The Lure of a Rake (17 page)

A faint click cut into her musings and she glanced up suddenly.

Gillian closed the door. Unlike all the previous times since Genevieve’s return when she hovered uncertainly, this time she closed the door without request. “I thought I might find you here.”

Yes, because even for the four years of age separation between them, they’d once been the best of friends. Hadn’t her younger sister found her here before all others on the night of her wedding? With an absolute want for words, she said, “Hello, Gillian.” For what else was there to talk about?

Her sister strolled forward and in one effortless move, sank to the floor in a flurry of white skirts. They settled about her, as she dragged her legs close to her chest in a way that would have sent their mother into a fit of vapors. “Father has…” Her words trailed off and, belatedly, Genevieve followed her gaze downward.

Heat streaked across her cheeks as she quickly snapped the damning sketchpad closed. As much as she loved Gillian and had only called her friend, there was something too intimate, too personal, in sharing her unwitting fascination with the Marquess of St. Albans.

Thankfully, her sister continued and let the matter go unsaid. “Father sent your maid looking for you.”

She sighed. “Of course he did.” Just as she’d been unable to hide forever all those years ago, now was no exception. Ultimately she was located, summoned, and brought before her father—the arbiter and executioner of her fate.

Gillian rubbed her chin back and forth over her ruffled skirts. “Do you care to talk about it?” she asked tentatively.

Genevieve stilled, horribly motionless. Exposed by her sister’s discovery and then…

“I’ve no doubt he deserved it,” her sister continued. “You’d never have thrown your water in his face unless he’d gravely insulted you.”

As the meaning of her words sank in, she blinked. Of course with the flurry of whispers following her ignominious departure and her family’s slightly delayed retreat from Lady Erroll’s, the real matter that
should
command Genevieve’s attention were the implications of her behavior last evening. And yet, it wasn’t. Instead, she was distracted by a rake who’d witnessed that humiliation. What had Cedric, a man so coolly elegant and in possession of his every emotion, thought of such a display? She gave her head a disgusted shake.

“Did he?” her sister asked, pulling her back to the moment. “Deserve it, that is.”

She tightened her mouth. “He most assuredly did.” Genevieve curled her fingers hard about the leather book in her hands. Her nails left crescent marks on the soft leather. “Father will never see it that way.” She was unable to keep the bitterness from tingeing her words. Her parents had as much faith in her virtue and honor as the rest of Society.

“No he won’t,” her sister said quietly. “He wants us to make a match.”

Both their parents did. Perhaps with an equal intensity.

She furrowed her brow, staring with concern at Gillian. Would her younger sister, with her desire to please all, compromise her own happiness? Surely with her romantic spirit, she’d not allow their father to so influence her. “
You
will make a match,” Genevieve said and claiming her sister’s hand, she gave her fingers a slight squeeze. She, on the other hand, would not. Ever. One scandal could mayhap be forgiven by an old reprobate in desperate need of a bride…such as Father’s friend, Lord Tremaine, but never two scandals. She steeled her jaw. She’d see her father in hell before she allowed him to bind her to that ancient lord.

Her sister’s face pulled. “I do not want just any gentleman.” Which their parents had, by the few events Genevieve attended the past fortnight, diligently thrust in their youngest daughter’s way. “Nor am I concerned about my marital state.” A slight, reproachful frown formed on Gillian’s usually smiling lips. “I am here because…” She darted her gaze about and then scooted closer. “I overheard Father whispering to Mother.”

Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat. “They are sending me away,” she breathed. Where that thought had once roused terror and agony, now a giddy lightness filled her chest; a desperate hungering to put this place behind her and carve out a quiet, albeit lonely, existence for herself in the country. There would be no caring husband and no loving, chubby-cheeked babes. A vise squeezed about her heart.

“Sending you away?” Her sister cocked her head as though that very thing hadn’t been done five years earlier. “No. They are talking about you marrying.”

She fanned the pages of her sketchpad. “Do you mean they are talking about me not ever marrying?” What gentleman would want a perfectly scandalous lady, nearly on the shelf, for his wife? Feeling Gillian’s gaze trained on her face, she made herself go still. And her uncooperative heart again faltered. “What is it?”

“Father wishes you to wed Lord Tremaine.”

Some of the tension eased from Genevieve’s shoulders and she leaned over to pat her sister’s fingers. “I know.”

The other-worldly, beautiful young woman opposite her shot her eyebrows to her hairline. “You know?” Incredulity underscored those two words. “And you are not horrified.”

“Father shared his intentions when I arrived in London.” She’d allowed herself to forget the old widower would be coming to town to size her up; had allowed herself to be distracted from the possibility of even seeing him. Now it all mattered not. For the horror to dog her since she’d fled Lady Erroll’s, a little thrill of triumph increased her heart’s beating.

Gillian searched Genevieve’s face. “And you did not tell me?”

At the wounded glimmer in Gillian’s expressive eyes, guilt swiftly doused all that previous, unholy enjoyment. “Oh, Gillian,” she said softly.

“I am your sister and you act as though I am a stranger,” she said faintly, accusatory. “And I know it is wrong and petty of me to speak of our relationship even now, but I wish to be your friend. I hate seeing you alone and you are so determined to be alone.”

She started. Since her return, she’d mourned the loss of her friendship with Gillian and lamented the loss of her brighter, more cheerful, self. Was her solitary state something she’d imposed upon herself as a means of protection? “You are right,” she said quietly and surprise lit her sister’s face. She hugged her sketchpad close, finding comfort in its solid, reassuring presence. It had been there when not even her family had. “I have spent so many years alone, Gillian,” she said, needing her sister to understand. “Grandfather—”

“Was cold and miserable?”

“No,” she said with an automaticity born of truth. That was how Society saw the old Earl of Hawkridge. That was how even Genevieve herself had. Those opinions had been fabricated by a girl’s fears of the austere, stately earl. “Grandfather has a clever wit and a dry humor,” she said, defending the man because it was important Gillian knew that, of their miserable family, Grandfather never was, nor ever had been, the problem member. “He is old, though.” She could not keep the sadness from creeping in. “He spends much of his days resting or sleeping. But when I was there, he was more a friend to me.” Unable to meet the other woman’s probing stare, Genevieve dropped her gaze to her knees. “But I no longer know how to be around company.”

“Bah, you were always cheerful and witty.”

Her sister’s unintended slight, earned a sharp bark of laughter. Goodness how she’d missed her raw honesty and innocent sincerity. But then her mirth died. “I will try to be more a friend to you.” To go back to the way they’d been when they were sisters, crafting ways to drive their parents mad.

Gillian narrowed her eyes. “And you’ll not keep secrets from me?”

She opened her mouth, but then followed the pointed stare to the book clenched in her fingers. Cedric. “There are no secrets.”
I am a liar. There was a kiss that seared my soul and burns on my mouth even still.
But there would never be anything more. Rakes did not rush to take brides and certainly not ruined ones. Not that Genevieve wished to be his bride. Except…what would it be like wed to a man such as Cedric? Her parents’ union had been coolly formal, with barely a smile between the couple and certainly never laughter. Marriage to Cedric would, no doubt, be thrilling and filled with passion. Butterflies danced wildly in her belly at the forbidden prospect.

“I daresay I would rather see you wed to a charming gentleman like the Marquess of St. Albans than Lord Tremaine,” her sister said jerking her back from such fanciful and, more, dangerous musings.

If Genevieve was of the marrying sort, she would most assuredly choose Cedric over an old widower, trying to beget heirs on her like a broodmare. With a man such as Cedric as her husband, there would at least exist laughter and desire in a marriage. A thrill fluttered in her belly. “Yes, well, neither is truly an option.” There were none.

A knock sounded at the door and, as one, they looked to the front.

Delores peeked her head inside. Light streamed into the nursery. “Lady Genny?” Her gaze landed on the sisters stuck in the corner. “Oh, there you are, miss.” A look of pity flashed on her face.

The time had come.

“His Lordship has requested your presence in his office.”

Even as she’d been expecting it, her stomach dipped. Mustering a smile for her sister’s benefit, she shoved to her feet. “Delores,” she said as she walked over and gave her sketchpad to the young maid. “Will you deliver this to my rooms?” The young maid nodded and then rushed off.

Genevieve stared after her a moment. It had been inevitable. Of course, all great shows of disobedience were met with a stern lecture. This, however, was no mere disobedience. This was another great scandal when she’d been so thoroughly warned. The floorboards groaned, indicating her sister had moved, and she cast a look sideways to Gillian.

“Perhaps if you speak to him,” Gillian said hopefully, with every word demonstrating the extent of her innocence. “If you explain how His Grace offended you, then he’ll be understanding.”

Many words had been leveled at the Marquess of Ellsworth: pompous, arrogant, respectable. Among them, however, understanding had never been one of them.

“I will speak to him,” she promised.

Her younger sister held out her elbow. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No,” she said, gentling that refusal with another smile. “I’ll visit after my meeting. I promise,” she added, when Gillian still hesitated. The last place she’d have the innocent, still-hopeful young woman was outside Father’s office while he delivered a dressing down like she was a recalcitrant child. She sank her teeth into her lower lip…or worse, a harlot who’d visited shame upon the family once more.

Without the benefit of her sister’s unwavering support, Genevieve made her way through the corridors. This moment was remarkably like another. And mayhap, if she were fortunate, like that long ago night, she’d be sent away.

But then what?
a silent voice needled. Did she truly wish to be a relative forever dependent upon the charity of her family?

A short while later, she found herself seated at the foot of her father’s desk while he scribbled away at those very important ledgers that commanded more attention than his daughter ever had.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch
. No, the only notice he’d paid her had been when she’d brought shame to his name and title.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
And who she might wed. Why, when the then recent Duke of Aumere had set his cap upon her for that too-brief a time, she’d brought pride. That fleeting emotion had been quickly replaced with his furious disdain. All the old annoyances boiled to the surface and threatened to spill over. She fisted her hands on her lap. “You wished to see me,” she said tightly.

His hand slid and left a sloppy, inky trail from the jerkiness of that movement. She took a perverse delight in unsettling him. Prepared for his blustery show of disapproval, she was taken aback as he dropped his pen and reclined in his seat. He wiped a tired hand over his face; defeated, when he was usually only condemning. “My hopes for you were great, Genevieve,” he said quietly, as though he spoke to himself. “Your entry into Society was a wondrous one.” He shook his head sadly.

Perhaps she should feel
something
at that parental disappointment, but how could she feel anything but this frustration running through her at the blame forever heaped on her shoulders? Filled with a restive energy, Genevieve leaned forward. “What Aumere did five years ago, the lies he spread, marks him as a cad. And you, as my
father,
should see that,” she said quietly.

The marquess wrinkled his nose. Was it the sincerity of the words on her lips that earned his distaste? Or her blatant challenging of him? When he still said nothing, she settled her palms on his desk. “Just as what happened last evening was not my fault,” she said calmly. Surely he saw that?

He held her gaze. “It is never your fault,” he said tiredly.

In her defense, it hadn’t been. Either time, where Aumere was concerned. He was a gentleman who’d seen her as less than a person; a material object there to suit his whims and fancies. For the shock and scandal she’d caused, she would never make apologies for last night. Not to that man.

“Tremaine will marry you.”

Lost in her own musings, it took a moment for Father’s words to penetrate. She frowned. “Father?” she asked, incredulity lacing her question. What gentleman would marry a notoriously whispered about lady?
A desperate one
. An ancient one without heirs. Disgust scraped along her spine. At her father for dare suggesting it and the old lord willing to do it.

Her father gestured to the pages in front of him and, wordlessly, she followed his motioning to those pages he’d been so enrapt in. “Following our return last evening, I met with the earl.” His lips pulled. “He was not at all pleased about another scandal being attached to your name, but for our friendship, he will overlook it.”

So
that
was why Father had not summoned her posthaste for his verbal dressing down. He’d had matters of business to attend with his ancient friend. “Are you mad?” The question tumbled from her lips, before she could call it back.