Page 17 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“Ah! So, you are proudly French! And the blood of brave warriors flows in your veins.” The ships in the tapestry, and the names of prominent houses of French nobility now made a little more sense.
“I suppose a great many of us could make that claim, if we looked back far enough, but I don’t think of myself as one of your countrymen—regardless of their many…notable qualities.”
Geneviève gave him a sidelong glance. The English humor! She could not be quite certain, but it appeared he was now mocking her.
“You were telling me of your family’s struggle, I believe, Lord Wulverton. Please do continue. I love a tale of quest and tragedy. Do not be modest. If your people have lived up to their motto, then you should not be humble in telling of their… pluck. What sacrifices have they made in the name of love and honor?”
He paused again, for far longer than was needed to gather his thoughts.
Had she overstepped the mark? Really, he was themost difficult person—talkative one moment and then so melancholy, staring into nothingness.
When he looked down at her once more, his face was very still. He spoke with a nonchalance that belied the intensity in his eyes. “Our family suffered badly through the Civil War, being stripped of its finery by Cromwell’s parliament. De Wolfes have always promised service to the Crown, and we remained true to Charles I, fighting alongside Sir Bevil Grenvile and the other Royalists at the Battle of Sourton Down. Wulverton Hall was left half in ruins by the time the roundheads had finished tearing it apart. Those were hard years, I believe. Full of uncertainty.”
“For that, I’m sorry.” Geneviève felt a flush of shame at her hasty words. “To see one’s home destroyed is tragedy indeed.”
“Well, it turned out well enough in the end. With the Restoration, Charles II rewarded Allenby de Wolfe’s loyalty by elevating him to the peerage, granting him the viscountcy.”
Lord Wulverton shrugged, but there was nothing dispassionate in the way he was staring at her, surveying her lips and her neck, then her lips again. Geneviève had thought his eyes a dull hazel before—a muddy mixture of moss and brown—but a strange light had sparked within them, making the green flicker.
The warmth that had come to her cheeks through shame seemed to grow as he looked at her, fuelled now by a different awareness—of her femininity beside his strength, and herknowledge of what had passed between them. Her knowledge of how it had felt to take him inside her.
She endeavored to find her voice, struggling against the breath catching in her throat. “His loyalty was rewarded.”
“Quite so.” Lord Wulverton leaned in closer. “Some fared far worse. Wicked Lord Cavell, for instance.”
“Wicked?” Geneviève licked her lips.
“Oh, yes! Fiendishly sinful! If anyone’s keeping company with Satan, it’s him.”
“Aren’t we all wicked, one way or another?” she murmured.
“One way or another, I suppose we are.” His mouth brushed her hair. “As for Lord Cavell, the marriage bargain he struck brought out the very worst in him. Having wed the daughter of the man who’d sent him into financial ruin, he took his revenge on her in the most humiliating ways—accusing her of adultery with every man in their employ. Locking her in her chamber, he visited only to exercise his conjugal rights.”
“She was a prisoner.” The thought made Geneviève sway, but Lord Wulverton’s hand was firmly behind her, resting on the small of her back.
He would kiss her, now, surely? She knew already how he would taste, and how his tongue would enter to claim her. How much she knew, and how much she remembered! She tilted her head, parting her lips in anticipation, warmth flooding her lower abdomen.
“With none for company but her loyal hound.” His voice was soft and low. “In the end, she let herself down the ivy from her window and fled across the moor.”
Geneviève glanced out from the window. The distance to the ground was great and the ivy, though plentiful, looked far from secure.
“And had she been unfaithful to him?” Geneviève met his eyes once more. She found his lids half closed, but the green fire within them just as bright.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “Lord Cavell’s actions were extreme, but some would find them justifiable. No man likes to be made a fool of.”
Geneviève frowned. The idea of being so controlled, losing all independence, would be unbearable to her. She made to step back, but his other hand was upon her now, at her waist, pulling her toward him.
She pushed back with both hands, anger flaring. “And no woman wishes to be denied her liberty.”
As he towered over her, she saw his jaw tense and the pulse rise in his temple. He looked as if he would not just kiss her but tear the clothes from her body and consume her like a wolf hungry for its prey.
Then, just as suddenly, his expression closed, his voice becoming hard.
“Once Lord Cavell had set off in pursuit, it didn’t take long for him to bring her down, and to plunge his knife into her heart.”
His tone was quite poisonous, as if he were berating her for the supposed faithlessness of Lady Cavell, and of all her sex. Shrinking back, she grasped behind her, finding the curtain’s edge.
She made herself laugh, but it sounded hollow. “And what of her faithful dog? Did he not leap fromthe window to come to her aid?”
