The Lure of a Rake (9 page)

“If I was a friend of the marquess’ which I assured you I was not,” he put in smoothly. “Because I am not.” He placed his lips close to her ear. “I
am
the marquess. Two entirely different things.” Cedric twirled her to the edge of the ballroom, away from the center of the activity. “Furthermore, if I had confided the truth, you would have run as far and as fast as your bare feet could have carried you.” Which begged the unanswerable question—why had it mattered if she had left?

Because I wanted to taste her lips. Because I wanted to ruck her gown up and lay between her legs…

Only, it hadn’t been just about this hungering for her.

“That isn’t altogether true.” She leaned close. “I would have collected my slippers.”

He laughed. Not the practiced, restrained chuckles he called forth at bawdy tales and boring jests, but rather one of sincerity and mirth that emerged rusty from deep in his chest.

“I was not speaking in jest.”

His laughter died. Good God, she was enchanting. The manner of interesting that made a man brave boring balls and soirees just for the unexpectedness of whatever words she’d utter next.

W
hy, with that handful of words, did Cedric, the mystery gentleman she’d met in the library, have to be correct?

For in the course of their exchange, she’d never pointedly asked if he was, in fact, the marquess. Which in retrospect, with her mistakes laid out clearly before her, she knew would have been an obvious assumption. He’d sat elegant in repose, as though he owned the massive room because…well, because he did own it. Or he would.

Yet, there was something
dishonest
in that lie of omission, a lie that muddied that magical first kiss he’d given her and the beauty of their exchange. A pang struck her heart, which was foolish that she would feel…anything. But it did. He was a whispered about rake and given that ignoble titling, a man who could only compound the gossip surrounding her name. Even now, her skin pricked with the crowd’s awareness trained on them.

Genevieve ran her gaze over his harshly beautiful face. With the room doused in candlelight, it illuminated the sharp angles in a way the shadows could have never done true justice to. She lingered on the tight lines drawn at the corners of his mouth. Things that had previously escaped her, now glared strong. For the cynical set to his lips hinted at a man who’d become an expert at manipulating words and people in a way that suited his desires and interests. And she hated the truth of that. Hated that his smile was false and his earlier words, even falser. Hated it because it only confirmed everything she’d come to expect of those lords who lived for their pleasures.

“You have gone silent now, Genevieve?” There was a silken thread underlining those words that sent a mad fluttering to her belly, even as logic lightened this man’s hold on her senses.

“You are one who is accustomed to ladies fawning and falling down for you,” she said quietly to herself. “You turn forth a grin and a laugh to ease the truth of your coldness.” His face froze in an unmoving mask. “Mayhap the world does not see past that. They see what you ask them to see.” Just as she naively had allowed herself to see in the library. Yet, that was not his fault. It was hers for wanting to see diamonds in the dust. “They see your smile. They hear your teasing words. They are so focused on those smiles that they do not realize…” At his narrowing eyes, she blinked and let her words die. She’d said too much, to a man who truly was nothing but a stranger.

A stranger whose kiss still burns on my lips.

“They see what?” he bit out. Gone was that smooth edge to his words.

“The façade.” She knew because she was a woman who’d donned the same, stifling mask these five years.

A harsh light glinted in his eyes. “You do not know anything of it.”

“Oh, I suspect I know more than you’d care to think.” Hot emotion flashed in the cerulean blue of his eyes. With his easy charm and the cynical smile that didn’t quite reach his gaze, she saw enough to know this man was one to avoid at all costs.

The orchestra concluded the waltz and they came to a stop. Other partners clapped politely and filed from the floor while Genevieve and Cedric remained stationary, locked in a silent battle. His chest moved forcibly like he’d run a great distance.

Belatedly, she curtsied. “My lord.”

Where any proper gentleman would have escorted her from the floor, Cedric, future Duke of Ravenscourt, sketched a bow and stalked off, master of this ballroom. Genevieve stood rooted to her spot, agonizingly exposed to the stares and whispers of his distinguished guests and, in that moment, she hated Cedric. Hated him for so effortlessly thrusting her back into Society’s focus.
It was inevitable
. Her feet twitched with the urge to flee.
Move. Pick up one foot and place it before the other.
Her breath came hard and fast and then a small arm slid into hers and she started, blinking wildly.

Her sister gave her a reassuring smile. “Come,” she said softly and Genevieve’s throat worked.

How many times as children had she come to Gillian’s aid during her madcap schemes? In an utter role reversal, rescue should now be conferred by her younger sister. “Thank you,” she managed.

“If you smile and hold your chin up, they stare less,” Gillian said, widening her smile. “And if you laugh, then it really confounds them.” With that, she tossed back her head and laughed.

A wave of gratitude filled her and a smile split her lips; real and wonderful for it. That not a single gentleman had seen Gillian’s worth and beauty proved them all a lot of fools.

“Mother is not happy,” her younger sister said from the corner of her mouth.

Genevieve easily found the scowling marchioness and did a quick search for her father.

“Father is in the gaming rooms.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Of course, he’d eventually emerge. When he did, there would be the discovery that Genevieve had done something as scandalous as publicly waltzing. She nibbled her lower lip. Then, it wasn’t so much the dance, but rather the gentleman who’d commandeered that set in a public way…and then in an equally public way had left her standing alone at the center of the dance floor. Which really was quite a cut-direct for any lady, even more damning for one whispered to be a whore who made scandalous offers and propositions to gentlemen.

They reached their mother’s side. “Mo—”

“Not a word,” the marchioness said, with a patently false smile plastered on her lips. “You are to sit with the other companions.” Is that what she was, then? A companion? A giggle bubbled up at the preposterousness of such an idea and she forcibly swallowed her amusement. “I do not want you near Gillian.”

Of course, her faithless parents had never seen anyone else to blame where she was concerned. They didn’t see or credit the treacherous acts of strangers, but rather condemned the daughter whose blood they shared. Head held high, she turned to go, when Gillian shot a staying hand about her arm. “Mother,” she scolded.

Genevieve delicately removed her arm from Gillian’s gentle grip. “I will be all right,” she reassured. After her public humiliation five years ago, she could certainly manage to hover for another handful of hours on the fringe of the duke’s ballroom. In fact, she far preferred it.
Liar. You love dancing. You loved it even more in the marquess’ strong, powerful arms.

With a roomful of observers staring on, Genevieve made her way to the shell-backed chairs along the back wall. She slid into a seat between two other equally miserably dressed ladies. The lady at her right yanked her skirts out of the way and quickly came to her feet. Casting a scathing glance back, she rushed off.

Genevieve trained her gaze forward on the dancers, fisting her hands on her lap. It mattered not what the whispers were, or what people believed. She knew the truth. She knew the ugliest of rumors were, in fact, lies perpetuated by a cad and that knowing was power. Granted a weak, ineffectual power, but a power over her thoughts and sense of her own self-worth. Still, there was something so very lonely in having been cut from the fold of the family. She looked to where her wildly gesticulating sister now chatted with her friend, Honoria Fairfax.

As much as she loved Gillian and had no doubt she was genuinely happy to have her back with the family, so many years had passed that it was oftentimes as though they were old friends trying to return to the way it had once been…when they could never, ever truly go back.

“Thank you.”

She froze and looked about. Her gaze collided with the plump woman with a glass of punch in one hand who occupied the opposite chair. With pale, heavily freckled cheeks and too-tight ringlets, the young woman must be near an age of her own. Did the lady remember Genevieve’s scandal from long ago? Or mayhap she didn’t know it at all and was why she even now spoke to her. “Uh…”

“For sending that one rushing off,” she said on a less than discreet whisper. The woman leaned close. “Miserable creature. Hasn’t smiled once all night.” She stuck her gloved palm out. “My name is Miss Francesca Cornworthy.” She grimaced. “Horrid name. You might call me Francesca, which is equally horrid, but only slightly less than Franny, which is what my father calls me.”

Her mind spun under the happy chattering and, yet, at the unexpected kindness, emotion filled her throat. Though she caught the flesh on the inside of her cheek hard, it was hardly fair to drag this kind creature down the gossip trail with her. At the stretch of silence and inaction, the woman’s smiled dipped and her hand quavered. Lest she misunderstand the reason for her hesitation, Genevieve swiftly placed her fingers in Miss Francesca Cornworthy’s and shook. “I am Lady Genevieve Farendale.”

A look of relief flashed in her startling violet eyes. “I know who you are.” Her stomach dipped. “We made our Come Out the same year,” the lady explained.

She knew. Of course, she knew. Everyone knew. “Oh,” she said lamely and quickly withdrew her hand.

Francesca raised the glass in her opposite hand to her lips and took a sip of her drink. “Nasty stuff. Nasty stuff.”

Genevieve glanced about to the sea of lords and ladies, many of whom well-remembered the jilted-at-the-altar Farendale daughter. “Yes, it was.”

“I referred to the punch,” Francesca interrupted her maudlin thoughts. “Not your scandal.”

And after five years of being a morose, maudlin figure lamenting her past, a very real…lightness went through her. The woman spoke with more honesty and candid sincerity than anyone, including her own family. Everyone, including Genevieve herself, tiptoed around talk of that long ago day, as though that would make it all go away. But it wouldn’t. It would always and forever be… The Scandal. There was something freeing in that.

Perhaps the woman was lonely and long in need of a friend, but she carried on her one-sided conversation. “I never did understand how a gentleman was so pardoned for the whole affair, while you were scuttled off. Uh…” She blushed. “You were scuttled off, I gather?”

Genevieve smiled. “I was.” Scuttled off. Like the refuse on a shopkeeper’s stoop.

“Well, I am glad you’ve returned.”

She was glad she returned. Those words, so sincerely spoken, when no one, not even Genevieve’s own parents, had uttered them. “You do not even know me.” The words slipped out before she could call them back.

The smile widened on Francesca’s face, rather transforming her from pretty into a lovely, glowing woman. “I know enough that it is the height of wrongness to have you hide away from the world.” She shook her head. “Not a nice way to live, at all. But you danced tonight, which I imagine was very exciting.” She gave her an envious look. “Not that I know anything really about dancing.”

With Francesca’s kindness and wonderful spirit, and her relegation to the back hall of the ballroom, proved once more—gentleman were bloody fools. All of them. “It was exciting,” she conceded, so very happy to be able to confide that in someone. Particularly when she well-knew the carriage ride home would contain a stinging diatribe of Genevieve’s wickedness.

It will be worth it…
Unbidden, she did a sweep of the ballroom and several inches taller than even the tallest of guests, she easily found him. Cedric stood, with his back angled to her. He leaned an elbow against the Doric column and sipped from a champagne flute while speaking to a handsome, dark-haired gentleman. However, Cedric commanded her attention. How coolly elegant he was. Her heart skittered a dangerous beat.

“They are not all bad,” Francesca said and Genevieve looked over quickly. The woman nudged her chin slightly in the Marquess of St. Albans’ direction.

Her skin burned at the memory of his touch and kiss. No, the marquess was not bad. He was something far more dangerous—he was wicked.

“After all, he danced with you, which says a good deal about him.”

“Does it?” she drawled. It spoke to him being a rake who’d tease a woman in private and attempt to charm her in the midst of the ballroom floor.

“It means he doesn’t give a jot about gossip.” Francesca wrinkled her brow. “Which I don’t care about, either. And,” she added, as an afterthought, “he likely saw you tapping your feet.”

Genevieve started and glanced down at her miserably sore toes. She’d noticed her feet?

“There really isn’t much else to do but look,” she said, matter-of-factly.

She gave the woman a wry smile. “I expect sparing me from certain boredom was not at all the marquess’ intentions.” No doubt, he saw the same wanton everyone did. It was a belief she’d proven true earlier in his library and sought to coordinate an improper meeting. Or rather another improper meeting. Her skin warmed at the memory and, more, the craving to know his kiss, again.

“Why?” Francesca asked, jolting her back from those outrageous musings. “Because he’s a rake?” She furrowed her brow. “It hardly seems fair to condemn the gentleman for gossip attached to
his
name.” The young woman took another sip and grimaced. “Awful stuff, indeed.”

At that telling emphasis, Genevieve stilled and looked out at Cedric once more. With Francesca’s innocent and, no doubt, unwitting accusation, she stirred guilt. The gossips reported him to be a rake, but those same scandal sheets reported her to be a wanton.