The Lure of a Rake (24 page)

Cedric stared questioningly back.

“The beauty of night’s song; the birds and crickets chirping in harmony. The sky is bluer and when you lay on the grass and stare up at the sky you see nothing but an endless blue, so that you think you can stretch your fingers up and touch the heavens.”

He hooded his thick, blond lashes. She balled her hands into fists and braced for his witty repartee but, instead, he resumed his study of her book. “You are quite good,” he said, with the same matter-of-factness of an instructor speaking to a favored apprentice.

“Thank you,” she murmured. There was something so raw and exposing in having one’s work examined so.

He flipped to another page that contained his partially completed and abandoned likeness, and paused.

“I’ve not completed sketches of people,” she explained, when still he said nothing. Perhaps it had been all the years she’d spent away from people, at a time when art had been her companion. “The angles, the shadows,” she continued motioning to his image. “My proportions are disastrous.”

In one fluid movement, he shoved to his feet and claimed the spot beside her. His broad, powerful form swallowed the space of the lounge. “Here,” he murmured, rescuing the charcoal still hopelessly staining her fingers.

Her breath caught at the electrifying thrill of that too-brief contact.

Cedric flipped to an empty page in the sketchpad. He swung his muscular leg over the opposite side of the chaise, straddling it, and then he guided her between his legs.

“Wh-What are you doing?” the tremulous whisper slipped from her lips as his breath, scented with brandy and mint, filled her heady senses.

“Providing you an art lesson,” he said, his tone so calm, so very matter-of-fact, it slightly steadied her rapidly beating heart.

“Y-you are an artist?” she asked with some surprise. Pleasure blossomed in her chest; at this deeper connection shared between them. “What else do I not know about you?” And how she longed to learn every detail.

“Shh,” he whispered against her ear. “Questions later.” Bracing the open leather book in their left hands, he brought his other arm about her, enveloping her in his embrace.

Her lashes fluttered wildly. How had she failed to note, until this instant, how very erotic creating art was? Because she’d not received a lesson from Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, was why.

“When you sketch a person’s likeness,” he said softly against her ear. “You must use the negative space to check the shapes between the features.”

His quietly spoken instructions momentarily pulled her out of the eddy of desire she’d been swirling in. Genevieve cast a look over her shoulder. “I don’t—”

“You must imagine a straight line down the model’s face, directly through the pupil. From that line, you must think, where are the eyes placed in relation to it? Where is the lip set?” Placing the charcoal in her fingers, he proceeded to guide them over the page. “When you are sketching people, Genevieve, it is the details about a person that makes the portrait unique,” he murmured. “Are the lips properly full? And the lower lip slightly narrow?” The scratch of the charcoal on the page blended with her slightly rasping breaths.

How was he so unaffected? How was he able to think of art when their bodies were flush as, together, they created the work upon the page, as one?

“You do not need to overaccentuate the features, but on some subjects, this one,” he clarified, “you can slightly overemphasize the curve of a hip, the fullness of the lips…but then…some subjects are perfection and to overemphasize is a travesty.”

Through the thin slip of fabric of her nightshift, her body tingled. To keep from dissolving into a puddle of desire in his arms, she concentrated on their fingers as they danced about the page. They went on that way until their purposeful strokes transformed the empty page into… Her fingers trembled at the familiarity of her visage as it stared back.

Cedric immediately righted the charcoal in her grip and proceeded to finish the sketch. “You are perfection.”

Perfection
.

Of course, his were the words of a rake or rogue but, in this moment, with their love of art shared between them, it felt like something more and another thrill went through her at this bond. Cedric continued his mastery over the page until a familiar room materialized; lined with books and a scandalous piece of artwork, and seated at the edge of that room in her bare feet was her. From her slightly parted lips, to the glimmer of passion in her eyes, he’d expertly captured the maelstrom of emotion she’d known that day in his presence and every day since.

Their first meeting.

She registered the silence and, blinking, she looked down at his suddenly still fingers and the completed sketch he lay down in front of her.

“And that is how you create the human form, Genevieve.” He brought his mouth close to her ear and worshipped the sensitive shell with the softest kiss. Then, folding his arm about her waist, he drew her closer to him so her back was pressed against the hard wall of his chest. “
You
are perfection.” His smooth baritone washed over her as he trailed his mouth lower to the sensitive skin just behind her lobe.

Genevieve’s pulse jumped and she angled her head to better open herself to his ministrations. “I expect you have said that to any number of women,” she whispered and closed her eyes, savoring the delicious explosion of sensation buffeting her senses.

“Yes,” he confessed softly. With his large hands, he palmed her breasts through the modest fabric of her nightshift. “But this is the only time I’ve ever meant it.” Her nipples puckered at his skilled touch and she proved herself the shameless wanton she’d been accused of all these years, for she leaned into his expert caress. Not allowing her anymore words, Cedric angled her around and devoured her mouth with his.

His was the unbridled, unapologetic kiss of a man fueled by desire and there was something heady in knowing she’d moved
this
gentleman in this way. He guided her leg over the chaise so they each straddled the upholstered seat. The wickedness of her positioning rucked her nightshift high above her thighs, but Cedric would not allow her the deserved modesty. Instead, he wrapped his hands about her hips and dragged her closer to the vee of his legs. Her womanhood throbbed with a tender awareness, only heightened by the drag of the upholstered fabric against that forbidden flesh.

Delicious shivers fanned out and she leaned into him, meeting his kiss, tangling her tongue with his in an erotic dance. She moaned into his mouth and raising her hands, twined her fingers in the long, luxuriant strands of his golden-blond hair.

He growled his approval and that primitive sound rumbled up from his chest as he deepened their embrace and she boldly turned herself over to him.

*

Cedric had had scores of women in his life. Inventive whores, clever courtesans with wicked mouths, eager widows. Wanton women. Women whose depravity had only been matched by his own. Not a single one of those women had raised his blood to this feverish pitch, as did his wife. With her blend of bold and innocence, there was a sincerity to Genevieve’s every movement that only fueled this fierce hungering for her.

He ran his palms down the small of her back and slid his fingers under the generous swell of her buttocks, holding her close. A low, keening moan escaped Genevieve who melted even further into his touch. Fueled by that breathless sound of her desire, Cedric clasped her white nightshift at the hem and tugged it over her head, exposing her as he’d ached to since their first chance meeting a week earlier.

He studied her with a hungry gaze. He’d always favored women with generous breasts and, yet, Genevieve’s small mounds with engorged pink buds, caused desire to blaze inside. His bride followed his gaze and her skin pinked with his focus. She made to hug her arms close to her chest. “Don’t,” he commanded gruffly.

Genevieve hesitated and then lowered her arms to her side.

Incapable of words, he explored her. Palming her right breast, he weighed it in his hand. “Softer than satin,” he murmured. He captured her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the peaked bud.

A throaty moan spilled past her plump lips. “A proper, respectable lady should not feel this way.” Her head fell back, accentuating the length of her neck.

“A proper
woman
should feel this way,” he said, his voice roughened with his need for her. He lowered his head and claimed the neglected tip of her left breast in his mouth.

Genevieve cried out and curled her fingers in his hair, anchoring him close. A hungering for her rolled through him, threatening to draw him under. Buffeting his senses and reveling in the reflexive undulation of her hips, he continued to suckle her, laving the swollen bud, teasing it, tasting it until the room reverberated with the echo of his wife’s breathless pleas.

Suddenly, he stopped and she cried out a protest but Cedric only shoved to his feet and, in one swift moment, swung her into his arms and carried her to the four-poster bed at the center of the room. Passion glazed her green eyes as he laid her carefully down.

Not taking his gaze from hers, he stepped back and proceeded to disrobe. She widened her eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head and revealed his naked chest to her innocent stare. The blush on her cheeks deepened, but she did not look away. Until he tugged free his boots and breeches. His brave bride stole a quick peek at his jutting erection and then whispered something that might have been a prayer. “A-are you certain you’d not care to continue with our art lesson?” Her breathless stammer raised a small grin.

And he, who’d long abhorred all hint of innocence, was enthralled by this woman’s artlessness. “Quite certain, love,” he whispered.

Genevieve looked up at the ceiling, past his shoulder, over at the hearth, anywhere that was not him. “It really was an invaluable lesson,” she rambled. “I am quite eager to put all your lessons to use.” As though she’d registered the suggestiveness of his words, she shot her gaze to his. “That is, your art lessons.”

With a gentle smile, he came down over her, bracing his elbows on either side of her so she was folded in his embrace. He touched his lips to her closed eyes; first one and then the other, and then he trailed his mouth down her cheek, before ultimately finding her lips. Some of her hesitancy melted away. Genevieve reached for his kiss, but he hovered with their breaths dancing and melding. “I have wanted you from the first moment I saw you in the library, Genevieve. I wanted to lay you down and waken your body to the passion within you.”

Emotion leapt in her eyes and, later, he’d allow himself the panicky fear of the truth behind those words. For now, all he could focus on was spreading her cream white thighs and burying himself deep in her honeyed warmth. “And I have wanted you.” Her husky contralto sent a bolt of lust through him. Then, his spirited wife closed the faint space between them, twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

A groan of approval rumbled from Cedric’s chest. They continued to mate with their tongues in an age-old rhythm that matched his rapidly beating heart.

Needing to taste all of her, Cedric dragged his mouth in a deliberate trail, lower, to her neck, downward to her small breasts, and then he slid a hand between them and found her hot center with his fingers.

A little hiss exploded from Genevieve and she shot her hips off the bed, arching into his caress. “Cedric,” she moaned as he parted her folds and toyed with her center. Her wet warmth coated his fingers and slicked his entry as he slipped a finger inside her.

“That is it, love,” he encouraged as she lifted into his caress. She bit her lip and worked herself against his palm. He continued his deliberate ministrations until her movements grew frantic, hinting at her rapidly receding control, and then he withdrew his fingers.

She cried out a protest, but he slid his body over hers and positioned himself at her well-readied, hot entry. He slid his shaft slowly inside her tight walls and an agonized groan lodged in his chest. Cedric stilled and welcomed her heat as it enveloped him. In all the women he’d taken, he’d never made love to a virgin. He’d made it a point to avoid those mewling women. Rather, he’d preferred the women who graced his bed to be as skilled as the most practiced courtesan. Staring into Genevieve’s flushed face, there was an overwhelming emotion; one that he could not explain, a gratefulness that no other had ever known her in this way.

Her lashes fluttered open and she looked up with a thick haze of passion clouding her eyes. “What is it?” she whispered. She cupped her hand to his cheek. “Are you all right?”

At her gentle concern, a surge of tenderness mixed with an incontrollable yearning to know Genevieve in this way. In an act he’d taken part in so many times, the intimacy of that joining had ceased to matter. Until now. Until her. Terror licked at the edge of his lust. “I am fine,” he whispered, even as his tumultuous thoughts proved anything but that. To keep from thinking about the implications of his body’s need for her and to silence any questions he didn’t have an answer to, Cedric claimed her lips in a long, deep kiss, so that all she was capable of was more of her breathless whimpers and moans.