Page 12 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Encouraged by their kiss earlier that afternoon, Hugo was all attentiveness, venturing several times to brush his elbow with hers. Noting that she had little appetite, he suggested that Cook send up some broth if the fish was too off-putting. Geneviève did her best to smile and put his mind at ease, all the while aware it was the viscount, Lord Wulverton, she needed to convince of her composure.
I must pretend as I have so many times before. I am meek and obedient and without opinion. I will make him disbelievehis eyes. For how can I be the woman on the train? Such a thing is inconceivable.
The viscount seemed little inclined to speak but answered each question with a curt statement: under Major General Roberts, he’d crossed the Shutargardan Pass into Afghanistan, to defeat the Afghan Army at Charasiab, and had fought in the Siege of Sherpur Cantonment during the uprising. He made nothing of his injury sustained at the Battle of Kandahar. His shoulder only pained him now and then, and had regained almost all mobility.
Of the years following his active service, he spoke even less. He’d settled in Constantinople, beside the sparkling Bosphorus, though how he’d spent his time there he declined to say.
At last, Marguerite invited them to withdraw. They’d take their brandy and coffee together in the adjoining room.
“Allow me,” said Dr. Hissop, helping Geneviève rise from her chair. “How are you finding the moor, Countess? Not too quiet?”
“It’s all I’d hoped for.” She forced herself to smile—to respond as she must. “And you, doctor?” Wishing to keep her distance from the rest of the party, Geneviève guided him to stand near the window.
“My wife misses the liveliness of Exeter life while I find the moorland fascinating. I’m a lover of antiquities but lack the time or funds to travel to the ancient sites of Greece and Italy. Here, on our very doorstep, we have a wealth of history, cairns and barrows and stone circles. There are a great many on the moor—especiallykistvaens, the stone-clad hollows where the ancients placed their dead. If you ever find yourself caught in a downpour, they make excellent hiding places to duck out of the rain.”
“How intriguing.” Geneviève’s gaze travelled across the room. Marguerite had drawn the newcomer into conversation. Geneviève might endure another ten minutes before making an excuse to retire.
Dr. Hissop seemed to be warming to his subject. “The dwellers of the moor have many tales and customs also worthy of attention. Their folk superstitions are not always original, of course, except in the way they relate to local landmarks. The corpse-lights, for instance, which are said to lure the unwary into the mire.”
“Ah, yes.” Geneviève took a sip from her coffee cup. “We have the same in France, little dancing lights on the marshes which lead you to step where you should not and lose your way.”
“Quite so,” replied Dr. Hissop. “People think they’re above such superstitions in our rational, modern century, with its motorized vehicles and moving cinematographs, but if you find yourself alone on the moor after dark, you may find your mind wandering down paths illuminated more by fear than reason.”
Geneviève turned her back a little more on the others across the room and urged the doctor to continue.
“Then, there’s the Lych Way.” Dr. Hissop’s eyes were alight. “The medieval funeral path used to carry corpses across Dartmoor to their internment. Several ofmy patients swear they’ve seen ghostly processions, and without having taken a drop of liquor!”
Geneviève forced herself to laugh while stealing a furtive glance toward Lord Wulverton. Hugo was chattering away, but the viscount did not seem to be listening. Instead, he was looking over his balloon of Cognac—positively staring, in fact, and at Geneviève alone.
It was sostrange to be back.
How eager he’d been to leave. Twenty-three years, and here he was again.
Very little had changed. The same portraits hung upon the walls, and the same brocade curtains adorned the tall, mullioned windows. Even the furniture seemed to be in the same place it had been on the day he’d left. Only his bedroom seemed different. Smaller than he remembered. The bed—having accommodated generations of de Wolfes—still sagged and creaked.
His father appeared to have kept the hall in good enough repair, which was some relief. Mallon had wondered what he might find on his return—a leaking roof, perhaps, or boarded windows.
Many of the staff were new, of course, but Withers was still here, and Mrs. Fuddleby. Mallon had poked his head into the kitchen briefly and been rewarded with a warm embrace from their cook. She’d grown slightly rounder about the middle but her manner toward him was just the same. To her, he suspected, he’d always be Master Mallon.
Marguerite had greeted him cordially, though hadn’t quite been able to conceal her wariness at his arrival. It was only to be expected. She’d lived here more years than he had himself. It was her home as much as his, regardless of his title of ownership. He’d done his best to assure her that he intended no change in that regard. As Edward’s widow, she would always have a home at Wulverton Hall.
What most surprised him was the attractive guest in their midst. Marguerite had told him something of her sister-in-law, now re-entering Society—and with gusto, it seemed, since she’d put aside her black in favor of a red silk gown swept low across her shoulders.
She was most definitely his type, generous in the bosom and hips, and with a waist that beckoned a man’s hands. Her lips, sensuously full and deeply rouged, begged not just to be kissed but held the promise of other acts.
Had they met in London, he’d have certainly attempted to bed her. He indulged a fleeting image of the countess without her dress, without any clothes at all. He wondered if she’d be amenable to placing those fleshy handfuls at his disposal. It would certainly bring an element of spice to the weeks ahead. Much as he loved the moor, his expectations were low regarding the company to be had. A little diversion would be most welcome.
Marguerite had told him the countess was well-provided for, though Hugo had inherited the main assets of her late husband’s estate. She wouldn’t be seeking an extended stay,surely. Paris seemed more her style—a place for a young widow of means to find suitable entertainment.
However, as pleasurable as a fling would be, he set the thought aside. He’d only just gotten back and there was a great deal for him to assess on the estate. He could do without the inconvenience of an entanglement where she might misconstrue his intentions and attempt to secure a longer-term commitment.
Such a thing was furthest from Mallon’s thoughts.
Besides which, her pronounced sensuality put him in mind of his mother, whose excess of carnality had led to her ruin.
Nevertheless, he was drawn to observe her, and to admire. Since retiring to the drawing room, she’d been speaking with the doctor—or listening rather, for the man had a liking for his own voice.
The gems at her ears caught the candlelight—delicate drops of crimson against the white of her throat. Her dark hair was lustrous, upswept and decorated with a lavishly plumed aigrette. Her eyes, meanwhile, were an unusual shade. He’d thought them grey at first, but closer inspection showed them to be silver-threaded violet, like sunlight on stormy seas.
