The Lure of a Rake (29 page)

The earl inclined his head and Cedric finished pouring another. “The wagers are, of course, about you,” he said, accepting the glass.

“Oh,” Cedric drawled and carried his snifter over to the leather winged back chair beside the cold, empty hearth. He’d ceased to pay attention to the bets that went into the book at White’s or anywhere else over the years.

“You know,” Montfort said, settling himself in the chair opposite Cedric. “There was a time you’d ask about the betting and place your own ungodly wager.”

He swirled the contents of his drink. Yes, as he’d shared with Genevieve when he’d asked for her hand in marriage, there had been a time he’d been imprudent with the funds belonging to him. Perhaps it was a tedium with the lifestyle he’d lived these many years or perhaps it was the hold he’d allowed his father to have over him with those weaknesses but the gaming tables no longer held the same pull.

“The wager is also about your wife,” Montfort said and Cedric froze mid-movement with his glass halfway to his lips.

He gripped his snifter so hard the blood drained from his knuckles. “Oh,” he drawled with forced nonchalance. Odd, he’d never given a bloody damn what the gossips said about him, but he wanted to take apart the bastards who’d mention her name in any way. Cedric took a long swallow through tight lips.

The earl leaned forward, shifting his weight over his legs. “There are bets about how long until the ducal heir makes his appearance.”

Cedric choked on his swallow and glared as his friend’s booming laughter echoed throughout the room.

“Knowing as you do, my wager was firmly in the ‘never’ column.” He leaned back and his humor was immediately gone, replaced with a piercing intensity he didn’t believe the other man capable of. “And given what you’ve shared with me through the years, I trust my wager is the safe one?” His words were more a question than statement.

Cedric rolled his shoulders. “I don’t have any intention of discussing my marital affairs with you, Montfort.” He forced a grin.

A flash of surprise shone in the other man’s eyes and he opened and closed his mouth several times. “You have dirt on your face,” he blurted.

Swallowing a curse, Cedric removed the same handkerchief and brushed at his left cheek. He neither wanted, nor needed, his friend’s mockery. When had the man’s presence begun to grate?

“The other side,” Montfort clarified, his lips still twitching with amusement.

“You’ve come then to angle an answer about me regarding my marital activities?” he asked, with annoyance. Childhood friends or not, somewhere in this stilted exchange, Montfort had crossed a proverbial line. “All to win a wager?”

Even the morals lacking earl had the good grace to flush. “You were never above anything yourself, St. Albans, so do not go acting as though we’re cut of entirely different cloths.”

No, they weren’t. But then, neither had Cedric cheated to win a wager. His skin pricked with the concentrated stare the other man passed over him. Then Montfort whistled long and slow. “What is it?” Cedric bit out.

“By God, you care about her.”

He shook his head once.

The earl nodded.

He shook his head again. “I…”
Do not care about anyone
. He’d been a bastard of a brother. A miserable, albeit deliberately miserable, bastard of a son. And…yet…his friend’s words knocked the breath from his lungs. He cared about her. His palms grew moist with the horrifying implications of that. He’d only make her miserable. He was his father’s son. “Our marriage is a practical one,” he said, after a long stretch of silence.

“Is it?”

Yes, it was. “I visit my clubs every evening.” And had begun to tire of them, but that was neither here nor there, nor a point he intended to mention to Montfort.

“You were gardening.”

He scoffed. “I was hardly gardening.” Merely digging a hole.
For my wife.
He grimaced.

“You’ve still not accepted nor declined the invitation to my ball.” The earl lifted an eyebrow. “Is it, perhaps, that your new bride will not allow you to take your amusements where you will?”

God his friend was relentless. He gritted his teeth. “Of course, I’ll be there.” Because he’d attended every year since Montfort began throwing them ten years earlier.

The earl appraised him in an assessing manner. Did he seek the veracity of a claim Cedric was no longer certain of? Montfort drummed his fingertips along the arm of his chair in a grating, rhythmic pattern. “So there will still be no heir then?”

Of course. Back to the wager. For ultimately, Montfort was the same self-serving bastard he’d always been. It was why they got on so great. “There will be no heirs or spares.” Granted he’d not taken precautions prior with Genevieve…but the earl’s words served as an all-important reminder. He’d not bring a child into this world, only to subject it to his corrupted influence. He was a bastard. He wasn’t a complete bastard.

The earl chuckled and raised his glass in salute. “And you thought your marriage to the Farendale girl would be your ultimate revenge against your bastard of a father? There is no greater revenge than this.”

Montfort spoke the truth, and yet…there was a sourness in Cedric’s mouth at having his calculated efforts thrown so effortlessly in his face. “Now,” he said, shoving to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me?” he said, for the first time he could remember, eager to be rid of the other man’s presence. Had he always been this…bloody bothersome?

T
he following afternoon, perched on the edge of the blue upholstered sofa with her sketchpad on her lap, Genevieve brushed her charcoal over the page bringing the image of the now cared for garden to life.

Usually, sketching proved a welcome diversion. This morning, however, proved the exception. Unbidden, her gaze went to the scandal sheets open on the table before her.

Two months married and all thoughts of a love match between the Marquess of St. A have undoubtedly been laid to rest.

Undoubtedly.

Nightly visits to Forbidden Pleasures…

A vise squeezed about her heart. A place called Forbidden Pleasures was hardly the respectable White’s and Brooke’s visited by respectable gentlemen. No doubt there were scandalous women and naughty deeds and…
Oh, God. Why did this truth hurt as much as it did?

“Will we go out this evening?”

She snapped her attention over to the sole friend she’d made since her return to London. Francesca Cornworthy nibbled at a puff pastry. Since she’d been married, Genevieve had taken to joining the young woman at those dull, polite affairs. It had made facing down the knowing stares of cruel gossips bearable. Her lips twisted. God, how she abhorred the whispers.

Wetting her lips, Genevieve abandoned her artwork. “I had not intended to,” she confessed and a guilty twinge pulled at the other woman’s crestfallen expression.

“Yes, well, I expect if I had the benefit of marriage,
I
would avoid all the miserable
ton
events, as well.”

Alas, expectations were vastly different for young, unmarried women than young, married women. There were freedoms to attend or not attend events. To don colorful skirts. And in Genevieve’s case…to stay indoors sketching and reading and gardening while the Season marched painfully on. How tedious and tiresome life in London had become. A yawn escaped her and she looked to the doorway for the next expected visitor for the morning.

“It is rather tiresome, isn’t it?” Francesca murmured. “I daresay if a lady had a dance partner and a devoted suitor then it would make all of this,” she waved her hand and flakes of powdered sugar fell to the floor, “exponentially better.”

Genevieve’s gut clenched.

As soon as the words left Francesca’s mouth, she softly cursed. “Oh, Genevieve, I did not mean…” She let the partially eaten pastry fall to the delicate porcelain dish before her. “That is…”

“It is fine,” Genevieve assured her with a reassuring smile. Her friend only spoke the truth. It was that truth that had brought her ’round to her plans for the evening. Nervousness mixed with excitement and kicked her heart up another beat.

“I’m quite rubbish with words. What I
meant
to say is that I am certain the marquess is most devoted.”

Cedric had proven himself devoted…only in the most wicked ways one would expect a rake or rogue to be devoted. Memory of his touch in the early morn hours, sent heat racing from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Yes, there was no shortage of passion between them. With his artful caress and attentiveness in bed, he’d proven himself a tireless lover…when he wasn’t absent in the evening. She firmed her lips. Well, that was no longer enough. She’d tired of carrying on a separate existence with her friends while he went off to whatever club or hell he wished. She wanted all of him…or nothing.

Liar
.

Her stomach turned over itself. For was she truly prepared to be entirely closed from his life?

With a frustrated sigh, she set aside her sketchpad and reached for the porcelain teapot. To give her fingers something to do, she proceeded to pour herself a cup of tepid tea. Yes, how very tiresome this London life had become. It was a wonder that her husband so loved this miserable place.

But then…she didn’t know the enjoyments that kept him so occupied…

Ignoring another sharp twinge in her breast, she tightened her mouth. She would. Soon she would step inside his world, even as he’d not invited her in. Even as he’d expressly forbade her from entering. Then, her days of blind obedience had ended when she’d been sent away five years earlier.

Footsteps sounded on the hall and she jerked her gaze to the door.

“Lady Gillian Farendale,” the butler announced.

At last.

“Gillian,” she greeted as the butler backed out of the room.

“Hullo, Genny.” A stack of newspapers in her fingers, Gillian stepped inside the room, just as she did every week since Genevieve had been married. This time, however, the slightly forced, more than concerned smile customarily wreathing her lovely face was tipped in a mischievous turn. “Francesca,” she greeted. Between bites, Francesca lifted a hand in greeting. She returned her attention to Genevieve. “I have the information you—”

“Shh,” she said, looking pointedly past her shoulder.

Shifting the scandal sheets in her arms Gillian, shoved the door closed with the tip of her slipper and then carried her papers over to where the ladies sat. She dropped the stack down on the rose-inlaid table, rattling the tea cups.

Genevieve shot a hand out and steadied the pot. “As you know I asked you both here today…” she repeated.

The young ladies stared expectantly back.

“Gillian, you mentioned you have the information?”

Her younger sister nodded. She reached for the papers on the table and shuffled through them. “This arrived from Honoria just before I came. It arrived during breakfast.” Her pulse quickened its tempo and she resisted the urge to grab the page from her sister’s fingers. “Mother was staring,” Gillian prattled, artless as always. “I tucked it within the scandal sheets and otherwise distracted her.”

Her lips twisted wryly. Of course, beyond the gossip rags, there was no reading material their mother approved of. As such, seeing Gillian make off with those pages would hardly be grounds for suspicion or concern.

Of which there should be.

And certainly would be, were their mother to have known.

“What is it?” Francesca asked. She alternated her stare between the sisters.

Genevieve came slowly to her feet. She crossed over to the front of the room, locked the door, and turned slowly around. After all, she couldn’t risk Cedric entering and interrupting this particular exchange. “It is about my husband,” she whispered.

Worry filled Francesca’s expressive eyes. “Are you happy?”

The unexpectedness of that question stalled her thoughts. Was she happy? After years of being hidden in the country, she was now forever free of her parents’ influence. She was able to sketch and garden all day without fear of recrimination over her subjects. But was she happy? Her gaze wandered to the door. Sometimes she was happy. In fleeting moments spent with her husband during the day, when she could pretend that they were something more… “Yes,” she said, at last. “And also no.”

“That is what I thought,” Gillian said with a knowing nod. “I see you several times a week and I cannot help but see the desire for more in your eyes.”

She firmed her mouth. Yes, and she had the same hope. “This is why I’ve asked your help.” She looked to Gillian. Had she been so very transparent? Did Cedric know, even now, and that was why he went about his pleasures in the evenings? “Gillian, were you able to learn?”

She held her breath, until her younger sister gave a little nod. “Yes. Phoebe and Lord Rutland had been off for the country. As such, it took longer for me to communicate with her.”

“Rutland?” Francesca asked, befuddlement in her tone. “The scoundrel?” Her eyes formed round moons.

“Oh, he’s no longer a scoundrel,” Gillian said reassuringly and patted the other young woman on the knee. “Now, he is quite content and hopelessly in love with Phoebe.”

Envy dug its vicious talons inside.

Her sister slapped her fingertips to her mouth. “I am sorry, Genevieve. I didn’t mean…”

“It is quite fine,” she assured. Except it wasn’t. She knew it and her friends also knew it. It was also why she’d required assistance from her sister…and a stranger who’d been a scoundrel, who now loved his wife. Or at least by Gillian’s admission, anyway. Mayhap those rakes and rogues were incapable of reform. Genevieve only knew she’d not truly be happy—until she tried.

She drew in a steadying breath and reclaimed her previously vacated seat. “My husband and I are, at best…
friends
.” Friends who made passionate love nearly every day and laughed together during the days and who parted ways in the night. But friends, nonetheless, as he’d said to her long ago in the gardens, when they’d but recently met. And for most women, that arrangement would be enough. Not her.

“Friends?” Gillian snorted.