The Lure of a Rake (The Heart of a Duke #9)(11)

Restless, she leaned up on tiptoes and ignoring the pain presented by her too-tight slippers, she searched for her sister. Gillian remained ensconced in conversation with her friend, a Miss Honoria Fairfax. From the sidelines, Genevieve felt very much the younger sister; uncertain, while the cheerful Gillian spoke easily to her friend. Another pang of sadness struck as she looked about her own bright-eyed excitement of years ago. There had once been a magical thrill at these lavish, glittering affairs. How odd to return to these ballrooms years later, at such a very different place in life, while her sister evinced that long-ago excitement.

Her mother shoved her elbow into Genevieve’s side and brought her back down hard on her heels. “Do stop frowning,” her mother hissed. “Pretty faces…”

Catch pretty titles.

Yes, that had long been mother’s silly words for her daughters. And yet, there’d been no more beautiful face than that of Gillian, and what had that gotten her? Not even a single offer or suitor because of a sin committed in her elder sister’s past.

Did her mother truly believe she would find a husband? Nor would Genevieve bother to correct her mother of the erroneous assumption that she would one, do something as foolish as to wed a rake who studiously avoided polite affairs, or two, that she’d wed a gentleman who saw nothing more than a pretty face in her. The only gentleman worth wedding was the good and honorable and hopelessly in love one. In short, a man who did not exist.

A tall figure appeared at the front of the room, momentarily distracting the guests, but alas, the sought-after host remained elusive. Genevieve yawned into her glove, earning another sharp glower from her mother. “The marquess might see,” she whispered.

“The marquess would have to attend,” she returned.

Another tall figure appeared at the threshold of the ballroom and the guests, her mother included, leaned forward. Alas, given the collective groan, the dark-haired gentleman at the front of the room was, in fact, not the future duke.

She cringed at the crowd’s tangible desire for that missing gentleman. What bad form. “Why throw a blasted ball?” she muttered. Why, if one had no plans on attending, and worse, forcing others to endure the tediousness of the affair?

“What was that, Genevieve?” her mother asked, returning her attention to her daughter, which was the last thing she cared for—attention from her mother, a mother who’d not given up hope of her only daughter of marriageable age making a match.

“I said, what a splendid ball,” she replied, with a smile.

The narrowing of her mother’s eyes indicated she knew the lie there and Genevieve gave thanks as her mother’s friend, the Countess of Erroll, approached.

The two women greeted each other eagerly as young ladies might. Their friendship went back to their days at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School and, as such, when together, they tended to forget everyone else around. Genevieve cast a special thanks skyward for that blessed diversion.

“…Why else would he host a formal ball, and make an appearance except to find a wife…” the other woman said excitedly.

Genevieve rolled her eyes. She had to tamp down the pointed reminder that the rake’s father was responsible for hosting said event, and that the Marquess of St. Albans still couldn’t be bothered to attend. Those were hardly indications of a marriage-minded lord. Nor would any sensible person ever mistake that elusive lord as marriage minded. The man had earned a reputation as one of Society’s most scandalous rakes and took care to avoid polite affairs.

“Well, I heard from Lady Delenworth who heard from Lady Fitzhugh, that he’s going to at last see to his responsibilities and wed.” Mother concluded that admission with a decisive nod, as though it declared her words fact.

Every scandalous widow and marriage-minded miss, however, seemed to be of like opinion to Mother. They all eyed the door with a breathless anticipation for the rakish Marquess of St. Albans to make his appearance—to his own ball.

Except, Genevieve. She wanted nothing to do with those rakish sorts. Especially one who couldn’t bother with punctuality. She didn’t care if the person was a prince or a pauper. In being late, it signified another’s belief in their own self-importance and devalued those individuals kept waiting.

She sighed. Yes, she’d be quite contented with a perfectly charming, romantic fellow who read her sonnets and snipped tresses of her hair to hold close. Forcibly thrusting back the painful musings, she looked about the room for a glimpse of a friendly, familiar face. Alas, she knew but one. Gillian, now otherwise occupied with her friend, chatted at the opposite end of the room. Envy pulled at her and she hated the niggling green monster that needled at her for Gillian having friends when Genevieve remained—alone.

“Mother,” she said, taking advantage of the other woman’s diversion. Genevieve shifted and then swallowed down a curse at the throbbing of her toes. “I am going to see Gillian,” she lied, crossing her fingers behind her back. “She is speaking with Miss Fairfax.”

“Very well,” her mother said, momentarily turning her attention from the next guest to arrive, who was decidedly not a future duke. Fortunately, Lady Erroll otherwise occupied the marchioness.

Genevieve slipped off and promptly winced. Well, slipped off, as much as one was able with too-tight slippers and throbbing toes. She limped along the ballroom floor. Couples twirled in a kaleidoscope of colorful satin fabrics that created a whir of movement and distraction, which she welcomed.