The Lure of a Rake (20 page)

Delores hesitated and then dropped a curtsy, leaving them alone once more.

With the young woman gone, silence fell, punctuated by the ticking clock atop the mantel. “I…I…” Did not know what to say. Unnerved by Cedric’s cool in the face of his offer, Genevieve pushed to her feet and hurried over to the tray. Her gaze caught the couple painted upon the porcelain teapot. The suitor in knee breeches knelt beside his lady in ruffled skirts. She trailed her fingertip over the pair. Was that moment one where the couple had spoken of necessity and needs, or were there whispered words of love?

Cedric settled his hands on her shoulders and she started, shooting a startled glance back at him. How did one of his magnificent size and power move with such a stealthy grace? When he spoke, he revealed an unerringly accurate take on her silent musings. “What I propose is surely not the romantic hopes you once carried.” Once carried. He, too, erroneously assumed that the scandalous Farendale girl had safely buried her hope of love. He angled her around to face him. “You will have whatever your heart desires.” Everything, except love. “You may garden and sketch and paint until your fingers are no longer capable of movement,” he promised.

Unable to meet his piercing blue stare, she looked past his shoulder to the mantel. “Why do you require a wife?” She cocked her head. “Are you a fortune-hunter?” If so, with her modest dowry, there was any number of more suitable brides for him.

A bark of laughter burst from his firm lips. “God, no.” His broad shoulders shook with amusement, but then he grimaced. “Not necessarily.”

“So you
are
in need of a fortune?” she asked slowly, trying to untangle his conflicting words.

“May I be blunt?”

She inclined her head. “Please.” Given his offer, she rather thought there was only ground for bluntness.

“I am a rake.”
Am
. Not was. Genevieve curled her toes into the soles of her slippers so tightly, her arches ached. Of course she well knew his reputation, by the whispers and warnings from her sister and mother, and even from the gentleman’s admission, himself. Still, hearing it, she hated the truth, anyway, even more now. “I was…” He paused and tapped his fingertips along his thigh in an endearing way she’d come to know after their handful of meetings that bespoke his hesitancy. “Unwise with the funds left me by my mother,” he said at last.

Hearing him lay that particular piece before her, made him flawed in ways she did not wish him to be. A man who ran through his inheritance and carried a flask of brandy to drink at the early morning hour was not who she wanted Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, to be. She preferred the gentleman who spoke of art and drove back her sadness with his smile. “And are you still unwise with your funds?”

Cedric rested his hip on the edge of the sofa. “I still wager, but I am not the same reckless man I was in my youth who’d gamble away a fortune.”

In his youth. She studied the chiseled planes of his rugged cheeks. There was no hint of boy in the Marquess of St. Albans and, yet, with that statement, he just reminded her of how little she knew of him. “I do not even know your age.” And yet, he’d have her marry him. Then, would their auspicious beginning be really all that different than the formal arrangements entered into every day between other lords and ladies?

“I’m nearly thirty.” He smiled wryly. “What say you? Thirty years younger than Tremaine?”

She snorted. “At the very least.”

Silence fell between them once more. As the quiet stretched on, she reflected on Cedric’s glib way with words. He had an innate ability to muddle a lady’s senses so that she focused on his charming jests and not the reservations blaring around her mind. Then, wasn’t that the power of a rake?

Which only left her with the question…did she want to spend her days married to a man who, by his own admissions and actions, was one who wagered and drank spirits, and—

“You are quiet,” he observed, drumming those long digits still.

Genevieve turned her palms up. “I…do not know what to say,” she conceded, letting her hands fall to her side.

He flashed one of those wicked half-grins that wrought havoc on her senses. “Then say yes,” he encouraged, in a satiny smooth voice that so enticed, Satan himself would have envied the skill.

“In marrying, I will be turning my funds, my children, my very happiness over to a man.” Having witnessed the miserable state of her parents’ own union certainly gave one a suitable caution in entering into an equally failed match. Particularly after herself bearing the scars of a faithless bounder’s influence. Women were powerless. Wasn’t her father’s earlier threats proof of that? “How could I trust—?”

“I obtain unentailed lands left me with my mother’s passing. The estates are lucrative and come to me when I marry.” Ah, so the need for a wife. “Your dowry is yours,” he cut in, his earlier grin now gone, replaced by a solemnity she’d seen but on a handful of instances from him. “I’ve no need of your funds and will cede all of it over to you.”

Her mouth fell open. “What?” Gentlemen did not give control of any property or possessions to their wives. At least, that had been the worthless example set by her own father.

“Nor will you have to worry after children,” he pledged. “Or hosting balls or throwing soirees or dinner parties. Your life will be yours.” How very tempting the gift he dangled—freedom, control in a world where women were wholly lacking of such things.

Yet, she’d learned long ago to be wary of any gentleman’s intentions. “And what benefit would you gain in marrying me?” she asked, putting a question to him. A gentleman, who would one day possess the most distinguished, respected titles in the realm could have his choice of bride. Why should he choose a lady riddled with scandal, whispered about by all?

“I—”

“Like me?” she interjected, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yes, well there is that,” he said with a wink.

Was this veneer of charm a means for him to keeping anyone from delving deep under the surface to see who he truly was? She’d wager for his reputation as rake, with his disdain for Society’s whispers and lies, that there was more good than he’d ever have the world know of, inside him.

He palmed her cheek and she leaned into his strong, powerful hand. Warmth radiated from the point of his touch and sent heat spiraling through her. “You require a husband,” he said softly and she stiffened, as the blunt fact of those words doused her with the reality of what his offer truly was. “But that is not why I’d have you marry me.”

Her heart thumped hard.
He desires more than the marriage of convenience he presented…

“I would have you marry me because you should not be subjected to censure or stares.” A rush of disappointment killed that fleeting, foolish, romantic thought. “As my wife, you’ll wear whatever color gowns you wish and I’d wager it isn’t gray.” Seafoam green. “I’d wager you’d don satins in a seafoam.” She gasped. How did he know that? He continued over her shocked exclamation. “As my marchioness, you’ll be permitted to take your slippers off in the midst of Almack’s if you so wish it.” She wanted no part of that distinguished hall where ladies were subjected to the nasty sneers and whispers. “You should paint and garden and do whatever it is that brings you happiness.”

You bring me happiness
. Since her miserable return to London, the only joy she’d found had been in his presence. The truth of that held her frozen, unmoving, with his words enticing her with the dream he presented. He would offer her all that. “Ours will be a marriage of convenience?” Disappointment tugged at her and she held her breath praying he did not hear the regret steeped in her words.

“Exactly,” he said with a nod, dislodging that errant, loose curl that she ached to brush back.

What did she expect of an offer that came after just a week knowing a gentleman? “There will be no… no…” A blush burned its way from her toes up to her hair.

He folded his arms. “No…?”

“We will not be intimate, then?” And if it was possible to blush to death, by the heat burning her skin, she was moments away from going up in a fiery conflagration.

Understanding glinted in his eyes. In one smooth movement, he lowered his hands to the table at her back, framing her in his arms. “You misunderstand,” he whispered, brushing his lips to her temple and then her closed eyes and finally her lips, in a too-fleeting kiss that had her swallowing back a cry, demanding more. “I will make you my wife in name and in body,” he pledged. “It will be a true marriage.”

She wanted to grasp on to what he held out and not solely because, in wedding him, she’d be free of her father’s hold and spared a match with Lord Tremaine, or any other desperate lord who wanted a broodmare and not a wife. Cedric spoke as one who knew her interests and celebrated them. An unrepentant rogue, he’d never stifle her spirit or crush that which brought her joy. Genevieve nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said softly.

His broad shoulders went taut and the muscles rippled the black fabric of his immaculately cut jacket. “Yes?” Surprise stamped his features.

How endearing to find one so unwavering in his confidence should know indecision because of her. “Should I say no?” she teased.

“Oh, undoubtedly.” A smile formed on his lips. This smile was not the mocking, rogue’s grin, but rather an endearingly warm one that glinted in his eyes. “I am, however, happy you have not.” He released her with an alacrity that left a void at the loss of his touch. “I will speak to your father.” Of course, as a future duke he’d command a meeting with nothing more than a single word uttered.

She called out, halting his retreat. “Lord Tremaine is to arrive today.” All the panic that had weighted her chest, the cloying desperation at having no choice lifted. For Cedric had presented her one. It was full of so much more promise and joy than anything her father would have insisted she agree to.

He wheeled around and stalked back toward her like a sleek panther, setting off the butterflies that only he’d ever stirred within her. “Then I shall speak to your father right now,” he pledged and lowered his brow to hers.

Tremaine and Father had been friends since Eton and an unofficial arrangement had been reached…even as neither gentleman had inquired about what Genevieve wanted. “My father might deny your request,” she warned.

“He will not deny me.” Cedric spoke with a confidence borne of a man who’d not been denied anything in the course of his life. What must it be like to have complete command of your life? Envy pulled at her. Then, with his pledge, he’d offered her that.

So why did she selfishly want so much more? “And if he does?”

Their breath danced and melded. “Then I’ll marry you anyway,” he pledged. The resolve in his tone spoke of a man who wouldn’t be denied. Surely that came of more than a marriage of convenience.

“But what if—”

Cedric took her lips under his. Heat spiraled, as it invariably did, from his embrace. She wound her arms about his neck, anchoring him close as she met his kiss, accepting his tongue as he plunged it in her mouth and stroked hers in a primitive dance that she returned.

A shocked gasp at the front of the room brought them apart.

Her maid stood, blushing like a beet caught in the summer sun. Mortification curled Genevieve’s toes and she studiously avoided the girl’s eyes. With the maid’s devotion, Genevieve had no doubt she could rely on the girl’s silence. And there was still the truth that Cedric would speak to her father.

With the ease that could only come from a gentleman who’d been discovered so scandalously too many times before, an unrepentant Cedric sketched a bow. “My lady. I bid you farewell.” Without another word he stalked over to the door and paused at the entrance to toss an all-knowing look over his shoulder. “For now,” he promised and winked.

Genevieve touched a hand to her racing heart and stared after him. He would marry her. He would offer her everything. Everything, that was,
except
love.

And though there was no love, there would be friendship and passion. Which was a good deal more than existed within most marriages. So how, staring at the empty doorway, could she account for this knot of disappointment that pebbled in her belly?

“B
y God, never tell me the rumors are true and congratulations are in order?”

The next morning, seated at his table at the back of White’s, Cedric glanced up from his half-empty glass of brandy.

Montfort grinned and without awaiting permission, hooked his ankle around the chair opposite Cedric and pulled it out. He motioned over a servant and relieved the liveried footman of a glass. The earl cast a look about the famed, but respectable, club and grimaced. “Imagine my surprise when I received your note last evening to meet here, of all places.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Given the news on the front of
The Times
regarding your foray into respectability, however, it does make sense.”

Cedric made a crude gesture that raised a laugh from the other man. “Go to hell, Montfort.” His being at White’s had nothing to do with his amusements once married. To visit one of his scandalous gaming hells or brothels when he’d only just become betrothed would earn unwanted and unneeded gossip. And though he didn’t give a jot about what Society said of him, it clearly mattered to the lady who’d agreed to marry him. The least he could give Genevieve was freedom from gossip—for now, at least.

“I never thought I’d see the day you’d abandon your gaming hells for this bloody oppressive place,” Montfort muttered as he poured himself a glass from Cedric’s bottle. He glanced up from his task. “What is next? Attending Sunday sermons with the soon to be Marchioness of St. Albans?”

Cedric offered a wry smile. “Hardly.” He swirled the contents of his glass. “The lady was quite practical in seeing our arrangement as nothing more than a matter of convenience for the both of us. As such, I’ve little intention of changing how I live.” After more than seventeen years of debauched existence, he didn’t know any other way and given his own father was really rather incapable of anything but sinning.