The Lure of a Rake (11 page)

She stared blankly about the room; a room that may as well have belonged to a stranger. Was this what her life was to be then? Was she to be relegated to the role of distantly removed member of the family, constantly being reminded of the mistakes of her past and never free to move beyond them? Her gaze snagged on the cheerful blue of the sky peeking through the gaping fabric of her curtains. Where was the joy in a life such as this? She wanted…more. Because to remain here, would crush her, destroying her in ways that her exile never could.

Shoving away from the door, Genevieve wandered over to the escritoire. The sketchpads, so precious these years, now forgotten in this fortnight. She pulled out the velvet-upholstered chair and slid into the seat. With numb fingers, she flipped the pages. She paused to steal a glance at the doorway. Should her father see…

Her grandfather’s visage. Delores. The maids and servants who’d been more family than her own parents. She turned to a blank sheet. Of their own volition, her fingers, long denied the pleasure she’d found these years at the encouragement of her grandfather, moved. She picked up the pastels and set her fingers to work upon the pages. She sat hunched over the book, chewing her lower lip, as she let her fingers fly frantically over the blank sheet. A strand broke free from the painfully tight chignon worked by her maid that morn and she blew at the errant curl. With each stroke of the pastel, an exhilarating calm stole through her. The beautiful peace that came in this wholly freeing experience was relaxing.

Minutes? Hours later she set the pastel down. Her chest heaved as she stared at the visage reflected back; the dangerously alluring half-grin, the chiseled cheeks befitting an expertly carved stone masterpiece.

A knock sounded at the door and she jumped. Heart pounding, Genevieve slammed the book closed and then cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “E-Enter,” she called and coming to her feet, she placed herself between that intimate part of her and the interloper.

The door opened and Gillian stuck her head inside. “You did not go to Hyde Park.”

Genevieve cocked her head.

Her sister pushed the door open and took a tentative step forward. “You said you were to Hyde Park and you’ve not gone.”

Her mind stalled. Yes, yes she had. Because ultimately, all she’d sought was escape. “I became distracted,” she admitted, fisting the fabric of her skirts.

Sisters stood there, forever friends and, yet, strangers all at the same time. “I am to go to the museum with Honoria and Phoebe. I thought you might join us?”

Except, Genevieve had been too long removed from the woman she’d been; easy to converse, eager for grand adventures alongside Gillian. “Go along without me,” she said. She’d become so accustomed to her solitary presence during the days, she no longer knew how to be the garrulous, effervescent young girl she’d been. “I am to Hyde Park.” Nor did she want to be that girl, ever again. “Thank you,” she added softly when Gillian made to leave.

Her sister opened her mouth and then with a slight nod, left.

When Gillian had gone, leaving Genevieve alone, she turned back to her collection of books. Gathering up the leather folio and her container of pastels, she started from the room.

*

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The incessant knocking penetrated Cedric’s slumber. Through the thick haze of sleep, he forced his eyes open and turned to the window. The thick, gold brocade curtains blotted out all light, but a slight gap in the fabric revealed a crack of sunlight. With a low groan, he rolled onto his back and flung his arm across his eyes. By God, was his man, Avis, asking to be sacked? After ten years in his employ, the bugger surely knew Cedric did not wake before twelve o’clock.

“My lord?”

“Get the hell away,” he called to his valet and drifted between sleep and wake, drawing forth the dreams of his slumber—a barefoot lady and her kiss-swollen lips. His shaft stirred at the welcome remembrance and he burrowed deeper into the smooth satin sheets.

RapRapRap

Bloody hell. “You had better have a bloody good reason to—”

“I have the information you requested, my lord.”

Cedric lowered his arm to his side and stared up at the wicked mural painted above his bed. He furrowed his brow. “The information,” he mouthed trying to muddle through the fog of last night’s overindulgence in brandy and champagne, the haze of desire, and the godawful early hour.

The servant cleared his throat. “You indicated I bring you the information about a certain—”

With a curse, Cedric flung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Naked, he stalked across the room and yanked the door open. His servant spilled into the room. He slammed the door behind them. “I said discreetly. I don’t need the whole of London knowing.” Following his exit from his father’s ball, Cedric had tasked his loyal servant with the charge of finding out where he might expect to see Lady Genevieve. It was not the first time he’d given Avis such an assignment. It was, however, of reasons different than all the other ones before it. Regardless, the last thing he needed were his servants bandying about gossip about the lady.

When had he ever cared about that, though?

“Uh, right. Yes, my lord.” The balding butler held out a folded sheet.

“Nor did I believe you’d bring the information at this ungodly hour.” No sane person who valued the need and benefit of a good sleep would rise before the noon hour.

“Forgive me, my lord. It seemed the kind of…er information you would care to be in possession of.”

Cedric accepted the page, unfolded it, and skimmed. “Indeed,” he said and a slow grin turned his lips up. Yes. His servant’s inquiries of a certain Lady Genevieve proved just the manner of information a man of Cedric’s reputation would want in his hands. Immediately. Even if it was at this sinful hour. He looked to the ormolu clock atop his fireplace mantel.

The tall, lanky man shifted on his feet. “I took the liberty of having your mount readied.”

By God, Avis was deserving of a raise. “Good work, man,” he said and with his spare hand, he slapped his servant on the back.

His face was always an unreadable mask devoid of emotion. Avis dropped a bow and proceeded over to the mahogany armoire to gather Cedric’s garments. A short while later, having completed his morning ablutions and with a small, but manageable, throb in his head from his overindulgence last evening, Cedric made his way from his townhouse. He accepted the reins of his mount from a waiting servant.

Adjusting his black hat, he climbed astride and nudged Wicked onward to Hyde Park. In the late morning quiet of the London streets, just before the rest of polite Society ventured into the world, he considered the information uncovered by his servant. What manner of lady paid daily visits to the mazes of Kensington Gardens before the fashionable hour? Montfort’s charges about the lady’s character slipped in, but he quickly thrust them aside. Genevieve. Her guarded eyes and innocent kiss were not belonging to the wanton described by the earl. Forcing the tension from his body, Cedric patted his horse on the withers and urged him onward, past haggard shopkeepers shoving their carts into position for a day of hawking their wares.

He guided Wicked through the entrance of Hyde Park and drew on the reins, slowing his mount. He did a small sweep of the grounds and then clicked his tongue, pushing the eager horse to stretch his legs along the riding trail. The gates of Kensington Gardens pulled into focus and he, again, drew on the reins, stopping Wicked.

Cedric dismounted, kicking gravel and dust about him as his boots settled on the earth. He searched the quiet, empty area, and frowned. If his bloody butler had proven wrong in his blasted information… As he tied Wicked under a nearby oak, he continued to search the grounds. From across the distance, he located a young maid, conversing with a strapping liveried servant. A wry smile formed on Cedric’s lips. Ah, how many ladies had been attended by lax servants, who’d turn their proverbial cheek while her mistress went about her scandalous pursuits so she might know pleasures of her own?

He captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger, surveying the lush, green gardens. The archway to the Rose Garden. Having partaken in too many trysts to count, where would he himself go for a late morning rendezvous? He paused, his gaze lingering upon the tall hedge maze. Of course. Cedric stole another look at the slipshod maid. The young woman remained engrossed in her conversation with her sweetheart.

Never one to neglect a useful distraction or silent footfall, Cedric swiftly made his way into the hedge maze. As he entered the gardens, he continued his search for his quarry while taking in the manicured grounds. The meticulously tended shrubs and bushes presented a woodland setting in the midst of the dirt and filth of London which created a falsified purity. The lush, emerald grass that blanketed the side of the graveled walking path was called to be a natural bedding between a man and woman bent on wicked deeds. Of all the inventive places he’d taken his lovers, how had he failed to appreciate the possibilities that existed in this private Eden?

A faint morning breeze stirred the brush and the crisp boxwoods crunched noisily. Tugging off his gloves, Cedric stuffed them inside his coat and continued his search. Another soft rustle split the morning quiet and he walked deliberately toward that sound. When reaching the back of the hedge maze, he abruptly stopped.

Comfortably settled on a wrought iron bench with her knees drawn to her chest, Genevieve may as well have been in any parlor or library. With her attention devoted to a small leather volume in her hands, the lady lingered over the words on the page. With the benefit of her distraction, Cedric studied her contemplatively. The women he favored did not enjoy books. That was, except those naughty volumes that harkened to sexual gratification. He didn’t know what to make of this young lady who stole into a hedge maze better for trysting, all to
read
.

He’d never known a woman to care about a tome before the garments or jewels he could shower her with. Or rather, he’d never taken a moment to learn of past lovers’ interests and this discovery, quite by chance, made Genevieve Farendale all the more real. This connection to her was intimate in ways that defied the sexual. He frowned. Another breeze rustled through the gardens and a strand popped free of that miserable chignon, softening her sharp features. The lock tumbled over her brow and she absently brushed the strand behind her ear. His chest tightened. How singularly odd that a single tress could so alter a person’s entire visage.

It promptly fell back. He ached with a physical need to yank free the combs holding those strawberry tresses in place and release them so they could cascade about her shoulders in a shimmery waterfall, as they were meant to. He’d wager those strands fell down the length of her back and, God, he would gladly trade his future dukedom to have them fanned out upon his pillow.

Like a doe that had caught scent of impending danger, Genevieve looked up and their gazes locked. Quickly, the lady swung her legs over the edge of her seat, giving a momentary flash of those trim, delicate ankles he’d had in his hands not even twelve hours earlier. The book tumbled to the ground, where it lay, forgotten. He briefly attended that volume, narrowing his gaze in a bid to make order of that image.

She was the first to break the quiet. “You,” she blurted. That shocked admission carried in the quiet of the gardens.

He inclined his head. “Me.” Had she been expecting another?

Drawn the way one of those hopeless sailors were to those sirens at sea, Cedric wandered closer. First the library, and now her stolen morning in Hyde Park. “You enjoy books, Genevieve.” His words were more statement than question.

“That is a bit broad.” A becoming crimson color blazed on her cheeks. “I enjoy some of them.”

He closed the distance between them and then dropped to a knee beside her. She followed his movements as he gathered her book.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, faintly breathless, as she all but tugged the leather volume from his hands. She drew it close to her chest, almost protectively, and that slight movement only plumped her already generous breasts so that they pressed hard against the fabric of her cloak.

Well, that was hardly the welcoming greeting he was accustomed to from ladies. Somehow that only further strengthened the peculiarity of this woman; set her apart from others. “I always come here in the morn.” The lie slipped out easily. Cedric came to his feet. “I enjoy riding with nothing but the privacy of my own thoughts.” Which was not altogether untrue. It was the whole matter of time he took liberties with. Then, time meant different things to different people. All relative.

The lady eyed him with a wary skepticism he’d come to expect of her. Montfort had spoken of her being jilted at the altar. Who had been the bloody fool to turn this woman over and put that guarded caution in her eyes? “You come here? I’ve come here nearly a fortnight now and not seen you once.”

“I am not usually this late in my morning ride,” he put in smoothly. He offered her a lopsided grin. “Alas, after an eventful evening in the library with delightful company, I’d found myself unable to sleep.”