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

“I’ll see about a fresh pot. Genevieve, will you entertain our guest?” Aunt Lucy’s voice developed an edge. “Perhaps he’d like to sit down after his journey from London.”

Genevieve continued to gape at Richard like a rag-mannered hoyden. Or even more mortifying, like a starving urchin outside a pie stall. This gorgeous man couldn’t have told her he loved her or kissed her or dragged her to safety through stinking mud. Somewhere there must be another Richard Harmsworth. The man she knew well enough to tease and scold and love.

“I can’t claim to have come so far, Mrs. Warren. I’m at Leighton Court for the next few nights.”

“Is His Grace in residence? I hadn’t heard.”

“No. But he’s given me the run of the place.”

“Please sit down,” her aunt said. “I won’t be long and you and Genevieve know each other so well.”

As she retreated to her window seat, heat tinged Genevieve’s cheeks at her aunt’s unintentional double entendre. She and Richard did indeed know each other, in ways a vicar’s daughter should never know a man to whom she wasn’t married.

Genevieve stared into her lap, feeling awkward. She’d never been tongue-tied with Richard, even when she believed he was a lying thief. Especially not then. But this man was a stranger.

She heard the parlor door close.

“Alone at last.”

She jerked her head up. He’d chosen a chair to her right. His eyes brimmed with laughter and she didn’t trust that note of fond exasperation, just because she so desperately wanted to hear it. “Don’t mock me.”

“Why not? You’re acting like a ninnyhammer.”

“Charming,” she snapped. “You’re blond again.”

The change in his hair was part of what left her so unsettled. The gleaming gold suited him much better than muddy brown. But she couldn’t relate to this shining Apollo, even as her heart clenched with hopeless love. She wanted Christopher Evans back. She could imagine Christopher Evans needing Genevieve Barrett in his life. She couldn’t picture this epitome of fashion sparing a glance for her rumpled person.

Self-consciously he touched his hair without ruffling its perfection. It was like he was made of marble and paint and enamel, not flesh at all. She struggled to recall the hot press of their bodies. The memory was hazy.

“I can’t say I miss that damned sticky paste.” When she didn’t reply, he sighed. “I’m sorry I took so long to return. It’s been a devil of a few weeks, dealing with Fairbrother’s death and ensuring the scandal never touched you.”

“Thank you,” she said ungraciously.

She hated that he saw her so clearly. What she really wanted was for him to sweep her into his arms and kiss her and tell her that he loved her and that he forgave her for being a witch last time they were together. How she wished she wore her gold silk instead of this faded blue muslin. Except her good dress was seasons out of date and couldn’t compete with his splendor.

He leaned forward and for one breathless moment, she wondered if he’d take her hand. “Where’s your father?”

Her breath escaped in an exhalation of bewilderment. “He’s been in Oxford since Lord Neville’s death.”

His patron’s suicide had devastated Ezekiel Barrett. He’d categorically refused to believe the reports of illegal activities, not to mention the attempt on Genevieve’s life.

“Genevieve—”

She stood on shaky legs. “I suppose you’ve left Sirius at the stable. I’ll go and see him.”

“Genevieve, I’m sorry I didn’t adequately appreciate what you offered to do for me.”

It seemed he did mean to apologize. Was that indeed why he was here? “It’s of no importance.”

Annoyance darkened his features and fleetingly he looked like her Richard. “Damn it, yes, it is important. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Oh, no. That sentence never boded well. She braced for bad news, even as frogs the size of ponies jumped about in her stomach. “What?”

He slid a hand into his coat and produced a letter. “Read this.”

Not sure of his purpose, she accepted the sealed paper with a shaking hand. Did he say farewell in writing? “Is it from you?”

He scowled. “Why the devil should I write to you? I’m right here.”