The Lure of a Rake (22 page)

“You look surprised to see me,” Cedric said quietly, bringing her focus back to him. He brushed his knuckles briefly along her jaw. “Did you believe I’d not come?”

“I-I thought it was possible you might not.” Uncaring of the witnesses at their back, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “You
are
late,” she whispered. “And I thought you realized you’d made a mistake.”

He made a tsking sound. “I’m not so great a fool that I’d dare let you go, Genevieve.” Her heart beat an erratic rhythm, robbing her of words. How easily Terrance had let her go and in the most public, horrendous way, and for nothing more than a fatter purse. And this man before her spoke of her as though she was a cherished gift to be held close. “Though, I confess, I would certainly benefit from additional lessons on punctuality.” He lowered his lips close to her ear. “That is, if you would be willing to provide them.” Unrepentant rakes such as Cedric could never, would never, be schooled. They would march to the proverbial beat of their own drum.

A smile quivered on her lips. “Given your less than punctual arrival at Lady Erroll’s and your own wedding, I’d make you a rubbish instructor.”

Cedric tossed his head back and laughed and her breath hitched. With the early afternoon sun glinting off his honey-blond hair, he had the look of a fallen angel, banished forever for tempting the mere mortals around him. He proffered his elbow. “Shall we?”

Without hesitation, Genevieve placed her fingertips on his sleeve and, while they made their way over to the small collection of familial guests gathered for their hastily thrown together ceremony, a sense of absolute rightness filled her and, with it, went all the doubts about his suitability or the risks that went in wedding a rumored rake. For any gentleman who coordinated their wedding in this special spot, offered more than just a formal arrangement. She was going to be all right.

Nay, they were going to be all right.

They took their place before the vicar and the man of indiscriminate years opened his book. “Shall we begin?” The wind pulled at the pages of his leather tome. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”

B
etween the Duke of Ravenscourt’s scowl and Genevieve’s own parents’ tendency for stilted, always proper discourse, the wedding feast would have been a dismal affair. That is, if it weren’t for Gillian and Cedric’s friend, Lord Montfort.

Through the cheer of her ever joyous sister and the Earl of Montfort, the table was filled with chatter, laughter, and discourse, easily supplied by her garrulous sister.

She listened as Lord Montfort regaled the table with a tale of Cedric’s antics at Eton. At her side, Cedric’s unrestrained, unapologetic laughter filtered about her. How easy he was in all Social situations. At one time, she, too, had been that way. She’d delighted in
ton
events and been a hopeless flirt, which hadn’t worked in her favor when the gossip came to light years earlier. Instead, it had only fueled the whispers circulated. As such, and through the exile imposed by her parents, Genevieve had learned to say little. Instead, she’d become something of an observer. It was why she was now more comfortable observing her husband.

She fiddled with the handle of her fork.

Her husband.

Her husband.

Her
husband.

Her
husband
.

She rolled those words through her mind, in very many variations; words she’d thought would never be linked with her name, for the scandal that had belonged to her. In the dreams she’d allowed herself of having a family, she’d not ever contemplated wedding a notorious rake. Though, in fairness, she’d never really considered marrying
anyone
after Terrance’s betrayal. Now, she would have so much of what she’d thought beyond her reach.

She’d just not have everything she’d always dreamed of.

Unbidden, her gaze went to Cedric’s brother-in-law seated across from his wife. As another silent, special exchange passed between that pair, Genevieve hated herself for envying them that unadulterated love. Using the tip of her fork, she shoved her largely untouched eggs about her plate and stole another look at her husband.

What would their marriage be like? He’d spoken to her of living a life of her pleasures; a life that included artwork and gardening, and no infernal balls or soirees, but she’d been so enrapt in his knowledge of her interests and the freedom he’d presented, that she’d not allowed her mind to consider what
they
would look like—together.

Mayhap I did not consider it because I didn’t truly wish to know…

Her throat constricted under the weighted truth—she wanted to matter to him. Surely, with his romantic gesture in selecting Kensington Gardens, surely there was more there. Even as he’d given no indication that he anything more than
liked
her. With trembling fingers, Genevieve set her fork down as terror stuck in her chest.

Cedric settled his larger hand over hers. She started. “You’ve not touched a bite,” he whispered close to her ear and delicious shivers fanned out at the point of contact. “Lady St. Albans.”

She started. Lady St. Albans. There was something foreign and at the same time…terrifyingly
right
in being linked to this man. “I find I am not hungry,” she conceded.

He tipped his head to where the duke sat, frowning at the head of the table. “Mayhap you’d care for the kippers, then?” he asked, just as the icy lord placed one of those oiled fish in his mouth.

Cedric rang a laugh from her lips and there was something so very freeing in being permitted that unrestrained expression without recrimination or chiding from her strait-laced parents.

From his seat opposite her, Lord Montfort called out, interrupting her teasing exchange with Cedric. “I confess,” he said loudly, as all the other guests fell quiet. “I am intrigued by the woman who has brought the notorious St. Albans up to scratch.”

Necessity
. With the collection of stares trained on her, she could hardly provide that unromantic, if very true, reality. She gave him a wry smile. “There is hardly anything intriguing left about me, my lord. I daresay I’m well known by most.”

Her mother’s horrified gasp echoed from the room.

Cedric captured Genevieve’s fingers and twining them with his, he raised their joined hands to his mouth. “My wife is being modest.” Actually her words had been anything but modest. It was, however, nigh impossible to point out such a fact when he caressed the inseam of her wrist with his lips in that heady, distracting way. “It was our mutual love of grand libraries,” he said, directing his words at her.

Her throat worked as he took her down a not-too-distant path of his hand on her foot in the duke’s library.

The earl erupted into a fit of hilarity. His shoulders shook with the force of his laughter. “St. Albans and books,” he said during his bout of amusement. “Next, you’ll tell me the gentleman prefers art and poetry.”

How was it possible for a man who’d known Cedric since he’d been a boy to know even less than she did about the gentleman? She frowned and opened her mouth to disabuse him of his erroneous assumption about her husband, but Cedric lightly squeezed her fingers. Genevieve looked up questioningly, but he gave a slight shake. She frowned. “Do you find a problem with artwork and literature, my lord?” she put to the earl, refusing to let the matter rest.

The gentleman settled his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Not
all
artwork and literature,” he said on a whisper infused with a wicked edge.

“Ah.” She continued, not missing a proverbial beat. “Then you must surely be a devotee of
I Modi
by Raimondi?”

The rakish earl closed his mouth and opened it, and then promptly closed it. A slow, approving smile turned his lips.

“I do not understand,” her mother looked from her daughter to Lord Montfort. “What is
I Modi
?”

And apparently, even a sinner was capable of embarrassment for the earl flushed. “I am unfamiliar with that artist.” The roguish glimmer in his eyes bespoke the lie there as he promptly redirected the discourse. “I must know Lady St. Albans, what was it that had you select Kensington Gardens for your nuptials.”

Her selection? She furrowed her brow. “My lord, I don’t—?”

Cedric grabbed his glass of wine and held it aloft. “A toast,” he called out quickly. “To my wife, the devotee of art who, with her beauty, can rival any masterpiece.” His words were meant to distract. That much was clear by his hasty interruption and the mottled flush marring his cheeks. Yet, his toast combined with the heated look he trained on her, momentarily obliterated the confusion stirred by Lord Montfort’s incorrect assumption.

A brief moment later, he was drawn into a discussion with the earl. Genevieve sat there, studying her husband as he spoke: his practiced grin, his effortless words, and the ease with which he charmed a smile from even her mother. Compliments from him slid off his tongue with an ease a bard would have been hard-pressed to not admire. She picked up her drink and took a sip of water. But what was real where Cedric was concerned? Rather, what was real where
she
was concerned with her husband?

“I have not properly welcomed you to the family.” The blonde beauty at her side jerked her attention sideways. With the delicate planes of her face and piercing eyes, she possessed a regal beauty that painters would vie to capture on canvas. For that beauty, however, there was a wide smile that reached her eyes. “So please, allow me to rectify that.” She held out her fingers. “Welcome.”

Genevieve quickly took her hand. “Thank you, my lady.”

The marchioness gave her a gentle look. “Please, we are sisters, you must call me Cara.”

Sisters. Yet, she knew nothing of this woman who shared Cedric’s blood. Were they close? Had he been the protective sort of brother? With each piece she discovered about him, there was a need to know more about who he truly was. Unbidden, she again slid her gaze over to her husband who now conversed with Gillian. Whatever he’d said roused a snorting laugh that earned a frown from her mother; raising the gentleman a notch in Genevieve’s estimation.

“What was he like?” she asked quietly, looking to her new sister-in-law.

The young woman froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. She hesitated and then lowered the silver utensil to her plate. “What was he like?” she murmured. Except, the way she worried her lower lip and skirted Genevieve’s question spoke more than any word could.

“As a boy?” she prodded.

“I…” Lady Cara briefly settled her gaze on her brother. “I do not know. Cedric was taken under my father’s wing early on and schooled in the ways of a future duke.” The faintest smile; a sad smile hovered on her lips. “A duke does not have much need of a daughter.”

Genevieve cast a pointed look in her own father’s direction. “Neither does a marquess,” she said gently.

They shared a slight smile borne of understanding; a kindred connection that came from two women who’d really served no worthy purpose beyond the match they might make. As she took in the hard, emotionless set to the duke’s face, Genevieve’s heart tugged. Where her father’s disinterest had afforded her a world of make believe, pretend, and the friendship of her sister, what must it have been like for Cedric? What must it have been like for a boy to grow up under that coldness?

“There are…
no
stories you might share of him?” she asked tentatively, hating that she craved those pieces like cherished treasures.

“We are not close,” Lady Cara said with a directness she appreciated but that brought a frown to Genevieve’s lips.

Are. Not were. Having been best friends with Gillian until that relationship had been severed with her removal, it was anathema to all she knew about siblings to expect Lady Cara didn’t know something of her brother.

“You see, my brother has long lived for h-h…” she stumbled over her words and paused, appearing to search for appropriate words. “Himself,” she settled for.

The muscles of her belly clenched. Even as the charming rogue with an ever-present grin, the gentleman who’d met her in the gardens and spoken of art, or chased away her sadness with a game of short-answers, that was not a man who cared only for himself.

Lady Cara searched her face. “But,” she put forward tentatively. “I saw him in the gardens this morn and beside you even now,” she cast her gaze briefly in her brother’s direction. “And the way he is with you is not how he is or has been ever with anyone.”

Emotion swelled in her heart. The romantic Lady Cara who wore her love for the gentleman she was married to would see stars amidst dust. “Oh,” she said softly. “There is nothing there.” Not on Cedric’s part. At least nothing that moved beyond the practical. Genevieve fiddled with the stem of her crystal glass.

“You do not care for him, then?” Lady Cara asked, surprise flaring in her eyes.

Stealing a quick look to be sure Cedric remained engrossed in discussion with Gillian and Lord Montfort, Genevieve spoke in hushed tones. “You misunderstand me.” She cared for him. More than was practical or sensible and more than could ever make sense for their brief acquaintance. “I do care for him. He, however.” Her lips pulled involuntarily. It would be unfair to allow his sister to believe Cedric had given her anything different than what he’d pledged.

“However?” Lady Cara gently encouraged.

“Ours is a marriage of convenience,” she settled for lamely. Even as the words slipped from her, she winced. How mercenary that admission painted her.

The other young lady said nothing for a long moment. “Perhaps,” she said, a pensive glimmer in her cautious eyes. “But there is more. I see it in you and I see it in my brother.” She leaned close. “When I’ve never seen
any
emotion from him, ever.”

The Marquess of Grafton called his wife’s attention and Genevieve was left with her thoughts and Lady Cara’s fanciful words.

*