back to his stolen snifter, rescued his glass, and then with a panther-like grace, stalked over to her. “Never tell me you are one of the ladies in attendance not desiring that coveted title.” He took another sip of his drink.
Climbing to her feet, Genevieve studied her fingers. She’d never wanted the title duchess. She’d simply craved the romanticism that came with being in love. “I have no interest at all in the title of marchioness, duchess, or anything else,” she said with quiet honesty. Never again.
With those long, sleek steps, he continued coming and she really should be afraid. She was alone with a gentleman, in her host’s library, behind a locked door. It was the height of folly and possible danger, and yet there was this inexplicable ease around him. An inherent knowledge that no harm would come to her at his hands. Not a man who could have so gently slid her slippers on her feet. A delicious shiver ran through her and her mouth went dry at the memory. I am the wicked, wanton they all accused me of being.
“Not even the Marquess of St. Albans?”
Was there a wry humor to that query? She could not make source of his peculiar tone past the rapid whirring of her thoughts. She struggled to force out a coherent reply. She recalled her sister’s earlier words about the man. “Particularly the marquess.” She’d little desire for the notoriety that came with such a gentleman. Rakes, rogues, and scoundrels, they were to be avoided, all of them.
“Here I was believing every lady coveted the role of future duchess,” he said dryly. A cynical glint lit his eye and she frowned, preferring him as he’d been a moment prior—affable and slightly mysterious.
“I do not,” she persisted, taking a step toward him. She never had. Genevieve looked beyond his shoulder. Her parents had craved nothing less than a duke for their daughter who’d been the toast of the London Season. She’d been so caught up with the glittering opulence and excitement of London, she’d been too naïve to realize…she would have been quite contented with a second son of a lord, in a modest cottage, as long as she knew love. “One would be under constant study and scrutiny,” she said at last. Having been so examined after The Scandal, she’d do quite well without the grandiose attention that would come with a title that was very nearly royalty. “That, I could do without,” she said softly. Pinpricks of awareness dotted her skin and she looked at Cedric. Her breath caught hard at the hot intensity of his stare.
What was he thinking, this stranger she’d only just met?
Chapter 4
C edric, the Marquess of St. Albans, hadn’t had a single intention of attending the lavish ball thrown by his father. Through the years, his sire had commanded and Cedric had quite delighted in turning a proverbial finger up at those orders.
He would have been very contented sipping his brandy while the event carried on in the ballroom. He would revel in the duke’s fury and then seek out his clubs when the last of the guests had departed.
Now, staring at the spirited woman casting aspersions upon his future title, there was no place he’d rather be than this very library. His lips twitched. His too-large library.
Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the false friendships and respect granted him for nothing more than his birthright. He’d come to believe that future title was the single most important thing to every last lord and lady in London. It would appear he’d found the single lady in the whole of the kingdom who didn’t give a jot. Curiously, he wanted to know just what else Miss Genevieve With-No-Surname thought of his worthless self.
Cedric studied her from over the rim of his glass. With her hair pulled back with such severity and her dreary, modest skirts, she had the look of a companion and would never be the manner of woman to command his notice. The ladies who’d earned his favor through the years had been the
Climbing to her feet, Genevieve studied her fingers. She’d never wanted the title duchess. She’d simply craved the romanticism that came with being in love. “I have no interest at all in the title of marchioness, duchess, or anything else,” she said with quiet honesty. Never again.
With those long, sleek steps, he continued coming and she really should be afraid. She was alone with a gentleman, in her host’s library, behind a locked door. It was the height of folly and possible danger, and yet there was this inexplicable ease around him. An inherent knowledge that no harm would come to her at his hands. Not a man who could have so gently slid her slippers on her feet. A delicious shiver ran through her and her mouth went dry at the memory. I am the wicked, wanton they all accused me of being.
“Not even the Marquess of St. Albans?”
Was there a wry humor to that query? She could not make source of his peculiar tone past the rapid whirring of her thoughts. She struggled to force out a coherent reply. She recalled her sister’s earlier words about the man. “Particularly the marquess.” She’d little desire for the notoriety that came with such a gentleman. Rakes, rogues, and scoundrels, they were to be avoided, all of them.
“Here I was believing every lady coveted the role of future duchess,” he said dryly. A cynical glint lit his eye and she frowned, preferring him as he’d been a moment prior—affable and slightly mysterious.
“I do not,” she persisted, taking a step toward him. She never had. Genevieve looked beyond his shoulder. Her parents had craved nothing less than a duke for their daughter who’d been the toast of the London Season. She’d been so caught up with the glittering opulence and excitement of London, she’d been too naïve to realize…she would have been quite contented with a second son of a lord, in a modest cottage, as long as she knew love. “One would be under constant study and scrutiny,” she said at last. Having been so examined after The Scandal, she’d do quite well without the grandiose attention that would come with a title that was very nearly royalty. “That, I could do without,” she said softly. Pinpricks of awareness dotted her skin and she looked at Cedric. Her breath caught hard at the hot intensity of his stare.
What was he thinking, this stranger she’d only just met?
Chapter 4
C edric, the Marquess of St. Albans, hadn’t had a single intention of attending the lavish ball thrown by his father. Through the years, his sire had commanded and Cedric had quite delighted in turning a proverbial finger up at those orders.
He would have been very contented sipping his brandy while the event carried on in the ballroom. He would revel in the duke’s fury and then seek out his clubs when the last of the guests had departed.
Now, staring at the spirited woman casting aspersions upon his future title, there was no place he’d rather be than this very library. His lips twitched. His too-large library.
Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the false friendships and respect granted him for nothing more than his birthright. He’d come to believe that future title was the single most important thing to every last lord and lady in London. It would appear he’d found the single lady in the whole of the kingdom who didn’t give a jot. Curiously, he wanted to know just what else Miss Genevieve With-No-Surname thought of his worthless self.
Cedric studied her from over the rim of his glass. With her hair pulled back with such severity and her dreary, modest skirts, she had the look of a companion and would never be the manner of woman to command his notice. The ladies who’d earned his favor through the years had been the
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