Free The Lure of a Rake by Christi Caldwell

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