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

That morning in Little Derrick had been Genevieve’s last cordial encounter with her father. Once her article appeared and she’d given the first of several well-received lectures, his pique had been boundless. He’d never forgive her for breaking away, even as he basked in his new status as a baronet’s father-in-law. Since the wedding, her father had renounced parish duties to accept a place at his old college.

Genevieve’s article had created a flurry in academic circles and had led to numerous invitations to investigate heirlooms of doubtful provenance. She’d been right to fear some backlash as the Harmsworth name again stirred talk. But she’d soon realized that Richard hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed he didn’t care a fig for society’s approval. The malice had quickly faded when it became clear to the world that the bastard baronet and his eccentric wife were beyond the old scandal’s reach.

Genevieve and Richard had spent their first six months of marriage traveling. A honeymoon in Italy became a tour of medieval sites in Spain and France. So magical to see places she’d read about all her life. Even more magical to see them in the company of the man she loved.

She’d wondered whether her husband’s lukewarm interest in the Middle Ages would survive imprisonment in the crypt. But he’d escorted her with good grace. When she’d quizzed him on his tolerance, he’d swept her into bed, then pointed out that when she was happy, she was amenable to making him happy. Scholarship hadn’t fully occupied their time, she smiled to recall.

“You’re laughing at me.”

Heat tinged her cheeks. “I was thinking about that inn above Roncesvalles.”

He ceased pacing and regarded her with sudden interest. “Were you indeed, you saucy wench?”

“The painting reminds me of the landscape.” Which was a complete lie, although now she checked the canvas, the rugged scenery conveyed a hint of the Pyrenees.

“I’m sure.” He prowled toward her, his expression intent.

Dear Lord. “Richard, you can’t tumble me here. Your mother may come in any moment.”

“To Hades with my mother.” He slid his arms around her waist. “I want to kiss my wife.”

“A laudable ambition, my son.”

Genevieve gasped with embarrassment and struggled to pull free. Richard tensed, but didn’t release her. Instead he turned slightly, like a step in a waltz, and stared over Genevieve’s head at the woman in the doorway. “I’m glad you think so, Mother.”

He sounded like the supercilious rake who had provoked Genevieve’s dislike at the vicarage. But the Dowager Lady Harmsworth couldn’t see how his hands tightened to bruising around Genevieve’s hips or hear the hitch in his breath.

“Richard, let me go,” Genevieve whispered urgently, pushing at his shoulders. Her face was on fire. This wasn’t how she wanted to meet her mother-in-law. She’d told Richard he should see his mother alone, the first time he called on her in sixteen years. But he’d insisted upon Genevieve’s presence and she, recognizing vulnerability beneath his stubbornness, had agreed.

Now she wasn’t certain she’d made the right decision.

To her relief, Richard’s grip eased and she extricated herself, smoothing the skirt on her dashing teal dress. She retreated a few steps, then faced the woman whose actions had exerted such baleful influence over her husband’s life.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Beauty certainly, and beauty there was. Augusta Harmsworth must be in her fifties, but her bone structure and slender figure made her a striking woman. What surprised Genevieve was that she didn’t look like her son. Where Richard was all golden fairness, Augusta was dark. Raven hair, arching black brows, eyes that seemed at this distance as dark as night.

Genevieve knew better than to expect maternal warmth. After all, Augusta had avoided her son as far as possible since he’d started university. But there was a wariness about this woman that made Genevieve hesitate before speaking. She glanced at Richard standing motionless beside her. While he didn’t share his mother’s features, something in his set expression echoed Augusta’s.

Augusta swept in with a commanding manner that reminded Genevieve how this woman had dazzled countless foreign courts. In louche Continental circles, the Harmsworth scandal had added piquancy to her presence. She wore an azure silk gown that must have come from Paris. Richard had inherited his instinct for style from his mother.

“Pray, don’t let my arrival forestall your plans,” Augusta said coolly.

Richard took Genevieve’s gloved hand and led her to the sofa. “My wife is still a little shy, madam.”

Genevieve stifled the urge to kick him. When she’d agreed to this, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might become a bone for the two formidable Harmsworths to quarrel over.

Lady Augusta approached and sank into the chair opposite the sofa with a grace that made Genevieve green with envy. Since marrying Richard, she’d learned a lot. These days, she made a fair show of navigating society. But never would she manage such poise. Particularly in a meeting that must be difficult for anyone with liquid thicker than iced water in her veins. For all Augusta’s unruffled façade, something about the line of her shoulders indicated turbulent emotion constrained by an iron will.

“Thank you for telling me about your wedding,” Augusta said.

Richard leaned against the mantelpiece with a nonchalance that didn’t convince Genevieve. “It seemed appropriate.”

Augusta arched her eyebrows but didn’t respond. Instead she turned to Genevieve. “My son has forgotten that it’s appropriate to make introductions. I, my dear, am your notorious mother-in-law. And you are my son’s distinguished wife. I hear you’re the toast of academia. I attended your lecture at the Royal Society. Very impressive.”

Genevieve saw Richard start with surprise. She was surprised herself. And too concerned about her husband’s reactions to this meeting to feel particularly flattered.

“I didn’t see you,” he said.

A faint smile curved Augusta’s lips. “I made sure that you didn’t.” She turned back to Genevieve. “Good for you, showing the men up at their own game. And soon you’ll be consulting at the British Museum.”