The Lure of a Rake (6 page)

“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 fiddled 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?

C
edric,
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 spirited 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.

Pity.

“I know enough,” she murmured, more to herself as she skimmed her palm over a nearby rose-inlaid table.

“Oh?” he drawled.

The lady froze mid-movement, glanced about, and then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s something of a rake, you know.”

He’d spent years reveling in that very role. If this lady knew the extent of the wickedness he’d been rightfully accused of through the years, she’d have torn out of the room, sore feet be damned. “Actually I do know,” he said dryly.

“Not that I know personally,” she spoke quickly, a red blush staining her enchanting, heart-shaped face.

“Ah,” he said stretching out that single syllable. “The gossip columns.” His name had been quite bandied about those rubbish pages. Where most information contained on those sheets was, no doubt, at worst, lies, and, at best, exaggerations, every scandalous tidbit printed about him had been shockingly accurate.

Genevieve With-No-Surname picked up a nearby porcelain shepherdess. She turned the piece over in her hands, eying it contemplatively. “I have it on the words of someone I trust greatly.” She set the piece down and quickly lifted her head. “Not that I would form judgments on a person based on another’s opinions.”

She should. To not do so would be folly that saw her prey to an even more caddish lord than himself. If such a man existed. Although he’d made it a habit of avoiding those pinch-mouthed, proper companions over the years, something about this rigid lady in her gray muslin skirts and her tendency to ramble held him enthralled. Cedric inclined his head. “What else do you know of our distinguished host?” He was suddenly eager to know just what this innocent slip had uncovered.

She opened her mouth and then closed it. She opened it again. “It is in bad form to speak ill of one’s host.”

Speak ill of? “Now you have me intrigued.” He favored her with a wink and dropped his voice in a like whisper. “Then, it is his father who is the host.”

A frown tipped her lips down in the corners. That subtle movement plumped the flesh of her lower lip. He narrowed his eyes. Well, for her rigid, unassuming appearance, there was nothing proper about that pouty mouth. A surge of lust ran through him as he imagined the wicked delights and pleasures to be found with—

“It is in bad form to speak ill of anyone,” she said chidingly, dousing his ardor with the solemnity there.

He blinked. “Oh, I am sure the marquess is not a man who’d much care.”

The lady drifted closer and stopped before him. “I’m sure, despite the rumors, even he cares, Cedric. Even those that Society believes incapable of feeling anything, care.”

He studied her, momentarily sucked in a spell cast by the light quality of her whispered words. When they at last registered, he gave his head a shake. The lady in her innocent-spoken words revealed her naïveté and also revealed why he’d avoided those naïve ladies. Despite her whimsical belief, he
didn’t
care. He’d spent the better part of his nearly thirty years not caring: about Society’s opinion, about his father’s ducal expectations and disdain, about the mother who’d forsaken him even before her death. None of it. He’d come to live for his own pleasures and take material and physical gratification as he would.