“Uh, right. Yes, my lord.” The balding butler held out a folded sheet.
“Nor did I believe you’d bring the information at this ungodly hour.” No sane person who valued the need and benefit of a good sleep would rise before the noon hour.
“Forgive me, my lord. It seemed the kind of…er information you would care to be in possession of.”
Cedric accepted the page, unfolded it, and skimmed. “Indeed,” he said and a slow grin turned his lips up. Yes. His servant’s inquiries of a certain Lady Genevieve proved just the manner of information a man of Cedric’s reputation would want in his hands. Immediately. Even if it was at this sinful hour. He looked to the ormolu clock atop his fireplace mantel.
The tall, lanky man shifted on his feet. “I took the liberty of having your mount readied.”
By God, Avis was deserving of a raise. “Good work, man,” he said and with his spare hand, he slapped his servant on the back.
His face was always an unreadable mask devoid of emotion. Avis dropped a bow and proceeded over to the mahogany armoire to gather Cedric’s garments. A short while later, having completed his morning ablutions and with a small, but manageable, throb in his head from his overindulgence last evening, Cedric made his way from his townhouse. He accepted the reins of his mount from a waiting servant.
Adjusting his black hat, he climbed astride and nudged Wicked onward to Hyde Park. In the late morning quiet of the London streets, just before the rest of polite Society ventured into the world, he considered the information uncovered by his servant. What manner of lady paid daily visits to the mazes of Kensington Gardens before the fashionable hour? Montfort’s charges about the lady’s character slipped in, but he quickly thrust them aside. Genevieve. Her guarded eyes and innocent kiss were not belonging to the wanton described by the earl. Forcing the tension from his body, Cedric patted his horse on the withers and urged him onward, past haggard shopkeepers shoving their carts into position for a day of hawking their wares.
He guided Wicked through the entrance of Hyde Park and drew on the reins, slowing his mount. He did a small sweep of the grounds and then clicked his tongue, pushing the eager horse to stretch his legs along the riding trail. The gates of Kensington Gardens pulled into focus and he, again, drew on the reins, stopping Wicked.
Cedric dismounted, kicking gravel and dust about him as his boots settled on the earth. He searched the quiet, empty area, and frowned. If his bloody butler had proven wrong in his blasted information… As he tied Wicked under a nearby oak, he continued to search the grounds. From across the distance, he located a young maid, conversing with a strapping liveried servant. A wry smile formed on Cedric’s lips. Ah, how many ladies had been attended by lax servants, who’d turn their proverbial cheek while her mistress went about her scandalous pursuits so she might know pleasures of her own?
He captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger, surveying the lush, green gardens. The archway to the Rose Garden. Having partaken in too many trysts to count, where would he himself go for a late morning rendezvous? He paused, his gaze lingering upon the tall hedge maze. Of course. Cedric stole another look at the slipshod maid. The young woman remained engrossed in her conversation with her sweetheart.
Never one to neglect a useful distraction or silent footfall, Cedric swiftly made his way into the hedge maze. As he entered the gardens, he continued his search for his quarry while taking in the manicured grounds. The meticulously tended shrubs and bushes presented a woodland setting in the midst of the dirt and filth of London which created a falsified purity. The lush, emerald grass that blanketed the side of the graveled walking path was called to be a natural bedding between a man and woman bent on wicked deeds. Of all the inventive places he’d taken his lovers, how had he failed to appreciate the possibilities that existed in this private Eden?
A faint morning breeze stirred the brush and the crisp boxwoods crunched noisily. Tugging off his gloves, Cedric stuffed them inside his coat and continued his search. Another soft rustle split the morning quiet and he walked deliberately toward that sound. When reaching the back of the hedge maze, he abruptly stopped.
Comfortably settled on a wrought iron bench with her knees drawn to her chest, Genevieve may as well have been in any parlor or library. With her attention devoted to a small leather volume in her hands, the lady lingered over the words on the page. With the benefit of her distraction, Cedric studied her contemplatively. The women he favored did not enjoy books. That was, except those naughty volumes that harkened to sexual gratification. He didn’t know what to make of this young lady who stole into a hedge maze better for trysting, all to read.
He’d never known a woman to care about a tome before the garments or jewels he could shower her with. Or rather, he’d never taken a moment to learn of past lovers’ interests and this discovery, quite by chance, made Genevieve Farendale all the more real. This connection to her was intimate in ways that defied the sexual. He frowned. Another breeze rustled through the gardens and a strand popped free of that miserable chignon, softening her sharp features. The lock tumbled over her brow and she absently brushed the strand behind her ear. His chest tightened. How singularly odd that a single tress could so alter a person’s entire visage.
It promptly fell back. He ached with a physical need to yank free the combs holding those strawberry tresses in place and release them so they could cascade about her shoulders in a shimmery waterfall, as they were meant to. He’d wager those strands fell down the length of her back and, God, he would gladly trade his future dukedom to have them fanned out upon his pillow.
Like a doe that had caught scent of impending danger, Genevieve looked up and their gazes locked. Quickly, the lady swung her legs over the edge of her seat, giving a momentary flash of those trim, delicate ankles he’d had in his hands not even twelve hours earlier. The book tumbled to the ground, where it lay, forgotten. He briefly attended that volume, narrowing his gaze in a bid to make order of that image.
She was the first to break the quiet. “You,” she blurted. That shocked admission carried in the quiet of the gardens.
He inclined his head. “Me.” Had she been expecting another?
Drawn the way one of those hopeless sailors were to those sirens at sea, Cedric wandered closer. First the library, and now her stolen morning in Hyde Park. “You enjoy books, Genevieve.” His words were more statement than question.
“That is a bit broad.” A becoming crimson color blazed on her cheeks. “I enjoy some of them.”
He closed the distance between them and then dropped to a knee beside her. She followed his movements as he gathered her book.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, faintly breathless, as she all but tugged the leather volume from his hands. She drew it close to her chest, almost protectively, and that slight movement only plumped her already generous breasts so that they pressed hard against the fabric of her cloak.
Well, that was hardly the welcoming greeting he was accustomed to from ladies. Somehow that only further strengthened the peculiarity of this woman; set her apart from others. “I always come here in the morn.” The lie slipped out easily. Cedric came to his feet. “I enjoy riding with nothing but the privacy of my own thoughts.” Which was not altogether untrue. It was the whole matter of time he took liberties with. Then, time meant different things to different people. All relative.
The lady eyed him with a wary skepticism he’d come to expect of her. Montfort had spoken of her being jilted at the altar. Who had been the bloody fool to turn this woman over and put that guarded caution in her eyes? “You come here? I’ve come here nearly a fortnight now and not seen you once.”
“I am not usually this late in my morning ride,” he put in smoothly. He offered her a lopsided grin. “Alas, after an eventful evening in the library with delightful company, I’d found myself unable to sleep.”
She slapped her fingers to her gaping mouth. “My lord, I think even you would have the decency not to spea
k of your scandalous pursuits with another lady,” she said on a furious whisper.
Even him?
He blinked several times. Then his lips pulled at the corners. The lady thought he spoke of another. Though he was rightfully accused of all manner of black-hearted acts through the years, he’d not bandied about those intimate acts. “I was speaking of our meeting.”
High color flooded her cheeks, giving her an innocent look he’d long despised in a woman and, yet, on this one…it perfectly suited her and only added to her allure. “You were?”
Cedric nodded once. “I was.”
She cleared her throat. “I thought you spoke of another.”
“Oh?” he asked softly closing the remaining distance between them. He brushed his fingers down the smooth expanse of her cheek. “Which lady did you suspect?” His gentle caress brought her lashes fluttering closed.
“Th-the woman in the golden gown,” her faintly whispered admission earned a grin.
Did the lady realize how much she revealed with that? Despite her studious attempts at avoiding him last evening, she’d noted him. He couldn’t even recall a lady in gold or any other gown for that matter. He dipped his head lower, so close their lips nearly brushed. “Was there another?” he whispered. “I saw no one but you last evening.” Any other time those words would have been carefully crafted with the sole purpose of luring a coy lady to his bed. Now, they were words uttered in truth. Unease rolled inside him and he thrust it aside. This unwitting fascination came from the newness in dallying with an innocent and nothing more. For he’d no doubt, even with Montfort’s allegations, that the lady was, in fact, innocent. For the passion in her kiss, there had been an unbridled, unrestrained enthusiasm that spoke to her virtuousness.
Her breath hitched and any other woman would have tipped her head back to receive his kiss. “You should not be here.” This lady again proved herself remarkably unlike any other before. She stepped back, retreating until her knees knocked against the wrought iron bench and peered at him through endless, golden lashes. “Nor do I believe you ride,” she challenged, a faintly accusatory thread to that charge.
He rocked on his heels. How easy it would be to feed her a distracting lie that would drive back her suspicions and arouse her desires, but something about this young woman drew him—her honesty, her directness. They were sentiments he’d thought fabrications on the pages of whimsical books he’d never bothered to read. “No,” he acknowledged at last. “Rather, I do ride daily but not at this hour.”
Her lips twitched. “It is just past ten o’clock, my lord.”
He grimaced. “Ungodly hour, you know.”
Her mouth parted. “I find it beautiful,” she countered. “It is even more beautiful, when the orange and crimson horizon shove back the night sky.” She motioned to the distant sky. “It is like God has taken a paintbrush to a blank canvas and filled it with light. You should wake to see it before you so condemn it.” With those words, she spoke more volumes than all the works assembled in his father’s library. Yet, he stood transfixed by the wistful look on her face. Had he truly believed her ordinary? No splendorous work of art could dare compete with her plain-stated beauty. “And do you know the best part of it, my lord?”
Incapable of words, he managed to shake his head.
“There is no one here to intrude on the quiet splendor.”
Her gaze still fixed on the distance, he continued to worship her with his stare. Mayhap there was something to be said of this early time, after all. Mayhap the lady had the right of it. “I came to apologize,” he said quietly. It was hard to determine who was more stunned by that admission.
That snapped her attention back to him. Other ladies of his acquaintance would have tittered and offered veiled, and some not-so veiled, promises. “You came to see me in order to apologize?” She merely looked at him askance. “Why?”
Why? Why, indeed? Cedric tapped his hand against his thigh. What need or use had he of a desperately seeking proper miss, who snuck off to sketch in the gardens of Hyde Park? He could have, and frequently did have, naughty women who expected nothing and certainly didn’t ask questions. And yet, the only reason he could bloody well find was, “I like you,” he said honestly. She puzzled her brow. “And I don’t like anybody.” Most times not even myself. He thrust aside the maudlin thought. Rising early did nothing for his rational thinking. That thought, in and of itself, was proof enough.
“You like me?” A healthy degree of skepticism coated those three words.
“Would you know the truth?” He continued before she could speak. “I know you despise my title.” They were of like opinions in that regard. “I know you’re refreshingly frank when everyone else stinks of lies and falsity.” He held her gaze squarely. “And I would not have you believe that my intentions last night were of the dishonorable sort.” He grimaced. When had his intentions ever been of the honorable kind? “There you have it,” he finished, lamely.
A sad smile curved her lips. “You did not know last evening that you waltzed with the Farendale doxy? This is the only reason you are here, now?” she asked softly, drifting closer.
Ah, so for the lady’s innocence she was not so naïve that she’d be wholly truthful of his motives. What gentleman was responsible for that cautiousness? Tension snapped through his frame. “I’ll not lie and say I don’t desire you, Genevieve, if that is what you’re expecting. For I do. Want you.” Her mouth parted on a moue of scandalized shock. He scoffed. A doxy. This one was as innocent as a debutante in white skirts with a shy eye. And even with that, he wanted to lay her down on the dew-covered earth, haul her gown about her waist, and bury himself in her honeyed warmth. “But I also like you.” How bloody peculiar. An inexplicable need to drive back that sad glint in her eyes filled him and he took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “Furthermore, you’re no more a doxy than I am a respectable, noble hero.”
And what terrified the bloody hell out of him, was that he craved the company of this only faintly pretty, most suspicious, young lady.
Chapter 8
By his very admission, Cedric, the Marquess of St. Albans, was a dishonorable sort whose motives in being here even now should be questioned. He was the manner of man who shamefully took what he wished and who kissed nameless strangers in his father’s library.
And yet, in this instance, with those self-deprecating words, his admission nobly raised Genevieve from the mire and gossip that had swirled around her for five years. Her heart caught in a way that belied the wary walls she’d constructed about her after Terrance’s betrayal.
On the heel of that, Genevieve thrust aside that foolish weakening. As he continued his forward approach, she held her book up staying him. “By your own accounts, being not at all respectable, you are here, anyway.” She hooded her lashes. “All to apologize?” Heavy skepticism coated her words. “Why would you do that?” Why, when the men of his lofty rank had proven themselves self-serving enough to destroy a lady’s reputation on nothing more than a whim and fancy? A morning breeze pulled at the fabric of their cloaks and the garments tangled in a noisy dance.
A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye. “You are, indeed, correct,” he said stiffly. “I should not be here. I came to make my apologies, which I have since done. Because, even as I don’t give a bloody damn on Sunday about anyone, I’d have you know that my intentions last evening were not to embarrass or draw attention to you.” Yet, that is what he’d done, whether inadvertent or intentional. The angular planes of his cheek went flush and he sketched a hasty bow. Neither reactions of a man who’d deliberately sought to make light of the Farendale lady. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, his tone coolly detached. “I’ll allow you to return to your…” His gaze fell to the book gripped tight in her hands.
Following his stare, Genevieve furrowed her brow.
Wordlessly, he took a step forward and as though he’d forgotten her presence, slipped the book from her fingers and rustled throug
h it. He paused on a page creased at the top. “You are an admirer of Turner’s work, madam?” he asked not picking his gaze up from the painting she’d previously studied.
Her heart stuttered. Gentlemen did not speak of art or artists and if they did, well, they certainly did not draw from memory J.M.W. Turner’s work. That this man did unsettled her already rather faulty, where he was concerned, world. He looked up questioningly and she quickly cleared her throat. “Yes. Are you familiar with his work?” she asked, turning his question on him, not knowing what to do with that discovery about this whispered about rake. Of course, he could have merely read the inscription at the top. Wasn’t that the way of rakes? To learn a lady’s interests and manipulate them to suit their desires.
“I am.” Returning his focus to that page, Cedric trailed a long finger over the dark clouds of night on the page. “I would take you for an admirer of Friedrich’s The Watzmann and not the darkness of Turner.”
A thrill of a connectedness drove back all better reason in being alone with him still. “Do you believe because I am a woman, I should favor pastel, peaceful landscapes?” she countered. How long had she been alone, when these artists’ glorious masterpieces had been her company, and now there was another who knew those same wonders?
Another breeze pulled at his cloak. Lowering the book to his side, he briefly cupped her cheek. “No, because I can imagine you alone on those steep, lonely hills. You are a solitary creature, on the side of ballrooms, and hidden in libraries, and in hedge mazes, and yet there is a brightness to you that commands notice.” Rakes and rogues were clever with their words and charm. They employed whispered endearments designed to break down a lady’s defenses and she was wise to not fall prey to such senseless drivel. Cedric’s words, however, had a weight and wealth and meaning to them that sucked at her breath.
Oh, God. As she leaned into his gentle caress, she tried to make sense of the warmth seeping into her heart. Men such as he did not see more than was there. They saw surface beauty and did not delve to the hidden, most important parts that made a person, them. That had been the case with her betrothed and even her parents. But this man saw…and it roused equal parts terror and wonder in her.
The Lure of a Rake Page 9