The Lure of a Rake (8 page)

As one, ladies throughout the ballroom looked to the entrance of the hall.

Genevieve gave her head a wry shake. How silly they all were, seeking a title and wealth, and not having the sense to crave so much more.
And I had a very brief taste of it and now that will never be enough
. A tiny fluttering danced in her belly as, unbidden, she sought Cedric amongst the crowd.

“…Oh, my goodness. The marquess is looking directly at you, Gillian.”

“No, he is not, Mother,” Gillian said with a roll of her eyes.

And then their mother blinked. “Why…why…no he’s not! He is looking at…
Genevieve
.” That furious whisper pulled her attention to her flighty parent.

Was it a wonder a woman with such flawed logic should imagine glances and interest from the rakish marquess? “He is not looking at me,” she said under her breath, resuming her search of the crowd for another. What if she did not see him again? Then, what good could come from seeing him again?

“No. I believe he is.” Her mother’s angry words interrupted her musings.

An exasperated sigh slipped from her lips. Could she not even just have the pleasure of her thoughts? “Why would the marquess be staring at…?” She followed her mother’s none-too-subtle point to the six-foot four-inch, very familiar gentleman at the top of the stairs, standing alongside the Duke of Ravenscourt. Over the heads of the other guests, their gazes locked, and the ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.

Her heart sank.
That
is why he would stare. And from across the ballroom, Cedric winked.

Well, drat.

“I
t is about bloody time you arrived.” The Duke of Ravenscourt glared at his son. “You missed the entire bloody receiving line.”

Cedric rescued a flute of champagne from a passing servant’s tray. He downed it in one long swallow to let his father know precisely what he thought of his grousing. “Splendid,” he said with a cheerful smile that deepened his miserable sire’s frown.

On any other day and at any other event, he would have taken a perverse pleasure in altogether missing the duke’s ball. As such, these proper balls were the last place he cared to be.

Except…

He stared boldly at the pale, tolerably pretty Genevieve With-a-Surname-He-Still-Did-Not-Know, relishing the way her lips parted and the round moons formed by her eyes. He would have expected with his deliberate wink she would have looked away and yet she continued to hold his gaze with a directness he admired—and he didn’t admire anyone. Largely because no one had given him reason to. How singularly odd that this slender slip of a lady should have earned his appreciation…for matters that had nothing to do with the weight of her breasts or the taste of her lips.

The lady closed her luscious mouth and he grinned. Well, perhaps it did have a bit to do with the taste of her.

“…You can have your pick of any lady here, Cedric.” His father waved a ruthless hand over the ballroom, momentarily commanding his attention.

Cedric did a quick sweep of the distinguished guests arranged. Eager, marriage-minded misses in their white satin gowns and scandalous widows eyed him with equal appreciation. His gaze wandered back to the companion in hideous gray skirts, pressed against the Doric column while other more colorfully clad guests chatted about her. Did the lady seek to blend with that towering pillar? Given the pale hue of her skin, and the fabric of her skirts, it would have been an easy feat. If he hadn’t already tasted her lips. Then he glanced down.

The lady tapped the tip of her slipper to the staccato beat of the orchestra’s song. There was so much revealing about that slight, but telling, tap. The discreet, though eager, movement belied a woman who’d don boring gray skirts and, instead, spoke to the spirited creature who’d steal off to her host’s library in the midst of the festivities.

Just then, the Earl of Hargrove stepped between Cedric and his unobstructed view of the companion in her horrid dress, who’d invaded his library.

Bloody Hargrove…

“…Are you listening to me, Cedric?” his father snapped.

Cedric motioned a servant over and deposited his empty glass on the man’s silver tray. The servant rushed off. “No,” he said and with his father sputtering, he stormed off, cutting a deliberate path through the ballroom.

Familiar widows eyed him with a lascivious suggestion in their eyes and he ignored the heated offers there. Never before had he passed up the forbidden delights those women promised. On too many scores to remember, he’d taken several of them simultaneously up on their offers, behind parlor doors of their hosts’ homes. Now, an altogether different quarry called his notice.

A tall figure stepped into his path and with a curse, Cedric ground his feet to a sudden stop. “Goddamn it, St. Albans, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Montfort,” he greeted, looking over the other man’s shoulder.

From where she hovered on the fringe of the festivities Genevieve With-No-Surname shifted back and forth, eying the twirling dancers. He dipped his gaze to the floor. Between the kaleidoscopes of waltzing couples, he caught the rhythmic tap of her feet. A proper companion who longed to dance.

Montfort withdrew a silver flask from his front pocket and to the open-eyed censure of nearby matrons, uncorked it and took a long swallow. “I’d wagered you’d fail to appear at your father’s ball. Lost a goddamn fortune because of you.” The tight lines at the corner of his hard lips bespoke his frustration.

Friend or no, the man’s ill fortune was largely his own doing. As such, Cedric had no remorse for Montfort. Or really, anyone for that matter. He’d long ago ceased to care about anyone but himself. It was safer that way.
…Everyone cares in some way…
The lady’s words echoed around his mind.

It was a sure one; Montfort would have won at any other time.

“Well, then, which delicious widow has captured your attention?”

He blinked and shifted his attention to the earl. “What?”

“Nothing else would have you here but the promise of some inventive widow’s charms.” His friend laughed uproariously as though he’d uttered a hilarious jest.

The orchestra concluded the country reel and the ballroom erupted into polite applause. “I hope she was worth the amount I lost on you.”

He narrowed his eyes as the lady occupying Cedric’s attention caught his eye. “Who is the matron?” Cedric asked, gesturing vaguely to the woman between Montfort and his library nymph.

The gentleman, who’d long known everyone and everything about Society, followed his stare. “The matron?” he puzzled his brow. “The Marchioness of Ellsworth.” Then he widened his eyes. “Ah, I see.”

No, Cedric really didn’t think he did, as he didn’t see himself. Genevieve flared her eyes wide like a hare caught in the hunter’s snare and darted her gaze about. As one who’d made plenty of hasty escapes, he recognized one about to flee. “If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured and quickly stepped around Montfort. He ignored Montfort’s sputtering and lengthened his stride. With each step, Cedric kept his gaze trained on his tempting quarry.

And for the first time in the course of his corrupt life, a fleshy, proper matron proved his savior. The plump, expensively attired lady in burgundy skirts stepped into Genevieve’s path, effectively staying her retreat.

As the older woman spoke, Genevieve’s delicate shoulders went taut and she nodded periodically. He narrowed his eyes. Was his candid lady in the library a poor relation? His intrigue redoubled. She elongated her neck, drawing his gaze and remembrances to her erratic heartbeat a short while ago. She did a small search and then their stares connected once more. Panic flared in the lady’s eyes and she made another bid to escape. Cedric reached the trio.

“Lady Ellsworth, a pleasure,” he said smoothly, not taking his gaze from Genevieve. The young woman gave him a faintly pleading look. As much as he particularly enjoyed his ladies pleading, this was not the kind he happened to favor. Mixed with that silent entreaty was an unspoken recrimination from within her eyes.

The marchioness squeaked. “M-My lord.” She dropped a curtsy. “Wh-what an honor.” She tittered behind her hand. “Have you come to meet my Gillian?”

He slid his gaze over to the breathtaking beauty with her purple skirts beside the woman. He expected this lovely lady was, in fact, her Gillian. With her beauty, she befit the usual beauties he took to his bed. However, another had earned his attention.

“Mother,” Lady Gillian scolded, a blush on her cheeks.

He looked expectantly at the marchioness. The rotund marchioness emitted a squeak. “F-forgive me. May I introduce my daughter, Lady Gillian Farendale?”

Cedric made the appropriate greetings and looked expectantly to the pale Genevieve.

The marchioness opened and closed her mouth several times, sputtering as she followed his attention.

When no introduction was forthcoming, he lifted an eyebrow.

“And this is my other d-daughter,” she choked out. “Lady Genevieve.”

He lifted his eyebrows. The lady was a marchioness’ daughter? Attired in garments better suited a servant and on the fringe of the festivities, there was little hint of belonging to this family.

Her mother forced an elbow into her side and Genevieve grunted. “My lord,” she said with a grudging hesitancy. She offered a belated and, by his way of thinking, insolent curtsy.

Was the enticing pink of her neck and cheeks a product of embarrassment or desire from their earlier embrace? “A pleasure,” Cedric murmured, reaching for her hand. The lady hesitated and then placed her fingertips in his. He folded his hand about hers reflexively and marveled at the length of her fingers. He cursed her gloves, and cursed himself for having neglected that flesh when he’d had the opportunity presented to him. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, relishing in the slight tremble of those long digits.

She made to draw them back, but he retained his grip. The orchestra struck up the strains of the waltz. With a fiery show of spirit, Genevieve gave another tug.

“May I have the honor of partnering you in the next set, my lady?”

Fire flashed in her expressive eyes. “I do n-not dance.” A woman who moved with such graceful elegance possessed a body made for dance, and far more.

“I insist,” he shot back with a practiced grin. God, with her fire and spirit, she could set the room ablaze.

“You insist,” she mouthed. Angling her jaw up, she gave an emphatic shake. “And I insist. I do not dance.”

And because he’d long proven himself a selfish bastard who claimed what he wanted, Cedric turned his assault on the marchioness.

The woman fluttered a hand about her neck and looked frantically around. “I…” She appeared one more word away from tears. “I-I am certain Genevieve might partner you in the one set,” the marchioness cut in, favoring her daughter with a glare. Mother and daughter locked in a silent, unspoken battle of the wills which was ultimately resolved by Cedric.

Elbow extended, he stepped aside and allowed her a path to the dance floor. The spirited young lady dug her heels in and, for an instant, he believed, in a world where lords and ladies sought to appease him for nothing more than his future title alone, that this slip of a woman would publically refuse his offer. Then she gave a slight nod and allowed him to escort her to the sea of already assembled dancers. “I thought you were going to refuse me,” he said, favoring her with one of his long-practiced smiles.

“I should have,” she bit out as he settled his hand at her waist. “You do not know what you’ve done.” The faint thread of panic underscored her words. With a deliberate slowness, he caressed his fingers over the soft satin fabric. A shuddery gasp escaped her plump lips and she quickly placed a hand on his shoulder. “That was poorly done of you.”

“My touch?”

“Forcing my hand,” she said between tight lips.

Who was Lady Genevieve Farendale? This woman who spoke of honor and integrity and sought the anonymity of the sidelines? Or a lady who would steal away to her host’s library? The people Cedric kept company with were with men who’d bed another chap’s wife on a bet or out of boredom and women who’d take both the winner and loser of that wager to bed. In the course of his nearly thirty years, it had never been about honor.

To counter the unsettled sentiments swirling inside him, he made a tsking noise. “Never tell me you looked forward to partnering another.” His fingers tightened reflexively at her waist.

“It is not a matter of whether or not I looked forward to another gentleman. I politely refused your request, my lord, and you superseded my wishes because of your desire.”

If he wished to truly scandalize her, he’d speak to her about what he truly desired. “Come, Genevieve. Given our
meeting
we’ve moved beyond those stiff forms of address.”

The lady’s cheeks blazed such a crimson red, it could have set her face afire but then she surprised him once more. “Yes, there is truth to that.” The lady directed her words at his cravat and he brushed his fingertips in a fleeting caress over her lower back until she picked her head up. “However, it was not well done of you.”

“What? Discussing the flaws in the duke’s home and the inherent wickedness of his son?” He lowered his head close and her breath caught. “Or do you refer to our kiss?”

Genevieve missed a step and the color seeped from her cheeks. He effortlessly righted her. “Someone might hear, my lord.” She stole a furtive look about.

“Cedric,” he pressed. He’d long been accustomed to having his wishes met. He wanted his name on her lips not simply because he desired her, but also because, for some inexplicable reason, he was drawn by the sincerity of her responses around him. She did not fawn or seek to earn his favor. Instead, she was candid in her every emotion; from the passion in their embrace, to her annoyance, and blushing embarrassment.

“I cannot call you Cedric,” she choked out so quietly he struggled to make out her words.

“Because I am a rake?” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Yes,” she hissed. Hurt outrage flashed in her eyes and an unexpected pang that felt very much like guilt needled at his conscience. A conscience he’d not known he’d possessed until this innocent minx trained hurt, accusatory eyes on him. “Furthermore, you knew I mistook your identity. I asked—”