A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

He swept his hat from his head and knocked. “Thank you.”

She regarded him with irritation. “As if I could keep you out.”

This time he gave her a full smile and she blinked at the brilliance. She was always conscious of his exceptional looks. His spectacular appearance somehow seemed part of his deceit. But now and again, his masculine beauty struck with the force of lightning through a stormy sky.

“Of course you can’t keep me out,” he said in a low voice. “Haven’t you realized that yet, Genevieve?”

Before she could object to his use of her Christian name, before she could muster any response at all to his discomfiting question, the door opened and Mrs. Meacham’s maid ushered them inside the neat cottage. Sirius trotted after his master, at home here as he was in the vicarage.

“Ah, Miss Barrett, Mr. Evans, how kind of you both to call.” Mrs. Meacham struggled to stand, but Richard moved quickly to take her hand. She settled back into her chair with a concealed wince. “And Sirius. We saved you a nice bone from last night’s joint.”

“No wonder he’s your friend for life,” Richard said with a smile. He liked this widowed lady. He liked her courage and her dignity and the warmth with which she’d received him. He didn’t like the speculative glance she cast Genevieve, but he’d known that when he escorted the vicar’s daughter, he would set the village agog.

Under Genevieve’s wary gaze, Richard read the precious letter from Charles Meacham. “All is well on the high seas. Would you like a quick game of piquet before I accompany Miss Barrett to her next appointment?”

“You gamble?” Genevieve asked with disapproval.

“Like fiends,” Mrs. Meacham said.

“I’ll soon have to pawn my shirt,” Richard added.

Mrs. Meacham giggled. “After my last triumph, you owe me half an hour of reading.”

“Indeed. Miss Barrett, can you wait?”

Genevieve wanted to say no, he saw, but reluctantly she nodded. Mrs. Meacham was a favorite with her too and she often stayed for a chat. An abrupt departure would only stir the widow’s interest.

Richard moved toward a side table piled with books. “I believe we were up to chapter fifteen of Ivanhoe. Gad, that fellow’s insipid.”

“Too insipid after Charles’s adventures in the West Indies,” Mrs. Meacham said. “I’ve got something better. My niece sent the London papers.”

Another quality he admired in Mrs. Meacham was that despite her arthritis, fading eyesight and genteel poverty, she maintained a lively interest in the wider world. “We’ll both enjoy those.”

Which turned out to be not quite the case, damn it. The papers were a couple of months old and focused on high society. At that time, Richard Harmsworth had been prowling the marriage market, assessing the current crop of debutantes for a potential wife. A wife of perfect pedigree to polish the tarnish off the Harmsworth name.

The Harmsworth name that frequently appeared in print, even if inadequately disguised as ‘H__msw__th.’ It seemed his doings were familiar enough to Mrs. Meacham that she discussed him as if he were a naughty nephew.

His fear that something in the papers might expose his identity faded. Luckily, the publications’ sketch artists weren’t nearly as accurate as their reporters. Several pictures purported to be him. But not even his best friends would recognize him as the dandified pretty boy depicted. Although at least they’d got his clothing right. Bitterly he recognized that what he wore carried considerably more importance than the man he was. He’d carefully cultivated his image, but the realization was nonetheless discomfiting.

“Poor Sir Richard,” Mrs. Meacham sighed after a particularly lengthy and annoyingly accurate list of the ladies he’d danced with at Cam’s sister’s ball. One of the servants that night must have taken bribes—and detailed notes. “Will he ever live down the scandal?”

“Lord Neville mentioned something about his birth,” Genevieve said.

Bugger him dead. Despite Great Aunt Amelia’s hints to her, Richard had hoped that Genevieve would remain unaware of his illegitimacy. But even in Little Derrick, his name was tarred.

Eagerly Mrs. Meacham leaned forward. “He’s a bastard, dear. Nobody knows who his father is.”

Richard’s skin itched with the familiar mixture of humiliation and anger. Worse this time because Genevieve heard the grubby story and in a place where he’d been welcomed at face value.

Genevieve frowned as if she pieced together clues. “But it sounds as if he’s accepted everywhere.”

Mrs. Meacham’s expression remained avid and he caught a hint of the pretty girl she’d once been. “He’s rich and handsome, and the previous baronet acknowledged him as the heir, even if everyone knew he was a by-blow. The gossip is that he’s seeking a wife to restore the family prestige.” She looked across at Richard, who battled the desire to fling the bloody scandal sheets into the fire. “Mr. Evans, you’ve moved in society. Have you met Sir Richard? According to the papers, he’s a great friend of Sedgemoor’s.”

Hell, what could he say? Genevieve’s fixed attention as she awaited his answer hinted at hostility. Perhaps because Richard Harmsworth wanted her treasure. If she only knew that Richard Harmsworth wanted considerably more than that from her.

“No, we haven’t encountered one another.” That wasn’t completely a lie, although it sounded like one. He tossed away the paper with unconcealed contempt. “From what I hear, he’s a paltry fellow.”

Still Genevieve stared at him. He hoped she couldn’t see past his careless response to the roiling rage inside. She had no reason to think him anyone other than Christopher Evans, but still he squirmed under her searching regard.