A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  A wave of gratitude filled her and a smile split her lips; real and wonderful for it. That not a single gentleman had seen Gillian’s worth and beauty proved them all a lot of fools.

  “Mother is not happy,” her younger sister said from the corner of her mouth.

  Genevieve easily found the scowling marchioness and did a quick search for her father.

  “Father is in the gaming rooms.”

  Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Of course, he’d eventually emerge. When he did, there would be the discovery that Genevieve had done something as scandalous as publicly waltzing. She nibbled her lower lip. Then, it wasn’t so much the dance, but rather the gentleman who’d commandeered that set in a public way…and then in an equally public way had left her standing alone at the center of the dance floor. Which really was quite a cut-direct for any lady, even more damning for one whispered to be a whore who made scandalous offers and propositions to gentlemen.

  They reached their mother’s side. “Mo—”

  “Not a word,” the marchioness said, with a patently false smile plastered on her lips. “You are to sit with the other companions.” Is that what she was, then? A companion? A giggle bubbled up at the preposterousness of such an idea and she forcibly swallowed her amusement. “I do not want you near Gillian.”

  Of course, her faithless parents had never seen anyone else to blame where she was concerned. They didn’t see or credit the treacherous acts of strangers, but rather condemned the daughter whose blood they shared. Head held high, she turned to go, when Gillian shot a staying hand about her arm. “Mother,” she scolded.

  Genevieve delicately removed her arm from Gillian’s gentle grip. “I will be all right,” she reassured. After her public humiliation five years ago, she could certainly manage to hover for another handful of hours on the fringe of the duke’s ballroom. In fact, she far preferred it. Liar. You love dancing. You loved it even more in the marquess’ strong, powerful arms.

  With a roomful of observers staring on, Genevieve made her way to the shell-backed chairs along the back wall. She slid into a seat between two other equally miserably dressed ladies. The lady at her right yanked her skirts out of the way and quickly came to her feet. Casting a scathing glance back, she rushed off.

  Genevieve trained her gaze forward on the dancers, fisting her hands on her lap. It mattered not what the whispers were, or what people believed. She knew the truth. She knew the ugliest of rumors were, in fact, lies perpetuated by a cad and that knowing was power. Granted a weak, ineffectual power, but a power over her thoughts and sense of her own self-worth. Still, there was something so very lonely in having been cut from the fold of the family. She looked to where her wildly gesticulating sister now chatted with her friend, Honoria Fairfax.

  As much as she loved Gillian and had no doubt she was genuinely happy to have her back with the family, so many years had passed that it was oftentimes as though they were old friends trying to return to the way it had once been…when they could never, ever truly go back.

  “Thank you.”

  She froze and looked about. Her gaze collided with the plump woman with a glass of punch in one hand who occupied the opposite chair. With pale, heavily freckled cheeks and too-tight ringlets, the young woman must be near an age of her own. Did the lady remember Genevieve’s scandal from long ago? Or mayhap she didn’t know it at all and was why she even now spoke to her. “Uh…”

  “For sending that one rushing off,” she said on a less than discreet whisper. The woman leaned close. “Miserable creature. Hasn’t smiled once all night.” She stuck her gloved palm out. “My name is Miss Francesca Cornworthy.” She grimaced. “Horrid name. You might call me Francesca, which is equally horrid, but only slightly less than Franny, which is what my father calls me.”

  Her mind spun under the happy chattering and, yet, at the unexpected kindness, emotion filled her throat. Though she caught the flesh on the inside of her cheek hard, it was hardly fair to drag this kind creature down the gossip trail with her. At the stretch of silence and inaction, the woman’s smiled dipped and her hand quavered. Lest she misunderstand the reason for her hesitation, Genevieve swiftly placed her fingers in Miss Francesca Cornworthy’s and shook. “I am Lady Genevieve Farendale.”

  A look of relief flashed in her startling violet eyes. “I know who you are.” Her stomach dipped. “We made our Come Out the same year,” the lady explained.

  She knew. Of course, she knew. Everyone knew. “Oh,” she said lamely and quickly withdrew her hand.

  Francesca raised the glass in her opposite hand to her lips and took a sip of her drink. “Nasty stuff. Nasty stuff.”

  Genevieve glanced about to the sea of lords and ladies, many of whom well-remembered the jilted-at-the-altar Farendale daughter. “Yes, it was.”

  “I referred to the punch,” Francesca interrupted her maudlin thoughts. “Not your scandal.”

  And after five years of being a morose, maudlin figure lamenting her past, a very real…lightness went through her. The woman spoke with more honesty and candid sincerity than anyone, including her own family. Everyone, including Genevieve herself, tiptoed around talk of that long ago day, as though that would make it all go away. But it wouldn’t. It would always and forever be… The Scandal. There was something freeing in that.

  Perhaps the woman was lonely and long in need of a friend, but she carried on her one-sided conversation. “I never did understand how a gentleman was so pardoned for the whole affair, while you were scuttled off. Uh…” She blushed. “You were scuttled off, I gather?”

  Genevieve smiled. “I was.” Scuttled off. Like the refuse on a shopkeeper’s stoop.

  “Well, I am glad you’ve returned.”

  She was glad she returned. Those words, so sincerely spoken, when no one, not even Genevieve’s own parents, had uttered them. “You do not even know me.” The words slipped out before she could call them back.

  The smile widened on Francesca’s face, rather transforming her from pretty into a lovely, glowing woman. “I know enough that it is the height of wrongness to have you hide away from the world.” She shook her head. “Not a nice way to live, at all. But you danced tonight, which I imagine was very exciting.” She gave her an envious look. “Not that I know anything really about dancing.”

  With Francesca’s kindness and wonderful spirit, and her relegation to the back hall of the ballroom, proved once more—gentleman were bloody fools. All of them. “It was exciting,” she conceded, so very happy to be able to confide that in someone. Particularly when she well-knew the carriage ride home would contain a stinging diatribe of Genevieve’s wickedness.

  It will be worth it…Unbidden, she did a sweep of the ballroom and several inches taller than even the tallest of guests, she easily found him. Cedric stood, with his back angled to her. He leaned an elbow against the Doric column and sipped from a champagne flute while speaking to a handsome, dark-haired gentleman. However, Cedric commanded her attention. How coolly elegant he was. Her heart skittered a dangerous beat.

  “They are not all bad,” Francesca said and Genevieve looked over quickly. The woman nudged her chin slightly in the Marquess of St. Albans’ direction.

  Her skin burned at the memory of his touch and kiss. No, the marquess was not bad. He was something far more dangerous—he was wicked.

  “After all, he danced with you, which says a good deal about him.”

  “Does it?” she drawled. It spoke to him being a rake who’d tease a woman in private and attempt to charm her in the midst of the ballroom floor.

  “It means he doesn’t give a jot about gossip.” Francesca wrinkled her brow. “Which I don’t care about, either. And,” she added, as an afterthought, “he likely saw you tapping your feet.”

  Genevieve started and glanced down at her miserably sore toes. She’d noticed her feet?

  “There really isn’t much else to do but look,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  She gave the woman a
wry smile. “I expect sparing me from certain boredom was not at all the marquess’ intentions.” No doubt, he saw the same wanton everyone did. It was a belief she’d proven true earlier in his library and sought to coordinate an improper meeting. Or rather another improper meeting. Her skin warmed at the memory and, more, the craving to know his kiss, again.

  “Why?” Francesca asked, jolting her back from those outrageous musings. “Because he’s a rake?” She furrowed her brow. “It hardly seems fair to condemn the gentleman for gossip attached to his name.” The young woman took another sip and grimaced. “Awful stuff, indeed.”

  At that telling emphasis, Genevieve stilled and looked out at Cedric once more. With Francesca’s innocent and, no doubt, unwitting accusation, she stirred guilt. The gossips reported him to be a rake, but those same scandal sheets reported her to be a wanton.

  Then, a black-haired, willowy beauty in gold sidled up to the gentleman. The lady ran her fingertips down his sleeve and he shifted, presenting the couple in profile. With his golden good looks and her dark coloring, they struck quite the pair. That slight, practiced grin turned his lips and Genevieve looked away. There was no imagining a rake or rogue there. The worthless title fairly seeped from his well-muscled frame.

  Awful stuff, indeed. From across the room, her mother caught her gaze and motioned to her. Like a blasted hound. “I am afraid I must go,” she said with a sigh.

  Francesca’s face fell. “Oh, drat. Well, I did enjoy your company, Genevieve,” she said, easily dispensing with formalities. “Perhaps we will meet again?” she asked hopefully.

  Genevieve smiled. “I would like that very much.” Reluctantly, she came to her feet and started the march back to her mother, feeling not unlike that fabled queen being marched before the gallows.

  “Ah, so that is the way the wind blows, then?” From his position at the edge of the ballroom, Cedric stiffened and turned as Montfort sauntered up. “That makes sense and is vastly relieving.”

  “What the hell are you on about?” he drawled, sipping his champagne.

  Montfort stuck a leg out. “At first,” he shuddered. “Why, at first, I had an ugly worry that a respectable lady attracted your attention.” He tapped his chin. “But I quickly rid myself of such mad worries.” Yes, there were never any worries about anything respectable where Cedric was concerned. Even his only loyal friend knew as much. “Then, I suspected it was an eager widow, but I haven’t seen a single one to command your attention this evening.” Montfort grinned and then, as though he’d solved the riddle of life, he said, “It was the Farendale chit. Wanton little piece, isn’t she?”

  Cedric froze, glass midway to his mouth. Of course, the guests present would note the single dance he’d indulged in this evening. He did not, nor had he ever, however, given a jot about Society’s whispers and speculations where he was concerned. So why did he want to slam his fist into Montfort’s mouth for speaking about her?

  “You’ve never been one to pursue a respectable miss and you aren’t one to start now.”

  It took a moment for the earl’s words to register and as the other man’s insinuation became clear, an inexplicable fury went through him. Aware of Montfort’s mocking gaze on him, he schooled his lips into an easy grin. “I think a lady in those modest skirts and her hair arranged so can hardly be called a wanton,” he said dryly. Even with that hideous chignon, the lady was more tempting than Eve in all her naked splendor.

  A flare of amusement glinted in the earl’s jaded eyes. “Bah,” he scoffed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you dallied with her as she is now.”

  As she is now.

  Which implied… Montfort knew her…when? Montfort and Cedric had passed countless women between each other; from widows to actresses to skilled whores at their clubs and yet… An ugly, resentment twisted around his belly. “And how was she, then?” The lethal edged whisper slipped out.

  Montfort downed his drink and motioned a servant over to claim the empty glass. “Ah, you were never one to gossip. How could I forget?”

  And for reasons Cedric had never understood, the earl had long been a lover of Society’s juicy on-dits.

  “Three, mayhap four years ago she was jilted at the altar.”

  He frowned. “That hardly sounds like the manner of scandal to hold Society’s interest.” And certainly not for four years. Cedric took another sip of his champagne.

  “It is when the groom’s brother bandies it about that she was warming his bed, as well as the groom’s closest friends. Some believe she was with child and sent away to birth the babe.”

  Cedric choked on his swallow and his gaze flew to Genevieve. Like hell. The pinch-mouthed lady sat primly amongst the wallflowers and companions. Her sharp, pale cheeks and the tightness at the corner of her mouth hinted at the strain of emotion. He hooded his eyes and maintained his scrutiny. The lady was no whore. Her kiss, though eager, hinted at her inexperience. He’d not reveal as much to Montfort. For all his crimes, bandying the details about his lovers had never been one of them. “So she’s returned,” he said, pulling his gaze away. Where had the lady been all these years? “For what purpose?”

  “Why I expect the same reasons all ladies come to London.” Montfort lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “The whispers are she’s here to find some unsuspecting or desperate nobleman. Others think it’s merely her parents’ attempt to prove she knows how to behave like a lady.” The smirk on the earl’s lips indicated just what he believed about that latter point and Cedric tightened his grip on his glass to keep from leveling the other man a facer.

  …You do not know what you’ve done…

  As his friend ran through the other gossip of the evening that Cedric didn’t give a damn about, he once more took Genevieve in. The drab skirts, the unwillingness to dance, even as her feet had tapped away at the marble floor. And then he recalled her standing there, as he’d stalked off like a petulant child and all because she’d seen too much. Spoken of him and about him in a way that had been not at all false, and all the more terrifying for it.

  And for the first time, Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, who never felt anything, felt something, something he’d believed himself too jaded to feel or know—shame.

  No doubt, Genevieve believed the deliberate omission of his name in the library and his maneuverings in the ballroom, nothing more than a product of who he was and more—who she was. What the lady could never realize is that Cedric did not bother to judge or condemn because, frankly, there wasn’t a more dissolute person than himself.

  How ironic that she should be judged so. Even all these years later, when he had been a consummate rake, hosting outrageously wicked parties and partaking in dishonorable wagers. How ironic and… unfair. It was bloody unfair. Reprehensible behaviors were tolerated in those powerful lords, while even the hint of a rumor saw a lady ruined.

  He looked at her, seated on the fringe talking to a plump wallflower and felt like the cad he’d relished in being these years. If the lady’s intentions had been to escape notice, then he’d quite robbed her of any potential anonymity with his dance and then abandonment at the end of the set. But it was, for reasons he could not understand and reasons he did not care to examine, important that she know he’d not been making light of her.

  The earl tipped his chin. “Ah, now here comes an enticing creature.”

  Drawn back, Cedric followed Montfort’s stare to Baroness Shelley. The midnight beauty was willowy and perfectly curved in the places he enjoyed his women curved. The hard, but enticing, smile on her lips promised endless delights and, yet, as she layered her palm to his forearm, he was…unmoved.

  “Lord St. Albans, how,” she traced the tip of her tongue over her thin lips, “splendid you should at last arrive.”

  …They are too big… Genevieve’s breathlessly innocent gasp rasped around his mind.

  Montfort gave him a pointed frown and Cedric immediately thrust aside more pleasurable musings and attended the baroness.<
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  Chapter 7

  Genevieve’s luck had never been good and that ill-luck went back long before being jilted at the altar.

  But this time, it seemed she’d had a remarkable showing of good luck. They’d taken their leave of the duke’s ballroom last evening, without a single word, grumble, or grunt from Father about Genevieve’s scandalous dance with Cedric.

  “You danced with St. Albans last night.”

  Alas, she’d foolishly proven herself a remarkable optimist again.

  The three ladies seated about the breakfast table froze under the rumble of the Marquess of Ellsworth’s words.

  Genevieve picked her gaze up from the contents of her dish and looked to her balding, oft-scowling father. She finished her bite and then dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Father?” Mayhap Gillian had also danced with that respective gentleman? She stole a sideways glance at her sister, who resumed her rapt study of the kippers on her plate.

  The marquess narrowed his eyes and strode over to the head of the table. He motioned to a servant who rushed forward with his usual morning fare.

  “St. Albans,” he repeated, his tone harsh. If he was livid about her waltz with Cedric, what would he say about their chance meeting and talks of friendship, no less? “You were instructed not to dance.”

  “I had no choice,” she said through tight lips.

  “She really didn’t, Father,” Gillian piped in. She gave her an encouraging smile. “He was quite adamant that she partner him.”

  At her sister’s attempt at a helpful response, Genevieve winced. She knew Gillian meant to be helpful. She really did and she loved her for that…

  “Of course he did,” he boomed.

  Fury melded with shame and set her cheeks ablaze. “I could not very well say no,” she bit out. “What a scandal that would be.” Genevieve looked to her mother; her cheeks waxen, the marchioness wetted her lips. The woman, with her seeming inability to smile and her tendency to scowl at members she’d deemed beneath her notice, was undaunted by all—except her husband.