In an unspoken cue that came from years of devoted service, footmen rushed forward with the ladies’ cloaks. Meanwhile, Dunwithy pulled the door open. Genevieve followed silently behind her parents with her usually talkative sister, quieted.
How had her spirits not been completely crushed living in this place? As miserable as Genevieve’s banishment had been for what it represented, she’d spent her days in the gardens with the sun on her face; a crime her mother had lambasted her for since her return with tanned cheeks. The family filed into the carriage.
Moments later, a servant closed the door, shutting the Farendale family away in the large, opulent carriage.
Clasping her hands on her lap, Genevieve stared out the window at the passing darkened London streets. “I do not expect one misstep from you this night,” her father’s rumbling voice filled the confines of the black barouche.
She stiffened.
“You’re to—”
“Sit with the matrons and wallflowers,” she delivered emotionlessly. “I know.” And there was no dancing or smiling or conversing with gentleman.
He grunted.
Her sister shot her another look—the pitying kind.
And while her father launched into another lecture before the evening’s festivities, she stared out the window and dreamed of being any place but where she was.
*
Genevieve’s feet ached.
She had stood alongside the proper matrons and mamas for the past three hours, nodding at the proper moments and primly holding her hands clasped at her waist. That had wrought havoc on her miserable feet.
To be specific, her biggest toe and the one next to it throbbed with a pounding intensity to match the steady pressure building at the back of her head. A pounding that was a product of the noisy whispers and laughter filling the Duke of Ravenscourt’s ballroom. Though at this moment, she was particularly grateful for the distraction as it afforded the opportunity to rub those miserable digits. She discreetly drew her foot up and—
“Genevieve, do put your foot down,” her mother, the Marchioness of Ellsworth, said from the corner of her mouth, not taking her eyes off the crowded ballroom.
With a sigh, Genevieve lowered her heel to the floor and winced. Blasted slippers.
Did her mother truly think anyone was giving Genevieve any attention—a young lady long in the tooth in dull gray skirts, deemed unmarriageable because of a scandal from long ago? If she did, well, then she’d a good deal less sense than Genevieve had credited over the years. She trailed her bored gaze over the ballroom and she’d not given her much.
The perverse fascination upon the first event Genevieve attended had dimmed when it became rather clear that the whore from long ago wouldn’t don crimson skirts. Nor would she flutter her lashes at wed and unwed gentleman—something she’d never been guilty of, but the myth had been created all those years ago.
Absently, she did a search for him. Surely, it was inevitable their paths would cross and when they did, how could she bury the long-burning hatred she carried for the lying cad? She’d been so very enamored of the Duke of Aumere and his effusive charm, she’d failed to note the lies in his eyes and heart. Her gaze collided with a garish fop in yellow satin pants.
The gentleman studied her under hot lids and, cheeks burning, she quickly looked away. Perhaps they’d not forgotten, after all. Her father was a bloody, witless fool. The only stares that would ever be fixed on her were by gentlemen with dishonorable intentions. Something deep inside, something that felt very much like…regret, pulled at her. Regret for the dream that had never been, nor would ever be.
Restless, she leaned up on tiptoes and ignoring the pain presented by her too-tight slippers, she searched for her sister. Gillian remained ensconced in conversation with her friend, a Miss Honoria Fairfax. From the sidelines, Genevieve felt very much the younger sister; uncertain, while the cheerful Gillian spoke easily to her friend. Another pang of sadness struck as she looked about her own bright-eyed excitement of years ago. There had once been a magical thrill at these lavish, glittering affairs. How odd to return to these ballrooms years later, at such a very different place in life, while her sister evinced that long-ago excitement.
Her mother shoved her elbow into Genevieve’s side and brought her back down hard on her heels. “Do stop frowning,” her mother hissed. “Pretty faces…”
Catch pretty titles.
Yes, that had long been mother’s silly words for her daughters. And yet, there’d been no more beautiful face than that of Gillian, and what had that gotten her? Not even a single offer or suitor because of a sin committed in her elder sister’s past.
Did her mother truly believe she would find a husband? Nor would Genevieve bother to correct her mother of the erroneous assumption that she would one, do something as foolish as to wed a rake who studiously avoided polite affairs, or two, that she’d wed a gentleman who saw nothing more than a pretty face in her. The only gentleman worth wedding was the good and honorable and hopelessly in love one. In short, a man who did not exist.
A tall figure appeared at the front of the room, momentarily distracting the guests, but alas, the sought-after host remained elusive. Genevieve yawned into her glove, earning another sharp glower from her mother. “The marquess might see,” she whispered.
“The marquess would have to attend,” she returned.
Another tall figure appeared at the threshold of the ballroom and the guests, her mother included, leaned forward. Alas, given the collective groan, the dark-haired gentleman at the front of the room was, in fact, not the future duke.
She cringed at the crowd’s tangible desire for that missing gentleman. What bad form. “Why throw a blasted ball?” she muttered. Why, if one had no plans on attending, and worse, forcing others to endure the tediousness of the affair?
“What was that, Genevieve?” her mother asked, returning her attention to her daughter, which was the last thing she cared for—attention from her mother, a mother who’d not given up hope of her only daughter of marriageable age making a match.
“I said, what a splendid ball,” she replied, with a smile.
The narrowing of her mother’s eyes indicated she knew the lie there and Genevieve gave thanks as her mother’s friend, the Countess of Erroll, approached.
The two women greeted each other eagerly as young ladies might. Their friendship went back to their days at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School and, as such, when together, they tended to forget everyone else around. Genevieve cast a special thanks skyward for that blessed diversion.
“…Why else would he host a formal ball, and make an appearance except to find a wife…” the other woman said excitedly.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. She had to tamp down the pointed reminder that the rake’s father was responsible for hosting said event, and that the Marquess of St. Albans still couldn’t be bothered to attend. Those were hardly indications of a marriage-minded lord. Nor would any sensible person ever mistake that elusive lord as marriage minded. The man had earned a reputation as one of Society’s most scandalous rakes and took care to avoid polite affairs.
“Well, I heard from Lady Delenworth who heard from Lady Fitzhugh, that he’s going to at last see to his responsibilities and wed.” Mother concluded that admission with a decisive nod, as though it declared her words fact.
Every scandalous widow and marriage-minded miss, however, seemed to be of like opinion to Mother. They all eyed the door with a breathless anticipation for the rakish Marquess of St. Albans to make his appearance—to his own ball.
Except, Genevieve. She wanted nothing to do with those rakish sorts. Especially one who couldn’t bother with punctuality. She didn’t care if the person was a prince or a pauper. In being late, it signified another’s belief in their own self-importance and devalued those individuals kept waiting.
She sighed. Yes, she’d be quite contented with a perfectly charming, romantic fellow who read her sonnets and snipped tresses of her hair to
hold close. Forcibly thrusting back the painful musings, she looked about the room for a glimpse of a friendly, familiar face. Alas, she knew but one. Gillian, now otherwise occupied with her friend, chatted at the opposite end of the room. Envy pulled at her and she hated the niggling green monster that needled at her for Gillian having friends when Genevieve remained—alone.
“Mother,” she said, taking advantage of the other woman’s diversion. Genevieve shifted and then swallowed down a curse at the throbbing of her toes. “I am going to see Gillian,” she lied, crossing her fingers behind her back. “She is speaking with Miss Fairfax.”
“Very well,” her mother said, momentarily turning her attention from the next guest to arrive, who was decidedly not a future duke. Fortunately, Lady Erroll otherwise occupied the marchioness.
Genevieve slipped off and promptly winced. Well, slipped off, as much as one was able with too-tight slippers and throbbing toes. She limped along the ballroom floor. Couples twirled in a kaleidoscope of colorful satin fabrics that created a whir of movement and distraction, which she welcomed.
Smiling past her pain, Genevieve sneaked from the ballroom and closed her eyes a moment. She relished the dull hum of quiet that melded with the distant strands of the orchestra’s waltz. Then, as quickly as her miserable slippers would allow, she rushed down the hall and paused beside a paneled door. She cast a quick glance about. Alas, everyone was no doubt too enrapt with the possibility of first glimpsing the future duke to escape.
She pressed the door handle and stepped inside the darkened room. Closing the door behind her, she quickly turned the lock and paused, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened space. Then, the tension left her shoulders.
Alone.
She was blessedly alone. Not that she was one of those solitary creatures who hated company. She didn’t. She did, however, have miserably sore toes. Lifting her right leg at an awkward angle, she yanked off the offending article. Of their own volition, her eyes slid closed and she wiggled her toes, driving blood back to the digits. Genevieve settled her foot on the floor and bent down, reaching for her other slipper.
A little sigh escaped her lips. Bliss. Utter bliss. At her too-tight slippers being off. And being free of her mother’s determined matchmaking. How she envied gentlemen. They were all spared from watchful eyes and free to pursue their own amusements without recrimination or scrutiny.
Shoes in hand, Genevieve looked about the expansive library. With the floor-length shelves lined with leather volumes and the sweeping ceilings, the room contained more tomes than the whole of the collection at The Temple of the Muses. “So this is what a duke’s library looks like,” she murmured to herself, wandering over to the wall. Odd, she’d very nearly been married to a duke and had entered nothing more than his ballroom and dining room for their betrothal ball. With her spare hand, she trailed her fingertips along the gold-emblazoned spines and did a slow walk down the length of the room.
Absently, Genevieve rested her slippers on a nearby mahogany side table and propping her hands on her hips. She did a small circle fully evaluating the duke’s library. She creased her brow. Yes, there were entirely too many tomes. How could one truly know which books one had? One should have far more discriminating taste in literature: the romantic poets, gothic novels. Not… She paused and skimmed her fingertips along one title. “Elements Of Agricultural Chemistry In A Course Of Lectures” she mouthed, as she tugged it free. Genevieve fanned the pages and then froze.
Her gaze collided with a tall figure, comfortably seated on the duke’s leather winged back chair. With a bottle of brandy at his feet and a crystal snifter in his hand, he sat with the ease of one who may as well have owned the space. Her stomach flipped over.
Mayhap it was her eyes playing tricks of the light. After all, it was dark. Genevieve blinked several times in rapid succession and closed her eyes. Yes, it was rather dark, with the moon casting ominous shadows about the room. Mayhap she’d merely imagined him. Except, a shadow that drank brandy and held snifters? She popped one eye open and found the silent gentleman’s cerulean blue eyes fixed on her.
“Hullo.”
She sighed. For shadows assuredly did not speak in that low, husky baritone. Nor did they possess broad shoulders and powerfully muscled arms that for propriety’s sake really required the benefit of the black jacket now haphazardly swung over the back of his chair. Of all the blasted rooms she could have selected, she’d chosen one occupied by this man. The cold floor penetrating the silk fabric of her stockings, Genevieve shifted on her feet and then froze. She jerked her gaze downward to her very bare feet, where the stranger’s attention also rested. Well, not entirely bare as she did have stockings.
Exile for life. If her parents discovered this scandalous exchange, she’d be banished forever. At the stranger’s continued scrutiny of her nearly naked toes, Genevieve gasped and slipped behind a side table, borrowing some shelter from the Chippendale piece. Ruined. I will be utterly ruined and sent off again.
The ghost of a smile played on the stranger’s firm lips. He then lifted blue eyes that glinted with curiosity.
Her breath caught. The sky. His eyes harkened to the soft blue of the pure Kent countryside skies, when the sun beat on her neck, and the breeze—
At her silence, he winged a golden eyebrow upward.
“Uh, I suppose I might say hullo,” she said quickly. It wouldn’t do to be rude to the gentleman. After all, she’d invaded his sanctuary. Nor would it do to be discovered with him, given her circumstances. “Not that I should say more,” she said when he opened his mouth to speak. “It wouldn’t do to be discovered alone in the duke’s library.” Had she imagined his earlier greeting? Now, he gave not even a hint of movement. A sigh escaped her. “Though you were fortunate to find the library first,” she said when he continued to stare at her in that piercing manner. She looked about the room. Her gaze caught the massive painting in an ornate gold frame.
The lush woman in dishabille reclining on her stomach would have scandalized most proper ladies. Drawn over to the Francois Boucher erotic work, she admired the manner in which the curves and creases of the bedding molded to the voluptuous woman’s rounded form. “It is beautiful,” she murmured to herself.
“Lovely room, isn’t it?”
Engrossed in the duke’s scandalous piece, Genevieve whipped her attention back to the stranger. I should leave. I should grab my slippers and run tearing from this room. But what was there to return to? A sea of unfriendly faces, and forever-disappointed parents. “I do favor libraries,” she confessed, wandering away from the painting. Particularly those stocked with volumes about art and artistry. That intimate detail she’d keep close. For it belied the logic and reason she’d prided herself on building these past years.
“This is rumored to be the largest in all of London.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” she murmured and drifted over to the bookshelf. The Duke of Ravenscourt was in possession of one of the oldest titles in the realm. She ran her palm along the spines. “This, however, is too much; don’t you agree?” Genevieve looked over her shoulder.
He did a quick survey of the space, as though seeing it for the first time.
“I would prefer something smaller, more intimate,” she supplied when he remained silent. Which only conjured the bucolic dream she’d long carried of curling up at the side of her husband while they read and laughed and did whatever it was hopelessly in love couples did. Given her parents’ own aloof union, she was remarkably short of what those things might be.
Instead, her family would see her wed off to anyone willing to overlook her shameful past. She curled her hands tight. God, how she wished to remain shut away here. She cast a regretful look back at the door, dreading reentering polite Society and her mother’s angry stares, and the rakish gentlemen with their lust-filled, improper eyes. I should go…
“Yet you stay.”
She’d spoken aloud? Genevieve whipped her head forward. “Yet I
stay,” she said softly. For in this moment, there was a safeness that seemed so elusive among the lords who ogled and whispered about her. There were all manner of things indecorous in being here; things which would only fuel the whispers about her virtue, or rather, lack of. Being in this moment, however, with the world carrying on behind that door, where no one knew where she was or whom she was with, was heady stuff, indeed.
The gentleman took a long swallow of his drink and the muscles of his throat moved.
Alas, there was nothing truly safe in being here, alone with this man. Most assuredly not her reputation. Genevieve fiddled with her gray skirts. “I’ve intruded enough on your company.” How very fortunate gentlemen were, not bound to the same constraints and conventions. “Have a good evening, sir.” She turned to go.
“You will probably require your slippers before you return,” he called out, staying her retreat.
Genevieve wheeled back. “Er, yes.” So why did she not rush over and collect the satin pair? Why did she, instead, stand rooted to the hardwood floor, staring—at him?
He swirled the contents of his drink and then took a sip. “Are they uncomfortable?”
“Dreadfully so,” she said automatically. She cast a hateful look over at the shoes. With another sigh, she hurried over to the side table and collected them. Except, she chewed her lower lip. The gentleman still studied her intently; unrepentantly bold in his regard. There was still the matter of putting her slippers on, an act she’d completed thousands upon thousands of time in the course of her life. How had she failed to realize how terribly intimate it was until now? “You should look away,” she said with a quiet insistence, as she slid into a nearby shell-back chair.
“Yes, I should,” he agreed, but he only took another drink from his pilfered spirits and continued to watch.
Her fingers trembled and she turned her attention to the gray satin slippers. She must lift her gown ever so slightly if she were to put them on. Or she could simply leave. Yes, that was, by far, the wisest course. On the heel of that was an image of her exiting the room barefoot and being discovered. A shudder wracked her frame. No, that wouldn’t do. That was the manner of scandal that would result in a return carriage ride to the countryside. She chewed her lip. Which in thinking, wouldn’t be altogether bad. Quite the opp—
The Lure of a Rake Page 4