay all the dragons standing in the way of her success. Her objections to exposing the jewel’s origins persisted, but his gargantuan efforts proved that he could live with any consequences.

  His advocacy left her winded, astonished, moved. After a lifetime of dealing with the closed minds of male academics, she could imagine the battle he’d fought even to get the authorities at the museum to listen, let alone accept her as a fellow expert.

  She should be grateful. She was. But he didn’t act the lover and he’d had a fortnight back in his real world. Was this extravagant gesture meant to celebrate his love or mark his departure? The most likely answer was that he’d decided his idyll in Little Derrick was over. Not that it had been much of an idyll, with homicidal noblemen, voluble vicars, and prickly bluestockings wherever he looked.

  “Thank you.” She struggled to sound pleased. “It was kind of you to do this. And to come all this way to tell me in person.”

  His mouth flattened. “I’m not bloody kind.”

  He caught her hand in an uncompromising grip. His level regard indicated that he meant business. No trace of teasing now. His shoulders straightened, then to her amazement, he dropped to one knee, still clutching her hand.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, sliding back against the windowsill. His touch still set her pulses leaping. More powerfully after days without him.

  “Be quiet, Genevieve. For two weeks, I’ve shored up my courage. Your caprices won’t divert me.”

  “Caprices?” she repeated on a rising note, then fell silent when she met his gaze. He stared at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. Nervously she raised her free hand to her cheek. “Have I got something on my face?”

  The intensity drained from his expression. “No. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful.”

  Her heart crashed against her ribs so hard that it must surely shatter. “Stop these mad antics.”

  His hand tightened to the verge of pain. “Mad or not, I love you and I can’t live without you. Will you do me the incomparable honor of becoming my wife?”

  The breath jammed in her throat and she ripped her hand free. In forbidden dreams, she’d imagined this moment. Now it arrived, she found herself completely flummoxed. All her old fears about dwindling into a wife rose like a wave to swamp her hopes for a future with Richard. She could perhaps conquer those doubts—after all, hadn’t he just demonstrated his wholehearted support for her ambitions? But the prospect of marrying this dazzling creature who watched her so unwaveringly terrified her.

  “You never mentioned marriage,” she choked out, her hands fluttering like some nitwit heroine’s in a play. Dear God, every moment proved she lacked the sophistication to become Lady Harmsworth.

  “Of course I intend marriage.” He frowned faintly. “When we were in the crypt, I distinctly remember saying that I wanted to marry you.”

  “You were joking,” she said miserably. “You’re always joking.”

  “Not always. I wasn’t joking when I said that I love you.”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  His laugh was a dismissive snort. “I know you think me a shallow sod, but I doubt a fortnight would make even the shallowest sod forget the woman he wants to spend his life with.” All amusement evaporated. “Or have you changed? Have you decided you don’t love me?”

  She didn’t answer. Admitting her feelings left her too vulnerable when she remained torn and unsure. She recalled the bride of impeccable pedigree. “You have to marry to restore the Harmsworth prestige.”

  “I have to marry where I love.”

  It was a good answer, but still she wasn’t convinced. “I won’t fit into your world.”

  He rose, towering over her, his expression severe. “How do you know?”

  “Look at you.” Her quivering anguish was audible. She stood too. She felt too much at a disadvantage sitting. “You’re dressed for a ball at St. James and I’m a bookish frump.”

  “I wouldn’t be allowed into a ball wearing breeches. Not done, don’t you know?”

  His humor cut her on the raw. She swung away and stared blindly out the window. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  She heard him shift closer. Her skin tightened with longing for his touch, even as she braced against slumping into his arms and telling him that she’d take him under any circumstances, as long as he never left. Truly pathetic.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I probably should have toned down the clothes, but devil take it, I’m proposing. A man ought to look his best when he asks a woman to marry him. I can’t believe that you’re refusing me because of what I’m wearing.”

  Put like that, her objections sounded insane. But she understood her qualms, and she had an inkling he did too. “I haven’t refused you,” she muttered. “Yet.”

  She started when his hand slid around her waist, although he made no attempt to coax her closer. “Does that mean there’s hope?”

  She sniffed. Curse him, she was crying. “That means I know it’s a mistake to marry you.” She blinked away stinging tears and turned without breaking his hold. “Richard, I know I’m making a muddle of this and that you must think I’m off my head, but I come from humble circumstances and you move in the highest circles. I’m direct and difficult and odd. I’m not the wife Sir Richard Harmsworth deserves.”

  To her astonishment, anger turned his blue eyes black. “You’re the only wife I want. You put every other woman into the shade. You’ll have London at your feet within a week. After you’ve given your lecture and your article is published, everyone will wonder what you see in a dunderhead like me.” His expression darkened. “Or have you decided that you can’t bear to marry a bastard?”

  She stared at him, too astonished even to cry. “Of course not. I love you. I don’t care who your parents are.”

  “And don’t you think I love you, whether you come to me in a pinafore with a hundred pockets, or a silk gown, or a damned hessian sack?” His expression became breathtakingly grave. “Genevieve, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. If I must dress like a farmhand the rest of my days, I’ll do it as long as you become my bride.”

  A choked laugh escaped. “Now I know you must love me.”

  He drew her inexorably nearer. “Of course I love you. The question is—do you love me?”

  “I told you I did, didn’t I?” she said gruffly, placing her hands on the lapels of his spectacular coat. She still thought she ought to wash before she touched him, but she had an idea that the suggestion might annoy him. Right now, she didn’t want him annoyed. Not when the glint in his eyes said that he was about to kiss her. At last.

  “In between a lot of other twaddle.” He paused. “Do I need to go on my knees again?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Does that mean you’ll marry me? Because you know I don’t have a hope of happiness away from you, don’t you?”

  Her heart slowed to a steady rhythm. She’d been nervous and afraid and unsure and, yes, piqued that he’d stayed away for two weeks when she’d been so lonely. The unimportant clamor receded. This was the man she wanted. This was the man she would have.

  “For God’s sake, sweetheart, stop torturing me and say yes.”

  He looked desperate and unsure. Which she rather liked. It reminded her that he was as vulnerable to her as she was to him. Hard to believe when he looked like he did. Then she recalled that he’d spent a lifetime cultivating this elegance as a defense. His handsome exterior—much as she appreciated it—wasn’t the real Richard. The real Richard was brave and good and had a loyal and loving heart. Which it seemed he placed at her feet. Lucky her.


  “Will you kiss me?” she asked huskily.

  “Now?”

  She nodded, her lips curving. She didn’t feel inadequate anymore. She felt beautiful and adored and capable of holding onto this fascinating, wonderful man. “Now.”

  “Your aunt could come in,” he drawled without shifting.

  “Let her.” Although her aunt’s absence proved suspiciously lengthy. Aunt Lucy must be waiting until things were settled before she reappeared to offer congratulations. She’d long ago guessed that her niece was head over heels in love with their former lodger.

  “Will you say yes if I kiss you?”

  “I certainly won’t if you don’t kiss me.”

  He sighed. “You’re impossible.”

  With his free hand, he tipped her chin up. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Immediate heat bloomed and she melted against him, kissing him back with all the love in her heart. By the time he paused for breath, she felt off-kilter and misty-eyed and ready to waltz around the room singing.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and stared up at Richard. He looked as if that kiss had flung him into infinity too. Good.

  Another smile curled her lips and she stroked his cheek. “Richard, I love you with all my heart. Of course I’ll marry you.”

  Epilogue

  London, April 1828

  I shouldn’t be here.”

  Genevieve stopped studying the magnificent Turner over the alabaster mantelpiece and eyed her husband with loving impatience. “Of course you should.”

  Richard swung into another turn, pacing toward the end of the gracious drawing room decorated in the modish rococo revival style. It said something for the changes Genevieve had undergone since becoming Lady Harmsworth six months ago that she knew what was fashionable and what wasn’t. One result of marrying an arbiter of elegance.

  “This can serve no purpose.”

  “Then we’ll pay our respects and leave,” she said calmly.

  He usually wasn’t skittish, but she’d long ago realized that belying his casual manner, when he cared, he cared to the depths of his being. He cared about his friends. He cared about his wife, thank goodness. And much as he loathed admitting it, he cared about his mother.