Well, drat.
Chapter 5
“It is about bloody time you arrived.” The Duke of Ravenscourt glared at his son. “You missed the entire bloody receiving line.”
Cedric rescued a flute of champagne from a passing servant’s tray. He downed it in one long swallow to let his father know precisely what he thought of his grousing. “Splendid,” he said with a cheerful smile that deepened his miserable sire’s frown.
On any other day and at any other event, he would have taken a perverse pleasure in altogether missing the duke’s ball. As such, these proper balls were the last place he cared to be.
Except…
He stared boldly at the pale, tolerably pretty Genevieve With-a-Surname-He-Still-Did-Not-Know, relishing the way her lips parted and the round moons formed by her eyes. He would have expected with his deliberate wink she would have looked away and yet she continued to hold his gaze with a directness he admired—and he didn’t admire anyone. Largely because no one had given him reason to. How singularly odd that this slender slip of a lady should have earned his appreciation…for matters that had nothing to do with the weight of her breasts or the taste of her lips.
The lady closed her luscious mouth and he grinned. Well, perhaps it did have a bit to do with the taste of her.
“…You can have your pick of any lady here, Cedric.” His father waved a ruthless hand over the ballroom, momentarily commanding his attention.
Cedric did a quick sweep of the distinguished guests arranged. Eager, marriage-minded misses in their white satin gowns and scandalous widows eyed him with equal appreciation. His gaze wandered back to the companion in hideous gray skirts, pressed against the Doric column while other more colorfully clad guests chatted about her. Did the lady seek to blend with that towering pillar? Given the pale hue of her skin, and the fabric of her skirts, it would have been an easy feat. If he hadn’t already tasted her lips. Then he glanced down.
The lady tapped the tip of her slipper to the staccato beat of the orchestra’s song. There was so much revealing about that slight, but telling, tap. The discreet, though eager, movement belied a woman who’d don boring gray skirts and, instead, spoke to the spirited creature who’d steal off to her host’s library in the midst of the festivities.
Just then, the Earl of Hargrove stepped between Cedric and his unobstructed view of the companion in her horrid dress, who’d invaded his library.
Bloody Hargrove…
“…Are you listening to me, Cedric?” his father snapped.
Cedric motioned a servant over and deposited his empty glass on the man’s silver tray. The servant rushed off. “No,” he said and with his father sputtering, he stormed off, cutting a deliberate path through the ballroom.
Familiar widows eyed him with a lascivious suggestion in their eyes and he ignored the heated offers there. Never before had he passed up the forbidden delights those women promised. On too many scores to remember, he’d taken several of them simultaneously up on their offers, behind parlor doors of their hosts’ homes. Now, an altogether different quarry called his notice.
A tall figure stepped into his path and with a curse, Cedric ground his feet to a sudden stop. “Goddamn it, St. Albans, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Montfort,” he greeted, looking over the other man’s shoulder.
From where she hovered on the fringe of the festivities Genevieve With-No-Surname shifted back and forth, eying the twirling dancers. He dipped his gaze to the floor. Between the kaleidoscopes of waltzing couples, he caught the rhythmic tap of her feet. A proper companion who longed to dance.
Montfort withdrew a silver flask from his front pocket and to the open-eyed censure of nearby matrons, uncorked it and took a long swallow. “I’d wagered you’d fail to appear at your father’s ball. Lost a goddamn fortune because of you.” The tight lines at the corner of his hard lips bespoke his frustration.
Friend or no, the man’s ill fortune was largely his own doing. As such, Cedric had no remorse for Montfort. Or really, anyone for that matter. He’d long ago ceased to care about anyone but himself. It was safer that way. …Everyone cares in some way… The lady’s words echoed around his mind.
It was a sure one; Montfort would have won at any other time.
“Well, then, which delicious widow has captured your attention?”
He blinked and shifted his attention to the earl. “What?”
“Nothing else would have you here but the promise of some inventive widow’s charms.” His friend laughed uproariously as though he’d uttered a hilarious jest.
The orchestra concluded the country reel and the ballroom erupted into polite applause. “I hope she was worth the amount I lost on you.”
He narrowed his eyes as the lady occupying Cedric’s attention caught his eye. “Who is the matron?” Cedric asked, gesturing vaguely to the woman between Montfort and his library nymph.
The gentleman, who’d long known everyone and everything about Society, followed his stare. “The matron?” he puzzled his brow. “The Marchioness of Ellsworth.” Then he widened his eyes. “Ah, I see.”
No, Cedric really didn’t think he did, as he didn’t see himself. Genevieve flared her eyes wide like a hare caught in the hunter’s snare and darted her gaze about. As one who’d made plenty of hasty escapes, he recognized one about to flee. “If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured and quickly stepped around Montfort. He ignored Montfort’s sputtering and lengthened his stride. With each step, Cedric kept his gaze trained on his tempting quarry.
And for the first time in the course of his corrupt life, a fleshy, proper matron proved his savior. The plump, expensively attired lady in burgundy skirts stepped into Genevieve’s path, effectively staying her retreat.
As the older woman spoke, Genevieve’s delicate shoulders went taut and she nodded periodically. He narrowed his eyes. Was his candid lady in the library a poor relation? His intrigue redoubled. She elongated her neck, drawing his gaze and remembrances to her erratic heartbeat a short while ago. She did a small search and then their stares connected once more. Panic flared in the lady’s eyes and she made another bid to escape. Cedric reached the trio.
“Lady Ellsworth, a pleasure,” he said smoothly, not taking his gaze from Genevieve. The young woman gave him a faintly pleading look. As much as he particularly enjoyed his ladies pleading, this was not the kind he happened to favor. Mixed with that silent entreaty was an unspoken recrimination from within her eyes.
The marchioness squeaked. “M-My lord.” She dropped a curtsy. “Wh-what an honor.” She tittered behind her hand. “Have you come to meet my Gillian?”
He slid his gaze over to the breathtaking beauty with her purple skirts beside the woman. He expected this lovely lady was, in fact, her Gillian. With her beauty, she befit the usual beauties he took to his bed. However, another had earned his attention.
“Mother,” Lady Gillian scolded, a blush on her cheeks.
He looked expectantly at the marchioness. The rotund marchioness emitted a squeak. “F-forgive me. May I introduce my daughter, Lady Gillian Farendale?”
Cedric made the appropriate greetings and looked expectantly to the pale Genevieve.
The marchioness opened and closed her mouth several times, sputtering as she followed his attention.
When no introduction was forthcoming, he lifted an eyebrow.
“And this is my other d-daughter,” she choked out. “Lady Genevieve.”
He lifted his eyebrows. The lady was a marchioness’ daughter? Attired in garments better suited a servant and on the fringe of the festivities, there was little hint of belonging to this family.
Her mother forced an elbow into her side and Genevieve grunted. “My lord,” she said with a grudging hesitancy. She offered a belated and, by his way of thinking, insolent curtsy.
Was the enticing pink of her neck and cheeks a product of embarrassment or desire from their earlier embrace? “A pleasure,” Cedric murmured, reaching for her hand.
The lady hesitated and then placed her fingertips in his. He folded his hand about hers reflexively and marveled at the length of her fingers. He cursed her gloves, and cursed himself for having neglected that flesh when he’d had the opportunity presented to him. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, relishing in the slight tremble of those long digits.
She made to draw them back, but he retained his grip. The orchestra struck up the strains of the waltz. With a fiery show of spirit, Genevieve gave another tug.
“May I have the honor of partnering you in the next set, my lady?”
Fire flashed in her expressive eyes. “I do n-not dance.” A woman who moved with such graceful elegance possessed a body made for dance, and far more.
“I insist,” he shot back with a practiced grin. God, with her fire and spirit, she could set the room ablaze.
“You insist,” she mouthed. Angling her jaw up, she gave an emphatic shake. “And I insist. I do not dance.”
And because he’d long proven himself a selfish bastard who claimed what he wanted, Cedric turned his assault on the marchioness.
The woman fluttered a hand about her neck and looked frantically around. “I…” She appeared one more word away from tears. “I-I am certain Genevieve might partner you in the one set,” the marchioness cut in, favoring her daughter with a glare. Mother and daughter locked in a silent, unspoken battle of the wills which was ultimately resolved by Cedric.
Elbow extended, he stepped aside and allowed her a path to the dance floor. The spirited young lady dug her heels in and, for an instant, he believed, in a world where lords and ladies sought to appease him for nothing more than his future title alone, that this slip of a woman would publically refuse his offer. Then she gave a slight nod and allowed him to escort her to the sea of already assembled dancers. “I thought you were going to refuse me,” he said, favoring her with one of his long-practiced smiles.
“I should have,” she bit out as he settled his hand at her waist. “You do not know what you’ve done.” The faint thread of panic underscored her words. With a deliberate slowness, he caressed his fingers over the soft satin fabric. A shuddery gasp escaped her plump lips and she quickly placed a hand on his shoulder. “That was poorly done of you.”
“My touch?”
“Forcing my hand,” she said between tight lips.
Who was Lady Genevieve Farendale? This woman who spoke of honor and integrity and sought the anonymity of the sidelines? Or a lady who would steal away to her host’s library? The people Cedric kept company with were with men who’d bed another chap’s wife on a bet or out of boredom and women who’d take both the winner and loser of that wager to bed. In the course of his nearly thirty years, it had never been about honor.
To counter the unsettled sentiments swirling inside him, he made a tsking noise. “Never tell me you looked forward to partnering another.” His fingers tightened reflexively at her waist.
“It is not a matter of whether or not I looked forward to another gentleman. I politely refused your request, my lord, and you superseded my wishes because of your desire.”
If he wished to truly scandalize her, he’d speak to her about what he truly desired. “Come, Genevieve. Given our meeting we’ve moved beyond those stiff forms of address.”
The lady’s cheeks blazed such a crimson red, it could have set her face afire but then she surprised him once more. “Yes, there is truth to that.” The lady directed her words at his cravat and he brushed his fingertips in a fleeting caress over her lower back until she picked her head up. “However, it was not well done of you.”
“What? Discussing the flaws in the duke’s home and the inherent wickedness of his son?” He lowered his head close and her breath caught. “Or do you refer to our kiss?”
Genevieve missed a step and the color seeped from her cheeks. He effortlessly righted her. “Someone might hear, my lord.” She stole a furtive look about.
“Cedric,” he pressed. He’d long been accustomed to having his wishes met. He wanted his name on her lips not simply because he desired her, but also because, for some inexplicable reason, he was drawn by the sincerity of her responses around him. She did not fawn or seek to earn his favor. Instead, she was candid in her every emotion; from the passion in their embrace, to her annoyance, and blushing embarrassment.
“I cannot call you Cedric,” she choked out so quietly he struggled to make out her words.
“Because I am a rake?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Yes,” she hissed. Hurt outrage flashed in her eyes and an unexpected pang that felt very much like guilt needled at his conscience. A conscience he’d not known he’d possessed until this innocent minx trained hurt, accusatory eyes on him. “Furthermore, you knew I mistook your identity. I asked—”
“If I was a friend of the marquess’ which I assured you I was not,” he put in smoothly. “Because I am not.” He placed his lips close to her ear. “I am the marquess. Two entirely different things.” Cedric twirled her to the edge of the ballroom, away from the center of the activity. “Furthermore, if I had confided the truth, you would have run as far and as fast as your bare feet could have carried you.” Which begged the unanswerable question—why had it mattered if she had left?
Because I wanted to taste her lips. Because I wanted to ruck her gown up and lay between her legs…
Only, it hadn’t been just about this hungering for her.
“That isn’t altogether true.” She leaned close. “I would have collected my slippers.”
He laughed. Not the practiced, restrained chuckles he called forth at bawdy tales and boring jests, but rather one of sincerity and mirth that emerged rusty from deep in his chest.
“I was not speaking in jest.”
His laughter died. Good God, she was enchanting. The manner of interesting that made a man brave boring balls and soirees just for the unexpectedness of whatever words she’d utter next.
Chapter 6
Why, with that handful of words, did Cedric, the mystery gentleman she’d met in the library, have to be correct?
For in the course of their exchange, she’d never pointedly asked if he was, in fact, the marquess. Which in retrospect, with her mistakes laid out clearly before her, she knew would have been an obvious assumption. He’d sat elegant in repose, as though he owned the massive room because…well, because he did own it. Or he would.
Yet, there was something dishonest in that lie of omission, a lie that muddied that magical first kiss he’d given her and the beauty of their exchange. A pang struck her heart, which was foolish that she would feel…anything. But it did. He was a whispered about rake and given that ignoble titling, a man who could only compound the gossip surrounding her name. Even now, her skin pricked with the crowd’s awareness trained on them.
Genevieve ran her gaze over his harshly beautiful face. With the room doused in candlelight, it illuminated the sharp angles in a way the shadows could have never done true justice to. She lingered on the tight lines drawn at the corners of his mouth. Things that had previously escaped her, now glared strong. For the cynical set to his lips hinted at a man who’d become an expert at manipulating words and people in a way that suited his desires and interests. And she hated the truth of that. Hated that his smile was false and his earlier words, even falser. Hated it because it only confirmed everything she’d come to expect of those lords who lived for their pleasures.
“You have gone silent now, Genevieve?” There was a silken thread underlining those words that sent a mad fluttering to her belly, even as logic lightened this man’s hold on her senses.
“You are one who is accustomed to ladies fawning and falling down for you,” she said quietly to herself. “You turn forth a grin and a laugh to ease the truth of your coldness.” His face froze in an unmoving mask. “Mayhap the world does not see past that. They see what you ask them to see.” Just as she naively had allowed herself to see in the library. Yet, that was not his fault. It was hers for wanting to see diamonds i
n the dust. “They see your smile. They hear your teasing words. They are so focused on those smiles that they do not realize…” At his narrowing eyes, she blinked and let her words die. She’d said too much, to a man who truly was nothing but a stranger.
A stranger whose kiss still burns on my lips.
“They see what?” he bit out. Gone was that smooth edge to his words.
“The façade.” She knew because she was a woman who’d donned the same, stifling mask these five years.
A harsh light glinted in his eyes. “You do not know anything of it.”
“Oh, I suspect I know more than you’d care to think.” Hot emotion flashed in the cerulean blue of his eyes. With his easy charm and the cynical smile that didn’t quite reach his gaze, she saw enough to know this man was one to avoid at all costs.
The orchestra concluded the waltz and they came to a stop. Other partners clapped politely and filed from the floor while Genevieve and Cedric remained stationary, locked in a silent battle. His chest moved forcibly like he’d run a great distance.
Belatedly, she curtsied. “My lord.”
Where any proper gentleman would have escorted her from the floor, Cedric, future Duke of Ravenscourt, sketched a bow and stalked off, master of this ballroom. Genevieve stood rooted to her spot, agonizingly exposed to the stares and whispers of his distinguished guests and, in that moment, she hated Cedric. Hated him for so effortlessly thrusting her back into Society’s focus. It was inevitable. Her feet twitched with the urge to flee. Move. Pick up one foot and place it before the other. Her breath came hard and fast and then a small arm slid into hers and she started, blinking wildly.
Her sister gave her a reassuring smile. “Come,” she said softly and Genevieve’s throat worked.
How many times as children had she come to Gillian’s aid during her madcap schemes? In an utter role reversal, rescue should now be conferred by her younger sister. “Thank you,” she managed.
“If you smile and hold your chin up, they stare less,” Gillian said, widening her smile. “And if you laugh, then it really confounds them.” With that, she tossed back her head and laughed.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 36