The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

  “Never tell me you’re squeamish, love,” her husband’s gentle teasing brought a smile.

  She furrowed her brow. Squeamish? She’d taught her sister to bait hooks as they’d fished on their father’s country lake. She’d named spiders she’d found in her schoolroom. No one would ever accuse her of being squeamish. “Oh, hush,” she teased. “It is quite easy to make light of one working in a garden while sitting in the sun, soaking up the sun’s rays like a fat cat.”

  “Fat cat, am I?” he waggled his brows.

  There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his muscle hewn frame. “La, are you searching for compliments, sir?”

  “Mayhap a bit.” He winked, eliciting a laugh.

  Her bonnet tipped over her brow and she brushed it back. Returning her attention to the soil, she withdrew the other pebbles and stones littering the space, taking care to avoid the… She gagged again and swiftly pulled her hand back. Good God, what was wrong with her?

  A wave of nausea assailed her, just as Cedric’s booming laugh echoed around the gardens. She concentrated on her breathing to keep the nausea at bay. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she was very near to casting her accounts up in the blasted hole she’d just dug when he shoved lazily to his feet and strode the small distance between them. But he yanked off his gloves and tossed them aside. “Here,” he murmured, sinking to his haunches beside her.

  Her breath caught hard in her chest at the sight of him, bent over the slight hole, and she concentrated on her view of him. He’d earned the reputation as a rake. But how many gentlemen would sit beside their wives in this domestic tableau, staining their hands with dirt?

  He handed over the thin branch with its exposed roots. Together, they planted the small bush, shoveling dirt back onto the roots. Genevieve dug a slight circle about the base. “My grandfather gardens,” she said. “One would never expect it of him.” Of any earl, but especially not the Earl of Hawkridge. Just as they’d, no doubt, never expect Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, would spend his early afternoons in the garden with his wife. “He taught me to build the earth up in a small circle about the base of the tree or bush and then it helps bring moisture to the roots when it rains.”

  “Is that where you went when you were gone from London?”

  His question brought her head up. For everything they did speak about since their marriage, the personal stories of their life had remained closed between them. Since she’d challenged him in her bedchambers weeks earlier, they’d discussed and explored the safeness of shared interests…but never the parts of their earlier years. “It was where I was sent,” she corrected. Genevieve dusted her palms together and then settled onto the ground. “The Kent countryside.” She drew her knees close to her chest and dropped her chin atop the mud-stained apron wrapped about her. “I was so fearful when they first sent me to my grandfather. My memories of him were of a gruff, often scowling, old man.” Having gone to live with him, she’d learned in short order that there was so much more to a person than the world saw of the surface. “He taught me that there is more to people than the thin layer Society sees and judges.”

  Cedric remained squatting, his gaze fixed on that slight circle. “Do you believe that?”

  “No,” she said automatically, bringing his gaze to hers. “I know that,” she said. Genevieve laid her cheek against her skirt. “Society saw in me, nothing more than a shameful wanton.”

  His mouth tightened. “They are bloody fools, the whole of them.”

  She winked at him, warmed by his fury on her behalf. “Yes, well that is really the point, isn’t it? I believe there is more to everyone.”

  “Aumere?” he asked, without malice, a challenge there.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, mayhap not Aumere.” That man had shown enough ugly in his soul to prove that there was nothing but blackness there.

  Cedric pushed to a stand, unfurling to his full six-feet, four-inches. “That is true in some cases, but not all, Genevieve.”

  She’d have to be deafer than a post to fail to hear the cynical resignation in his protest. He spoke of himself. A frown pulled at her lips. “Do you think there is nothing more to you than the image you’ve crafted for the world?”

  His body stiffened and just like that, for the first time in the nearly eight weeks since they’d been wed, she’d moved their conversation away from the light, gentle teasing and into the solemn realness they danced around. “I haven’t crafted any image,” he said flexing his jaw. “I’ve told you before, this is who I am.”

  “I know that because you make it a point of saying it, frequently.” As though in saying it, he’d convince himself of the truth.

  He hardened his mouth and gone was all hint of the affable charmer who could tempt and tease. “Do you want to know the manner of youth I was?”

  More than anything. “I’d venture you were quite mischievous and grayed the hair of your nursemaids.”

  “My father brought me a whore when I was thirteen,” he said bluntly, startling a gasp from her. “I seduced my last governess soon after, before I went off to Eton. Is that the manner of wicked you’d been thinking?”

  Genevieve opened her mouth. And then closed it. She opened her mouth again. She’d been imagining a rapscallion who poured ink in tea and snuck spiders into the family home. Not…this… By the tight lines at the corner of his mouth and the derisive glitter in his eyes, he expected her shock. But…there was more than shock. Pain stabbed at her heart. She’d long believed her father was a monster, but this was the kind of evil and ugly that made her father look like a loving, doting papa. No wonder Cedric had grown into this jaded, cynical rake.

  “Nothing to say?” he taunted, a hard edge to his words.

  Slowly Genevieve pushed herself to her feet. “I am horrified,” she said, giving him the truth. As she came forward, his body went taut. “I am horrified that as a child, your father subjected you to that baseness. Where was your mother?” she asked quietly. If they were ever blessed to have a babe, she’d protect it, keeping it from this vile depravity.

  A humorless laugh spilled past his tight lips. “They lived two very separate lives.” Unlike the manner of comfortable existence she and Cedric had settled into. Mostly. “After my sister’s birth, my mother quite easily handed me over to my father’s tutelage. No doubt, she’d quickly gleaned the manner of son she had.”

  Is that what he believed? That his mother had seen ugly in his soul and left him to his father for it? Genevieve held her palms up. “I do not know the manner of woman your mother was.” She chose to believe that she’d defend her own children, fighting even the king himself, if it meant their happiness. “But I cannot believe she saw anything but her son, when she saw you.”

  With a dismissive noise, her husband scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving an endearing trail of dirt.

  Footsteps sounded at the entrance of the garden and she wanted to stamp her foot in annoyance at the interruption. Of all the words they’d exchanged since their marriage, in this she’d learned more about Cedric than she’d ever known before. And now it was not enough. She wanted to know all of the past that had shaped him into the man he’d become. Even the dark, painful parts he, no doubt, had buried these years.

  “Miss Cornworthy arrived to see you. I took the liberty of showing her to the parlor and having refreshments brought.”

  Disappointment filled her. “Thank you,” she murmured. As much as she looked forward to her frequent visits with the fun, eccentric Francesca Cornworthy, she’d learned much in this short exchange with Cedric and was reluctant to abandon this moment. “You have plans for this evening?” she asked, after the butler had taken his leave.

  “I intended to meet Montfort at our clubs.”

  She didn’t wish to be that wife who frowned on disreputable company for her husband, but just once she wished her husband chose to stay in with her. “Of course,” she said quietly and annoyance stirred at the attention he devoted to that blasted
timepiece.

  “I shall leave you to your company.”

  Just as you always do…

  And she stood in watch as Cedric retreated with the speed of Boney marching through Russia in the dead of winter.

  *

  With his wife’s words echoing around his mind and that damned optimistic, hopeful glimmer in her eyes, Cedric strode quickly through the corridors. He’d not spoken of his mother in years…

  Nay.

  Never. He’d never spoken of his mother, or that long ago night in the schoolroom, or his seduction of the governess to anyone. He was not the type of man who spoke to another person on things of import. He spoke of spirits and wagering and whores and his own material comforts.

  Cedric strode across the opposite corridor and collided with his flushed, slightly out of breath butler…and…

  “Montfort.” A mottled flush stained his neck at the earl’s mocking half-grin as he took in Cedric’s gloveless, mud-splattered fingers.

  “Never tell me you’re…” He lifted an eyebrow. “Gardening?” There was a wealth of mockery in his question.

  Quickly yanking out a handkerchief, Cedric dusted his palms. He waved his butler off and started for his office. “You’ve still not sent ’round your acceptance for my party coming.”

  No, he hadn’t. When the invite had come around more than a fortnight ago, he’d simply ignored the routine invite to the scandalous party. Then, he’d forgotten it. Aware of his friend’s stare and the question there, he hedged his words. “And you’ve come over at this unfashionable hour to determine the status of my invitation?” It wasn’t something the other man might have asked him, say, any other evening he’d run into him at their clubs?

  “Not that alone,” the earl confirmed. His friend easily fell into step beside him. “There are wagers being placed,” he said without preamble as Cedric pushed the heavy oak door of his office open and stepped inside.

  Ah, so that was what brought Montfort ’round. “Have your finances vastly improved since your losses at the club last evening that you’ve entered into new wagers?”

  Montfort’s booming laugh filled the office as he entered behind Cedric. He pushed the door closed and then started over to the sideboard. Cedric splashed several fingerfuls into one glass and then held the bottle aloft.

  The earl inclined his head and Cedric finished pouring another. “The wagers are, of course, about you,” he said, accepting the glass.

  “Oh,” Cedric drawled and carried his snifter over to the leather winged back chair beside the cold, empty hearth. He’d ceased to pay attention to the bets that went into the book at White’s or anywhere else over the years.

  “You know,” Montfort said, settling himself in the chair opposite Cedric. “There was a time you’d ask about the betting and place your own ungodly wager.”

  He swirled the contents of his drink. Yes, as he’d shared with Genevieve when he’d asked for her hand in marriage, there had been a time he’d been imprudent with the funds belonging to him. Perhaps it was a tedium with the lifestyle he’d lived these many years or perhaps it was the hold he’d allowed his father to have over him with those weaknesses but the gaming tables no longer held the same pull.

  “The wager is also about your wife,” Montfort said and Cedric froze mid-movement with his glass halfway to his lips.

  He gripped his snifter so hard the blood drained from his knuckles. “Oh,” he drawled with forced nonchalance. Odd, he’d never given a bloody damn what the gossips said about him, but he wanted to take apart the bastards who’d mention her name in any way. Cedric took a long swallow through tight lips.

  The earl leaned forward, shifting his weight over his legs. “There are bets about how long until the ducal heir makes his appearance.”

  Cedric choked on his swallow and glared as his friend’s booming laughter echoed throughout the room.

  “Knowing as you do, my wager was firmly in the ‘never’ column.” He leaned back and his humor was immediately gone, replaced with a piercing intensity he didn’t believe the other man capable of. “And given what you’ve shared with me through the years, I trust my wager is the safe one?” His words were more a question than statement.

  Cedric rolled his shoulders. “I don’t have any intention of discussing my marital affairs with you, Montfort.” He forced a grin.

  A flash of surprise shone in the other man’s eyes and he opened and closed his mouth several times. “You have dirt on your face,” he blurted.

  Swallowing a curse, Cedric removed the same handkerchief and brushed at his left cheek. He neither wanted, nor needed, his friend’s mockery. When had the man’s presence begun to grate?

  “The other side,” Montfort clarified, his lips still twitching with amusement.

  “You’ve come then to angle an answer about me regarding my marital activities?” he asked, with annoyance. Childhood friends or not, somewhere in this stilted exchange, Montfort had crossed a proverbial line. “All to win a wager?”

  Even the morals lacking earl had the good grace to flush. “You were never above anything yourself, St. Albans, so do not go acting as though we’re cut of entirely different cloths.”

  No, they weren’t. But then, neither had Cedric cheated to win a wager. His skin pricked with the concentrated stare the other man passed over him. Then Montfort whistled long and slow. “What is it?” Cedric bit out.

  “By God, you care about her.”

  He shook his head once.

  The earl nodded.

  He shook his head again. “I…” Do not care about anyone. He’d been a bastard of a brother. A miserable, albeit deliberately miserable, bastard of a son. And…yet…his friend’s words knocked the breath from his lungs. He cared about her. His palms grew moist with the horrifying implications of that. He’d only make her miserable. He was his father’s son. “Our marriage is a practical one,” he said, after a long stretch of silence.

  “Is it?”

  Yes, it was. “I visit my clubs every evening.” And had begun to tire of them, but that was neither here nor there, nor a point he intended to mention to Montfort.

  “You were gardening.”

  He scoffed. “I was hardly gardening.” Merely digging a hole. For my wife. He grimaced.

  “You’ve still not accepted nor declined the invitation to my ball.” The earl lifted an eyebrow. “Is it, perhaps, that your new bride will not allow you to take your amusements where you will?”

  God his friend was relentless. He gritted his teeth. “Of course, I’ll be there.” Because he’d attended every year since Montfort began throwing them ten years earlier.

  The earl appraised him in an assessing manner. Did he seek the veracity of a claim Cedric was no longer certain of? Montfort drummed his fingertips along the arm of his chair in a grating, rhythmic pattern. “So there will still be no heir then?”

  Of course. Back to the wager. For ultimately, Montfort was the same self-serving bastard he’d always been. It was why they got on so great. “There will be no heirs or spares.” Granted he’d not taken precautions prior with Genevieve…but the earl’s words served as an all-important reminder. He’d not bring a child into this world, only to subject it to his corrupted influence. He was a bastard. He wasn’t a complete bastard.

  The earl chuckled and raised his glass in salute. “And you thought your marriage to the Farendale girl would be your ultimate revenge against your bastard of a father? There is no greater revenge than this.”

  Montfort spoke the truth, and yet…there was a sourness in Cedric’s mouth at having his calculated efforts thrown so effortlessly in his face. “Now,” he said, shoving to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me?” he said, for the first time he could remember, eager to be rid of the other man’s presence. Had he always been this…bloody bothersome?

  Chapter 21

  The following afternoon, perched on the edge of the blue upholstered sofa with her sketchpad on her lap, Genevieve brushed her charcoal over the page b
ringing the image of the now cared for garden to life.

  Usually, sketching proved a welcome diversion. This morning, however, proved the exception. Unbidden, her gaze went to the scandal sheets open on the table before her.

  Two months married and all thoughts of a love match between the Marquess of St. A have undoubtedly been laid to rest.

  Undoubtedly.

  Nightly visits to Forbidden Pleasures…

  A vise squeezed about her heart. A place called Forbidden Pleasures was hardly the respectable White’s and Brooke’s visited by respectable gentlemen. No doubt there were scandalous women and naughty deeds and… Oh, God. Why did this truth hurt as much as it did?

  “Will we go out this evening?”

  She snapped her attention over to the sole friend she’d made since her return to London. Francesca Cornworthy nibbled at a puff pastry. Since she’d been married, Genevieve had taken to joining the young woman at those dull, polite affairs. It had made facing down the knowing stares of cruel gossips bearable. Her lips twisted. God, how she abhorred the whispers.

  Wetting her lips, Genevieve abandoned her artwork. “I had not intended to,” she confessed and a guilty twinge pulled at the other woman’s crestfallen expression.

  “Yes, well, I expect if I had the benefit of marriage, I would avoid all the miserable ton events, as well.”

  Alas, expectations were vastly different for young, unmarried women than young, married women. There were freedoms to attend or not attend events. To don colorful skirts. And in Genevieve’s case…to stay indoors sketching and reading and gardening while the Season marched painfully on. How tedious and tiresome life in London had become. A yawn escaped her and she looked to the doorway for the next expected visitor for the morning.

  “It is rather tiresome, isn’t it?” Francesca murmured. “I daresay if a lady had a dance partner and a devoted suitor then it would make all of this,” she waved her hand and flakes of powdered sugar fell to the floor, “exponentially better.”

  Genevieve’s gut clenched.