“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 fiddl
ed 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 floorboards groaned and she lifted her head. A gasp exploded from her lips as the stranger sank to a knee. How could a gentleman of his magnificent size and power move with such a stealthy grace? “Wh-what…?”
“Here,” he murmured, easily seizing one slipper from her trembling hand. She stared at his bent head. Her fingers twitched with the urge to run her fingers through the unfashionably long blond hair with its faint curl. She wanted to determine if the strands were as lusciously thick as they looked. In a fluid movement, he lifted her skirts, ever so slightly, and captured her heel in his palm. The touch of his hand burned through the fabric of her stockings and roused a wild fluttering in her belly. Her mouth went dry and she struggled with a coherent thought as he slid the shoe on. “There,” he said quietly and then slipped the other shoe from her weak fingers.
It was the singularly most erotic, most romantic, moment in her life. Far greater than anything she’d ever experienced with her former betrothed. And it was here in the duke’s library, in the midst of the ball, with a man whose name she did not even know. Perhaps that merely added to the forbidden allure of this exchange.
The gentleman sank back on his heels, his meaning clear. She was free to leave. He’d not stop her. And yet, she lingered, not wanting this moment to end. For when it did, she’d be unsought-after-for-anything-but-scandal Genevieve with her throbbing toes and her miserable mother. Then, she couldn’t really leave, not without first knowing the name of the gentleman who’d helped her into her slippers. “I am Genevieve,” she said, opting to omit the most distinguishing part of her name which would reveal her past.
“Cedric.”
There was no effusive, overdone greeting. No title. Nothing but his Christian name that only deepened the intimacy between them. “Cedric,” she repeated, testing it. It was strong, harshly beautiful, powerful. A perfect name for the tall, thickly muscled stranger.
“You are reluctant to return.” His husky inquiry washed over her. “Why?”
I am reluctant to leave. Two very different matters, altogether. When she left, she’d be thrust back into the ballroom, with the side looks, whispers, and aching toes. In this moment, there was just her and this man who knew nothing of her, and did not treat her with disdain. “I am no doubt here for the same reason you are,” she ventured, instead.
“Oh?”
And as she did not know what to make of that vague, noncommittal utterance she stole a look about. “All rather tedious, isn’t it?”
He furrowed his brow.
“The ball,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Ah.” The gentleman said so little and yet so much with that telling concurrence. “Yes, there is something tedious about the whole affair,” he said, his tone gruff.
She nodded. “Precisely. A sea of guests collected on the possibility that a future duke is ready to take a wife.” The last thing she desired was another would-be duke in her life.
Another smile pulled at his lips, highlighting the faint dimple in his right cheek. She tipped her head. Odd, that such a harshly angular face should be gentled in that way. Fearing she’d drown herself in the study of him, Genevieve forced her gaze away. Faces of chiseled perfection posed nothing but danger. Time and her own folly had proven that.
Even so, as Cedric shoved to his feet, she mourned that parting. He wandered back to his stolen snifter, rescued his glass, and then with a panther-like grace, stalked over to her. “Never tell me you are one of the ladies in attendance not desiring that coveted title.” He took another sip of his drink.
Climbing to her feet, Genevieve studied her fingers. She’d never wanted the title duchess. She’d simply craved the romanticism that came with being in love. “I have no interest at all in the title of marchioness, duchess, or anything else,” she said with quiet honesty. Never again.
With those long, sleek steps, he continued coming and she really should be afraid. She was alone with a gentleman, in her host’s library, behind a locked door. It was the height of folly and possible danger, and yet there was this inexplicable ease around him. An inherent knowledge that no harm would come to her at his hands. Not a man who could have so gently slid her slippers on her feet. A delicious shiver ran through her and her mouth went dry at the memory. I am the wicked, wanton they all accused me of being.
“Not even the Marquess of St. Albans?”
Was there a wry humor to that query? She could not make source of his peculiar tone past the rapid whirring of her thoughts. She struggled to force out a coherent reply. She recalled her sister’s earlier words about the man. “Particularly the marquess.” She’d little desire for the notoriety that came with such a gentleman. Rakes, rogues, and scoundrels, they were to be avoided, all of them.
“Here I was believing every lady coveted the role of future duchess,” he said dryly. A cynical glint lit his eye and she frowned, preferring him as he’d been a moment prior—affable and slightly mysterious.
“I do not,” she persisted, taking a step toward him. She never had. Genevieve looked beyond his shoulder. Her parents had craved nothing less than a duke for their daughter who’d been the toast of the London Season. She’d been so caught up with the glittering opulence and excitement of London, she’d been too naïve to realize…she would have been quite contented with a second son of a lord, in a modest cottage, as long as she knew love. “One would be under constant study and scrutiny,” she said at last. Having been so examined after The Scandal, she’d do quite well without the grandiose attention that would come with a title that was very nearly royalty. “That, I could do without,” she said softly. Pinpricks of awareness dotted her skin and she looked at Cedric. Her breath caught hard at the hot intensity of his stare.
What was he thinking, this stranger she’d only just met?
Chapter 4
Cedric, the Marquess of St. Albans, hadn’t had a single intention of attending the lavish ball thrown by his father. Through the years, his sire had commanded and Cedric had quite delighted in turning a proverbial finger up at those orders.
He would have been very contented sipping his brandy while the event carried on in the ballroom. He would revel in the duke’s fury and then seek out his clubs when the last of the guests had departed.
Now, staring at the spir
ited woman casting aspersions upon his future title, there was no place he’d rather be than this very library. His lips twitched. His too-large library.
Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the false friendships and respect granted him for nothing more than his birthright. He’d come to believe that future title was the single most important thing to every last lord and lady in London. It would appear he’d found the single lady in the whole of the kingdom who didn’t give a jot. Curiously, he wanted to know just what else Miss Genevieve With-No-Surname thought of his worthless self.
Cedric studied her from over the rim of his glass. With her hair pulled back with such severity and her dreary, modest skirts, she had the look of a companion and would never be the manner of woman to command his notice. The ladies who’d earned his favor through the years had been the improper ones with plunging décolletages and dampened satin skirts. What was it about this one, then, that earned his note? “You are candid,” he said with a small grin. Nothing else explained it.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve come to appreciate honesty.”
How intriguing. She hinted at lessons learned and he, who didn’t give a jot about anyone, wondered about the story there…
It still begged the question as to whether the lady would be so forthright if she discovered the man whose future title she disparaged stood even now before her. He gave a casual swirl of his glass. “I take it you know the marquess, then?” It really was in bad form to wheedle information from the lady in such a manner. Especially as he already knew the answer. A lady with strawberry blonde tresses and full lips made for more than kissing, he’d well remember her. But then, Cedric had never been accused of anything gentlemanly or honorable. Including attending any polite events where this one might have been.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 34