A Rake's Midnight Kiss (47 page)

“Will you say yes if I kiss you?”

“I certainly won’t if you don’t kiss me.”

He sighed. “You’re impossible.”

With his free hand, he tipped her chin up. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Immediate heat bloomed and she melted against him, kissing him back with all the love in her heart. By the time he paused for breath, she felt off-kilter and misty-eyed and ready to waltz around the room singing.

Slowly she opened her eyes and stared up at Richard. He looked as if that kiss had flung him into infinity too. Good.

Another smile curled her lips and she stroked his cheek. “Richard, I love you with all my heart. Of course I’ll marry you.”

London, April 1828

I
shouldn’t be here.”

Genevieve stopped studying the magnificent Turner over the alabaster mantelpiece and eyed her husband with loving impatience. “Of course you should.”

Richard swung into another turn, pacing toward the end of the gracious drawing room decorated in the modish rococo revival style. It said something for the changes Genevieve had undergone since becoming Lady Harmsworth six months ago that she knew what was fashionable and what wasn’t. One result of marrying an arbiter of elegance.

“This can serve no purpose.”

“Then we’ll pay our respects and leave,” she said calmly.

He usually wasn’t skittish, but she’d long ago realized that belying his casual manner, when he cared, he cared to the depths of his being. He cared about his friends. He cared
about his wife, thank goodness. And much as he loathed admitting it, he cared about his mother.

The woman who had invited them to her Mayfair house this afternoon.

Genevieve had been surprised when Richard wrote to Augusta, the Dowager Lady Harmsworth, to inform her of his marriage. A week after he’d proposed, she and Richard had wed at Little Derrick by special license. Dr. Barrett had returned from Oxford to perform the ceremony.

The church had been packed with well-wishers. Sedgemoor and his sister Lydia with her husband. The Hillbrooks. The villagers, including George. Her aunt, who told everyone that she’d promoted the match from the first. Aunt Lucy now lived at Polliton Place in Norfolk, Richard’s family seat, where she flirted like a giddy girl with a handsome local squire.

That morning in Little Derrick had been Genevieve’s last cordial encounter with her father. Once her article appeared and she’d given the first of several well-received lectures, his pique had been boundless. He’d never forgive her for breaking away, even as he basked in his new status as a baronet’s father-in-law. Since the wedding, her father had renounced parish duties to accept a place at his old college.

Genevieve’s article had created a flurry in academic circles and had led to numerous invitations to investigate heirlooms of doubtful provenance. She’d been right to fear some backlash as the Harmsworth name again stirred talk. But she’d soon realized that Richard hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed he didn’t care a fig for society’s approval. The malice had quickly faded when it became clear to the world that the bastard baronet and his eccentric wife were beyond the old scandal’s reach.

Genevieve and Richard had spent their first six months of marriage traveling. A honeymoon in Italy became a tour of
medieval sites in Spain and France. So magical to see places she’d read about all her life. Even more magical to see them in the company of the man she loved.

She’d wondered whether her husband’s lukewarm interest in the Middle Ages would survive imprisonment in the crypt. But he’d escorted her with good grace. When she’d quizzed him on his tolerance, he’d swept her into bed, then pointed out that when she was happy, she was amenable to making him happy. Scholarship hadn’t fully occupied their time, she smiled to recall.

“You’re laughing at me.”

Heat tinged her cheeks. “I was thinking about that inn above Roncesvalles.”

He ceased pacing and regarded her with sudden interest. “Were you indeed, you saucy wench?”

“The painting reminds me of the landscape.” Which was a complete lie, although now she checked the canvas, the rugged scenery conveyed a hint of the Pyrenees.

“I’m sure.” He prowled toward her, his expression intent.

Dear Lord. “Richard, you can’t tumble me here. Your mother may come in any moment.”

“To Hades with my mother.” He slid his arms around her waist. “I want to kiss my wife.”

“A laudable ambition, my son.”

Genevieve gasped with embarrassment and struggled to pull free. Richard tensed, but didn’t release her. Instead he turned slightly, like a step in a waltz, and stared over Genevieve’s head at the woman in the doorway. “I’m glad you think so, Mother.”

He sounded like the supercilious rake who had provoked Genevieve’s dislike at the vicarage. But the Dowager Lady Harmsworth couldn’t see how his hands tightened to bruising around Genevieve’s hips or hear the hitch in his breath.

“Richard, let me go,” Genevieve whispered urgently, pushing at his shoulders. Her face was on fire. This wasn’t how she wanted to meet her mother-in-law. She’d told Richard he should see his mother alone, the first time he called on her in sixteen years. But he’d insisted upon Genevieve’s presence and she, recognizing vulnerability beneath his stubbornness, had agreed.

Now she wasn’t certain she’d made the right decision.

To her relief, Richard’s grip eased and she extricated herself, smoothing the skirt on her dashing teal dress. She retreated a few steps, then faced the woman whose actions had exerted such baleful influence over her husband’s life.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Beauty certainly, and beauty there was. Augusta Harmsworth must be in her fifties, but her bone structure and slender figure made her a striking woman. What surprised Genevieve was that she didn’t look like her son. Where Richard was all golden fairness, Augusta was dark. Raven hair, arching black brows, eyes that seemed at this distance as dark as night.

Genevieve knew better than to expect maternal warmth. After all, Augusta had avoided her son as far as possible since he’d started university. But there was a wariness about this woman that made Genevieve hesitate before speaking. She glanced at Richard standing motionless beside her. While he didn’t share his mother’s features, something in his set expression echoed Augusta’s.

Augusta swept in with a commanding manner that reminded Genevieve how this woman had dazzled countless foreign courts. In louche Continental circles, the Harmsworth scandal had added piquancy to her presence. She wore an azure silk gown that must have come from Paris. Richard had inherited his instinct for style from his mother.

“Pray, don’t let my arrival forestall your plans,” Augusta said coolly.

Richard took Genevieve’s gloved hand and led her to the sofa. “My wife is still a little shy, madam.”

Genevieve stifled the urge to kick him. When she’d agreed to this, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might become a bone for the two formidable Harmsworths to quarrel over.

Lady Augusta approached and sank into the chair opposite the sofa with a grace that made Genevieve green with envy. Since marrying Richard, she’d learned a lot. These days, she made a fair show of navigating society. But never would she manage such poise. Particularly in a meeting that must be difficult for anyone with liquid thicker than iced water in her veins. For all Augusta’s unruffled façade, something about the line of her shoulders indicated turbulent emotion constrained by an iron will.

“Thank you for telling me about your wedding,” Augusta said.

Richard leaned against the mantelpiece with a nonchalance that didn’t convince Genevieve. “It seemed appropriate.”

Augusta arched her eyebrows but didn’t respond. Instead she turned to Genevieve. “My son has forgotten that it’s appropriate to make introductions. I, my dear, am your notorious mother-in-law. And you are my son’s distinguished wife. I hear you’re the toast of academia. I attended your lecture at the Royal Society. Very impressive.”

Genevieve saw Richard start with surprise. She was surprised herself. And too concerned about her husband’s reactions to this meeting to feel particularly flattered.

“I didn’t see you,” he said.

A faint smile curved Augusta’s lips. “I made sure that you didn’t.” She turned back to Genevieve. “Good for you, showing
the men up at their own game. And soon you’ll be consulting at the British Museum.”

Richard stared at his mother as though she’d sprouted a tail and wings. Augusta must have lofty connections. The British Museum offer had only come yesterday.

“We’re in early stages of negotiations, my lady,” Genevieve said calmly, although her hand closed nervously around the Harmsworth Jewel which hung around her neck.

Richard had set the relic into a pendant and presented it to her as a wedding gift. She always wore it as a badge of his love and all they’d endured to achieve happiness. To her amazement, a craze for jewelry in the medieval style had arisen as a result. Who would have thought a bookish country mouse like her could set a fashion?

“I believe they will have a happy outcome.” Lady Augusta’s smile remained. Cool, contained, but not, thank goodness, hostile. She surveyed Richard. “I congratulate you on choosing such a clever wife. I must admit it was unexpected—I imagined you’d marry some brainless chit who would bore you silly within a week.”

Richard looked astonished, as well he might. It became clear that while the Dowager Lady Harmsworth hadn’t maintained communication with her son, she’d kept a close eye on his activities. He shifted to stand behind Genevieve and placed one hand on her shoulder, curling his fingers over the skin between her neck and gown. Silently she willed her strength into him. “Once I met Genevieve, I couldn’t marry anyone else.”

He made no attempt to mask his sincerity. For a long moment, his mother studied him. Her smile became more natural. “I’m glad you found each other. There’s nothing more fatal than an unhappy marriage.”

Before Richard could respond to that provocative statement, the door behind Augusta opened and a team of
footmen set out tea. Genevieve’s hand crept up to hold Richard’s. Once she’d have taken his self-assurance at face value, but not now. Beneath his serene exterior, this meeting stirred emotions that had tormented him since childhood. Behind her, he vibrated with tension.

Once they were alone, Augusta didn’t pour the tea. The delicate sandwiches and cakes remained untouched.

Augusta’s finely carved jaw set into a determined line that reminded Genevieve of her husband. The woman glared at Richard in exasperation. “Why don’t you ask me? You know that’s why you’re here.”

Richard’s hand tightened around Genevieve’s, but his voice remained steady. “You’ve never answered before.”

Through a bristling pause, Augusta studied her son as if she saw past the gorgeous shell to the unhappiness within. Genevieve knew that the joy he’d found in marriage had healed many of his wounds, but while his father’s identity remained a mystery, one last wound remained.

“You weren’t ready to hear before.” Another pause. “Now when I see you with a woman you love, I wonder if you’ve changed.”

“The fact that I’m here indicates that I’ve changed,” he bit out.

“Richard, ask me.” It sounded like a plea, if such an imperious creature could lower herself to begging.

Genevieve gripped his hand. Without looking at him, she sensed his turmoil. He inhaled unsteadily before he spoke. “Very well. Will you tell me about my father?”

For a moment, Genevieve wondered whether Augusta meant to refuse. She had a horrible premonition that this was a spiteful game. Then Augusta lifted a golden locket over her head and extended the necklace toward her son. “This man is your father, Richard.”

Genevieve squeezed Richard’s hand in reassurance, then released him so that he could move around the sofa toward his mother. “What is his name?”

“Major Thomas Fraser.”

Richard’s mother no longer looked quite so composed. Her lips were compressed and lines that Genevieve hadn’t noticed before appeared around her eyes. Her barely concealed agitation made Genevieve warm toward her. She wasn’t quite the chill, distant harpy Richard had painted.

Richard accepted the locket and spent a few moments opening it, his hands shook so badly. Genevieve bit back the urge to go to him. This wasn’t about her, much as she loved him. This was something he needed to resolve with his mother. Although, by heaven, if Augusta hurt him, Genevieve would stab her with a cake fork.