The Lure of a Rake (23 page)

Good God, he would have traded all the property coming to him with his marriage this day to be done with the infernal wedding feast.

And it was not because the polite event was hardly his usual pleasures or pursuits, because if he was being just a bit truthful with himself, even with his miserable father at the head of the table, there had been something…rather pleasant in the laughter of his wife and the handful of other assembled guests. And in Genevieve’s subtle challenge of Montfort’s words. Except with her mention of
I Modi
, she’d only served to conjure all manner of wicked acts and positions marked in those wooden engravings and captured on forbidden pages.

Now he sat beside his very casual wife, conjuring an image of looking through that notoriously scandalous book and putting all sixteen deeds into practice with her. Ultimately, however, he wished to spirit his wife from this oppressive townhouse he’d called home for nearly twenty years, reserve her smile for himself this day, and make love to her at last.

As it was, she remained engrossed in a conversation with his sister.

His skin pricked with the sense of being watched and he pulled his gaze away from Genevieve. His father stared back, his ageless face a familiar, expressionless mask, but then he turned his lips up in a slight, mockingly triumphant grin that glinted in his hard eyes. Wordlessly, he lifted his glass in Cedric and Genevieve’s direction.

Cedric narrowed his eyes and tension rolled through him. But for the handful of curt words and furious eyes, the bastard had given little indication of his thoughts yesterday when Cedric expressed his intentions of wedding Genevieve. Sitting beside his bride, there was a perverse satisfaction in being married to one his father so disapproved of.

“Are you all right?”

His new wife’s quiet inquiry pulled his attention, jerking him back from thoughts of his coldhearted sire. Cedric transferred his glass to his other hand and claimed Genevieve’s fingers, raising them to his lips once more. “How can I not be all right when I’m wed to a minx who knows Raimondi’s work?”

A becoming blush stained her pale cheeks. “You are a shameless flirt who is a master at diverting questions, Cedric Andrew Josiah James.”

He grimaced. Did the lady miss nothing? “And you recalled that mouthful?”

She smiled. “Yes, well, it is a lot of name for any man. I’d imagine even more so for a boy.” Then, Genevieve favored him with a slow wink. “I daresay we must be more judicious for the sake of a child when selecting names for our own.”

Her words roused another flurry of wicked musings that involved guiding her naked form upon his massive four-poster bed, and laying between her legs… Until the reality of what she’d said trickled in. He yanked at his cravat. “Er…yes…” Because really, what did a gentleman who’d been clear that they’d never need worry after a child say to that?

Little silver sparkles danced in her expressive green eyes. “I am merely teasing, Cedric,” she assured patting his hand and his shoulders sagged with relief. “Your name is a splendid one, too.”

This was familiar. Pretty words and compliments he could handle. Not the serious talks of babes and anything that grounded them in the permanency he’d spent the better part of his life avoiding. “Thank you Genevieve Grace Falcot.” Their names went perfectly together; melded as though they’d been meant to be united. Inwardly cringing, he shoved aside such blasted romantic musings. What had she done to him that he didn’t even recognize himself in a mere week of knowing her?

She waggled her eyebrows. “Well, I do say my mastery of your list is more commendable than the mere two you had to recall.”

“You could have hundreds of them and I’d have recalled them all,” he said quietly, the words coming from a place of truth and sincerity that terrified the hell out of him.

Her lips parted as all her amusement faded, replaced with a shocked solemnity that only ratcheted up his level of panic. Then she quickly closed her mouth and gave him a slight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “As I said, Cedric, you are a rake who possesses a skill with words The Bard himself would have envied you for.”

She believed his words spoken as nothing more than flirtatious repartee. She was right to that opinion and he’d not bother to correct her with the truth.

Sipping from his glass of wine, unnerved by his wife’s potent hold over him, Cedric fixed on the passing minutes, until the last bloody course was at last cleared away.

In short order, the assembled guests filed from the breakfast room. At his side, his wife stole intermittent glances up at him. Why could he not dredge forth the practiced charm? They reached the foyer and servants rushed over with their cloaks. A young footman helped Genevieve into her gray muslin garment and Cedric frowned at the gentle smile she favored the strapping man with that raised a blush on his cheeks. When had he ever cared about whom a lady reserved any or all of her attention for? Yet, the sight of his newly-minted bride charming a damned servant sent a spiral of red fury rolling inside.

“All the same, aren’t they,” his father bit out in hushed tones for Cedric’s ears. “Get me my heir before that one goes tupping your servants.”

Cedric jerked and, reflexively, he curled his hands into tight fists to keep from bloodying his sire senseless. He’d not show the bastard a hint of emotion. “Go to hell, Father,” he said cheerfully.

Genevieve threw her arms around her sister. Folding her in a tight embrace, she whispered something against the young woman’s temple. Tipping his head, he took in that exchange. The young ladies spoke in hushed whispers, exchanging the occasional, periodic nod. There was a familial affection he’d thought impossible. For the first five years of his life, he’d known that warmth from his mother, but those moments had been so very fleeting they may as well have been imagined. He looked to his own sister, smiling alongside his equally smiling brother-in-law, the Marquess of Grafton; two people who, even given their connection, may as well have been strangers.

He’d attended their own wedding as more a formal guest, who just by a matter of chance happened to share the blood of the bride. And he’d not imagined it could be any other way among family.

Catching his gaze, the Marquess of Grafton came forward with a hand outstretched. “St. Albans.” Gone was all hint of the earlier warmth the man had shown Clarisse. In its place was a frosty reserve.

Ah, so the man had, at some point, gleaned his wife’s brother was, in fact, a shameful rotter. “Grafton,” he returned, accepting the congratulatory handshake and then he let his arm fall to his side. Suddenly even more eager to be rid of the lot of them and the niggling of caring about their ill-opinion of him, he held his elbow out to Genevieve making her goodbyes to Clarisse. “My lady. Shall we?”

His wife said one more thing to Cedric’s sister and then came over, took his arm, and let him usher her outside the walls of the oppressive townhouse he’d spent the better part of his life trying to be free of.

He sucked in a clearing breath of the spring air.

“It is awful, is it not?” Genevieve murmured, as they made their way to his waiting carriage.

Cedric raised his brow. “Awful?”

“The air,” she said by way of explanation.

Motioning away the waiting servant, Cedric easily handed his wife inside the black barouche. “I rather fancy breathing. The whole allowing a person to live, business.”

She laughed. “Oh, hush.” His wife settled her lithe frame in the red upholstered squabs. “I referred to the staleness of it.”

He paused. “Is it stale?” Cedric cast a glance back out the open door at the hazy blue skies. He spent so little time in the country, but a handful of weeks each year in the hunting season, that he’d never really given it a note. His recent winnings last year of the country manor and properties had been in such rubbish shape, he’d been more fixed on the challenge of attempting to resurrect the basic heap of stone. The steward he’d selected oversaw the growing prosperity of that, allowing Cedric to return to London. He claimed the seat opposite his wife.

Genevieve widened her eyes to large green pools. “Never tell me you’ve never noticed the difference between country air and London air?” Shock underscored her words. “Cedric Andrew,” she said, when he remained silent.

The servant closed the door behind them. “Then I shan’t tell you.”

“It is impossible to not note it,” she said sounding both befuddled and beleaguered that her husband hadn’t noted the same drastic difference. “It smells…” She wrinkled her mouth in a preciously endearing manner. “Cleaner and pure. And the stars…”

His wife, the gardener and artist, preferred the country. That truth was reflected in the faraway distance of her gaze. Cedric reached over and scooped her up, startling a squeak from her as he settled her on his lap. “I will just have to teach you how splendid London is,” he whispered against her lips and then he took her mouth under his in a hard kiss.

A breathless sigh escaped her and he slipped his tongue inside swallowing that sound of her desire. She angled her neck, allowing him greater access to her mouth. The carriage lurched forward, jolting them apart. Her cheeks flushed and her chest rising and falling with the evidence of her breathless desire, Genevieve captured his face between her delicate palms. “And I intend to show you all you’ve missed these years, Cedric Andrew.”

And because he did not know what to do with the depth of emotion in her eyes and promise that belied the marriage of convenience they’d both agreed to, Cedric took her lips once more in a kiss, so that all he could focus on was this desperate hunger for Genevieve Grace and not the sea of meaningful questions he did not care to explore.

S
he’d not seen her husband since they’d entered his townhouse, nay,
their
townhouse. Genevieve found the gilt clock atop the fireplace mantel where a small fire burned, six hours ago.

It had been six hours since they’d arrived, greeted by the line of assembled servants.

The housekeeper Mrs. Fennyworth, had shown her abovestairs…where she had been waiting ever since. Surely, her husband had not left her on her wedding night. Surely, he’d not sought out his clubs or…a dark, ugly, niggling thought slid in…visited someone else.

…I am a rake…

“Are you sure you are not hungry, my lady?” Delores asked.

Looking up quickly from the sketchpad on her lap, Genevieve shook her head. “No, I am quite well. You may leave the tray.” With the knots churning her belly, the last thing she cared for was food. “That is all, Delores,” she said softly. “You may go.”

The young lady nodded and then quickly hurried across the room. She pulled the door open and gasped. “Oh, excuse me, my lord.”

Genevieve whipped her gaze to the entrance and her fingers curled tight on the book in her hands as Cedric stepped aside, allowing the maid to make a hasty retreat. Her heart tripped a beat at the sight of him. Absent of his jacket and attired in nothing but his white shirtsleeves, breeches and boots, he closed the door and leaned against it. With a cool elegance, he propped the sole of his boot against the wood panel. Her mouth went dry. No gentleman had a right to such sophisticated ease. She hopped up from the Louis XV red, giltwood Duchesse and her sketchpad tumbled forgotten to the floor.

By the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips, he’d noted her scrutiny. “Genevieve,” he greeted on a satiny whisper.

Nervousness tripped inside her belly. “C-Cedric,” she fiddled with the charcoal in her fingers, belatedly realizing the dark mess she’d made of her already slightly stained fingers.

“You did not take an evening meal,” he observed, his gaze going to the untouched silver tray that had arrived several hours ago.

She’d spent so much time worrying he’d not come, that she’d not given due attention to nervousness of what it would mean when he
did
arrive. “No,” she conceded, unable to the keep the disappointment from her words. No bride cared to take her first meal as a wedded woman in her chambers, alone.

Cedric pushed away from the door and stalked over with long, sleek steps, then came to a stop. His gaze fell downward and she appreciated the thick luxuriance of his golden hair. Her fingers twitched. Surely a wife was permitted the luxury of running her fingers through those strands when she wished? And…

She registered his still otherwise diverted attention and she belatedly followed his stare.
Drat
. His partially completed likeness stared back at her. Embarrassment curled her toes into the thin Aubusson carpet.

Wordlessly, he sank to his haunches and scooped up the book. She dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from ripping that book from his hand. That book which had served as a window into her thoughts, dreams, and actions, for the past four, nearly five years. He remained crouched at her feet and she braced for that gentle teasing and mischievous smile on his perfect lips. Instead, he flipped through the pages. The crackle of the thick sheets turning loud as a shot in the quiet room. He lingered on the gardens she’d tended in her grandfather’s Kent property.

“They are my grandfather’s,” she said into the silence, needing to fill that thick void.

Cedric glanced up a moment. “You miss it.” There was faint surprise in those words which were more statement than anything else.

“I do,” she replied, anyway. She reclaimed her spot on the chaise. “I cried as though I might break when my parents sent me to him. I loved London.” Not unlike Cedric himself still did. “And I hated Kent from the moment I arrived at his country property.” The memory trickled in of those earliest days. The fear and anxiousness around the heavily wrinkled, gruff, ancient earl who growled more than he spoke. Until he’d ordered her outside and so desperate to be free of those growls, she’d looked at the world anew. “What I wouldn’t give to be back in the country,” she said softly. “While I was there,” she motioned to the butterflies etched in black. “I noticed all those things I previously missed in my family’s brief trips to Father’s country seat.”