His father tugged on his gloves. “I am pleased that you see logic,” the duke said, misinterpreting the reason for Cedric’s quiet. Without any hint of even false pleasantries, he left, closing the door with a decisive click behind him.
Cedric clenched and unclenched his hands as he fought for the restoration of his ordered thoughts and calm, and then with a furious string of curses, he surged to his feet so quickly, the legs of his leather chair scraped noisily along the floor.
He began to pace, a seething tension thrumming inside; a restless energy that threatened to consume him. He’d never been viewed as a person by either of his parents. His father had seen him as a ducal extension and, well, his mother had seen Cedric as an easy thread to snip off and turn over to her husband’s care. Now, his father would seek to control him in this way. Never, more had he hated himself than he did in this instance. Hated himself for having lived an indolent life, dependent on all that came from the title he was born to.
His gaze locked on the closed leather book on his desk. With a black curse, Cedric came to a jerky stop. He swiped it off the otherwise smooth mahogany surface and opened it. The smudged rendering in ink, marred from when he’d hastily hid his work from his father’s eyes, did little to conceal the sharp features and expressively sad eyes of the very woman his father had warned him away from.
Unnerved by the directness of her silent stare, Cedric yanked open his desk drawer and tossed the book inside. He needed to get bloody soused, find a whore; a hot, eager body who’d serve as a receptacle for his lust and frustration. Not necessarily in that order.
And so taking leave of his office, a short while later, seated at his private table at the back of Forbidden Pleasures, Cedric sipped from his glass of brandy. He passed a bored gaze over the unsavory club. The clink of coins hitting coins on gaming tables blended with the boisterous laughter of gentlemen and the whores who courted their favors.
Only the most dissolute lords and notorious scoundrels frequented the club and, as such, Cedric was far more comfortable with the company here than the polite, dull members of the peerage.
A sensuous woman with red curls caught his eye from across the club. In her frothy crimson gown that displayed her generous curves, she was a veritable feast he would have taken on any occasion. Perhaps on this very table. Take her. She is what you’ve come for. But her hair was a crimson shade and not the strawberry blonde of another. Christ. For some inexplicable reason, however, on this night, there was an ennui; as though he sat on the outside looking in at the wicked deeds being happily carried out by the base lords.
Powerful noblemen with experienced courtesans on their laps, and their hands buried up the skirts of those women. Whores who moved from one lord to the next, without a hint of compunction in their jaded faces. Restlessness surged through him and he took another long swallow.
For the first time in the course of his life, it had happened. He who’d fashioned himself as a rake and thrilled in the debauched life he lived in London, was…bored. And all because he’d met a lady who didn’t give a jot about his title or his reputation as an expert lover.
He gave his head a frustrated shake. Of course it made sense. His life moved in a monotonous rhythm. Day in and day out he would visit his clubs. He would lose himself in the arms of widow after widow. He would place obscene wagers; wagers which he more often than not, won. Every day folded over into a remarkably similar day. That was the logical explanation for this bothersome fascination with Lady Genevieve and her moss green eyes filled with rebuke.
“Now you visit your clubs,” the droll voice of Montfort brought his head quickly up. Without seeking permission, his friend yanked a wide backed chair out and plunked himself into it.
“Montfort.” Cedric shoved his half-empty bottle across the table and the other man easily grabbed it.
“You know with your attendance at that goddamn ball last evening, I lost a bloody fortune.” He motioned over the red-haired buxom beauty who’d been previously making eyes at Cedric. She sauntered over with a glass, poured a snifter full, and then promptly climbed onto the earl’s lap.
“Yes, you said as much. You should wager less.” The wry note to his words earned a snort from Montfort.
“First attending your father’s dull affairs, then waltzing at the bloody event, and now talking of giving up wagering?” A chuckle spilled past the other man’s lips. “What is next? Attending Lady Erroll’s dull dining affair this evening and selecting a bride from those assembled chits?” he asked. Running a hand up the woman’s skirt he rubbed the expanse of her cream white thigh. He paused and wagged his eyebrows. “Mayhap the Farendale, chit? Hmm?”
With the memory of his father’s threat resonating in his mind, a dull flush heated Cedric’s neck. His fingers twitched with the need to yank at his suddenly too-tight cravat. He’d rather dance through the fires of hell than bind himself to a single woman. “There are no worries there,” he said with a forced grin. Having been friends since Eton, Montfort well knew the vow Cedric had taken to never wed and propagate the bloody Falcot line. He cared even less for that ducal title than he did for his bastard of a father.
While Montfort busied himself with the whore on his lap, Cedric took another swallow of his drink. Another wave of restiveness ran through him. He’d vowed to never wed. He’d vowed to never spill his seed inside a woman and litter the world with children, legitimate or illegitimate, the way his father had. He had ensured that never occurred by always using French letters when in the throes of passion. The corrupt blood in his veins was a mark the world was assuredly better without, and it would bring Cedric the ultimate triumph to steal that power from his father. No, he took his pleasures with guarded caution and lived for his own physical gratification. But when the thrill of that sinful living dulled and left nothing but numbness in its place, what was there?
“You are quiet,” his friend put in casually, as he released the woman’s breasts from the low décolletage. The mounds tumbled forth on lewd display and Montfort swiftly palmed the magnificent orbs, earning a small moan for his attentions.
Cedric squirmed. Once he wouldn’t have blinked at the other man’s casual display with a luscious courtesan. He was growing stodgy in his older years. There was no other explaining his distaste. “Am I?” He knew he was. Montfort knew it. But they did not probe on matters that moved beyond whores, wagers, and spirits.
The earl planted a kiss atop each of the whore’s breasts and then shoved her from his lap. A small moue of displeasure formed on her lips, as she landed on her feet. “Perhaps later, sweet.” Softening his rejection, he swatted her on the backside, and gave a wink.
With a promise in her eyes, the woman adjusted the bodice of her gown and sauntered off, leaving Cedric and Montfort alone.
Finishing his drink, Cedric reached for the bottle.
“Never tell me this is about the Farendale chit.”
His hand jerked and he knocked the bottle over. He shot a hand out to steady the decanter but it tumbled over the edge of the table and shattered. He ignored the faintly curious looks cast his way. And because his friend was shockingly, uncomfortably too close to the mark, he said in hushed tones, “My father would see me wed. I’ve a fortnight to select a bride.” The way a man might settle on a broodmare.
The usual mocking glint in Montfort’s eyes receded, as the veneer he’d long adopted now cracked revealing a flash of the man under the cold sheen of ice. “He would not dare.” For even Montfort knew the Duke of Ravenscourt cared for the appearances about the title above all else.
He shrugged and looked out at the gaming hell, once more. “Mayhap.” But mayhap not. There was no saying what the duke would dare or not dare in the name of his title. After all, how many bastards had he denied to protect the wealth of the Ravenscourt fortune?
The earl drummed his fingertips in a grating rhythm and Cedric favored him with a frown. “What?” he asked curtly.
Montfort continued that infuriating tappin
g. “Mayhap the Farendale chit could prove useful to you, after all.”
Shooting a frantic glance about at the lords seated nearby, he bit out on a furious whisper. “What are you on about?”
His friend took a long swallow of his drink. “Why, I merely mean no one will dare wed that one,” he said, as he set his glass down. “She doesn’t have a hope of asking for more than an ancient lord in need of an heir. Why, in wedding you, it would be the perfect marriage of convenience.” As soon as the words left Montfort, he erupted into a bellowing laugh.
Through the man’s loud mirth that attracted curious looks, Cedric sat frozen. What the earl proposed was madness. The lady certainly desired, undoubtedly deserved, more than London’s most infamous rake, who’d give her a name and nothing more. But a thought trickled in of her hidden away in the hedge maze and in the library.
“Forgive me,” the earl said wiping tears of hilarity from his cheeks. “It was not my intention to make light of your situation. A little levity was called for.”
He jolted. “Of course.” Of course it had been a jest. But as they sat sipping their brandy, the niggling seed planted by Montfort rooted around Cedric’s mind. Bloody mad thought. The height of preposterous. He downed his drink and came to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The earl looked at him with surprise. “Where are you off to, man?”
“I’ve remembered I’ve a previous engagement for the evening.” Not allowing Montfort to pose any questions, Cedric turned on his heel and stalked out of the club.
Mayhap he was more than a bit mad.
Chapter 10
Genevieve sat stiffly on the carriage bench beside Gillian; her body taut with tension over of the Countess of Erroll’s impending formal dinner party.
“This will be good,” Father boomed. “The sooner the ton sees you and the duke are civil and there is no resentment, then the sooner this can be past us.”
Us. When had it ever been us? Not when she’d been scuttled away to her grandfather’s estate, while the rest of her loyal family remained in London and in their country seat during the summers.
She tightened her mouth. “Oh, yes,” she said dryly. “This will be splendid.” What good could there come in being in the same room as her former betrothed other than putting her on display like a circus oddity? Nor were hers the sentiments of a broken-hearted woman. Her feelings for that cad had died a quick death following his treachery. On the days she did not hate herself for having foolishly believed herself in love with the Duke of Aumere, she hated him and his lying tongue that had seen her ruined.
Gillian laid her hand over Genevieve’s and gave a slight squeeze. She took comfort in that unspoken reassurance. For she was no longer alone. There was Gillian. And for two brief, but meaningful exchanges, there had been Cedric.
Bah, you foolish woman, building castles out of clouds. Her romantic whimsy had led to her ruin the first time, and yet…in just a handful of exchanges with the Marquess of St. Albans she’d shared far more meaningful discourse than anything she’d uttered with and to the Duke of Aumere, all those years ago.
“Yes, yes, Lord Ellsworth is indeed correct,” Mother said pulling her to the moment. “And of course there is the Duchess of Aumere. Why, everyone is, no doubt, anticipating that exchange, as well.”
Her sister shot her a sideways look and Genevieve gave her a reassuring smile. Given her relationship with the duke, of course most would expect there to be resentment for the woman who’d secured that gentleman’s hand. Genevieve leaned close and whispered into her sister’s ear. “I consider myself fortunate that it was her, and not me, forever bound to that man.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Gillian returned on an equally hushed whisper. “She saved you from marrying where your heart is not engaged and now you are free to find your true love.”
At the hopeful naïveté, Genevieve’s chest tightened. How romantic Gillian was; believing in good, honorable gentleman and forever loves. And though those might, indeed, be realities for un-whispered about fey beauties like her sister, no good, honorable gentleman cared to have a wife whose name was muddied more than the London streets.
“What are you two whispering about?” their father barked.
Forever incapable of artifice, Gillian flushed, opening and closing her mouth several times.
“We are speaking about how lovely tonight will be,” Genevieve easily put in for them. “You are, indeed, correct. It will be wonderful to have this meeting concluded.”
She was saved from answering any further questions as the carriage rolled up to the Countess of Erroll’s white stucco townhouse, awash in candlelight. A driver pulled the door open and Father angled his sizeable frame through the entrance. The liveried driver handed the marchioness down and then held his gloved palm out to Gillian.
Her younger sister paused. “I would have you know that you are not alone,” she said fervently. “You have me tonight.”
Emotion wadded in her throat. “Thank you.”
Gillian looked affronted. “Why, do not thank me. We are sisters and friends.” She waggled her eyebrows. “And if you need me to quite accidentally drop my white soup on him, then I am happy to oblige.”
A laugh spilled past Genevieve’s lips and the servant stuck his head inside the carriage. With a cheerful thanks, her younger sister accepted the young man’s assistance.
Drawing in a deep breath, with a fortitude that came from her sister’s pledge of support, Genevieve followed suit. As her gray skirts settled about her ankles, she looked up at the impressive Mayfair townhouse. Focusing on the soft tread of her footsteps, she fixed her gaze forward, thinking of Kent in the summer, thinking of Turner’s sailors at sea, thinking of Cedric and their talk at Hyde Park.
Would he be here? As a powerful future duke, even with his reputation as rake, his attendance would surely be sought at any event. As she stepped inside and turned her cloak over to a waiting footman, a breathless anticipation filled her. Not for the impending meeting with her former betrothed, but another; a stranger she’d freely spoken to on intimate matters she’d not shared with anyone before.
Following after the butler, they were led through the halls of the impressive labyrinth of a home belonging to her mother’s closest friend. As they approached the parlor, the noisy chatter of assembled guests filtered through the open door.
Her ears attuned for a low, smooth baritone of one, and that blessed distraction kept her from thinking of the fact that the moment she entered the room, she would be the center of scrutiny and discussion. Her palms grew moist, as her earlier resolve faltered. Coward.
“You are no coward,” Gillian said softly.
She started. Had she spoken aloud? It really was a bothersome tendency she’d adopted alone in the country, painting and gardening most of her days.
A twinkle lit her sister’s pretty green eyes. “You said nothing. But remember, I’m your sister. I’ve always known what you were thinking.”
As they made to enter the room, their mother looked back. Pretty faces, she mouthed. When she’d returned her attention forward, Genevieve touched the tip of her tongue to her nose, earning a laugh from her sister.
And a prompt scowl from their mother.
“The Marquess and Marchioness of Ellsworth, and Ladies Farendale.”
And even as she’d been expecting it, the jarring halt to the earlier revelry sent heat up her neck and burned her face. The moment ticked on with infinite slowness and angling her shoulders slightly, she kept her gaze at the tops of the guests who filled Lady Erroll’s parlor. A person needn’t be looking at people to feel their states and, in this case, the approximately twenty or so stares.
Genevieve’s skin pricked under their focus and she concentrated on drawing steady, even breaths. Her toes twitched with the urge to flee. To run from this room and continue running away from London to a place where happiness existed for those whispered about ladies, condemned by Society for crimes they’d not committed.
Her sister smiled brightly. “See, that was not so awful,” she said with her patent cheer. She slid her arm through Genevieve’s and patted her hand.
“Hardly,” she said with a wry grin. From across the room, her gaze caught Francesca Cornworthy. Seated on the pink upholstered sofa, the young woman peered around the room with bored eyes when their stares collided. Her face lit up and she gave an eager wave.
“Gillian?”
The sisters looked as one to their mother who stood a short distance away, conversing with Lady Erroll’s dandified son. Not Gillian and Genevieve. Rather, just Gillian. The only daughter their parents had hopes of making a respectable match.
Decision warred on her sister’s face. Genevieve had no doubt of her sister’s loyalty and friendship that Gillian would, in fact, do something as outrageous as ignore their mother’s public request. She, however, could not let Gillian brave the wrath of their parents’ for her. “Go,” Genevieve urged. “I see a friend.”
Her sister started. “A friend, you say?” Then she captured Genevieve’s hands. “Oh, truly?” She spoke with the same excited awe as if she’d declared she had a formal suitor.
“Miss Francesca Cornworthy,” she said, motioning faintly to the forgotten woman in the corner.
“I must meet her,” Gillian said excitedly.
“Gillian,” their mother said, her tone more insistent.
“Go,” Genevieve said again. “Mother has a suitor.”
Her sister followed her stare to the young Earl of Erroll. The candlelight shone on the thick wax in his Byronic curls. His interested and just a slightly inappropriate gaze remained on Gillian.
The Lure of a Rake Page 11