Free The Lure of a Rake by Christi Caldwell Page B

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.