Page 20 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Hugo conceded with a sniff. Meanwhile, Marguerite looked as if a vat of soured milk had just been placed under her nose.
“All settled then.” Viscount Wulverton might have been absent from his ancestral home for more than two decades, but he appeared to be having no difficulty stepping into hisrole as Master of the Moor.
Maxim had been old enough to be Geneviève’s grandfather, give or take a few years. The viscount, at a pinch, could have sired her. Hugo was more akin to a little brother. Putting aside the volatility of his moods, Lord Wulverton would make the more engaging husband of the two, despite the irrational outburst she’d witnessed that morning. However, it was Hugo she needed to win over if she was to return to Château Rosseline with her head held high.
She wondered if the viscount had somehow gotten the measure of her and, if so, what he might propose to do about it. Had he sensed her plan to entice Hugo and was intervening to thwart her, or was his interest more self-serving?
She was aware of his passionate nature, and the attraction between them was surely mutual. It had been that, she surmised, which had inspired the bizarre fit of temper she’d witnessed. He had fought to control his animal urges, and the result had been a show of force. How like a man to blame his own lack of control on a woman’s wiles, as if the desire that had flared between them had been a re-enactment of Adam’s temptation.
Even so, perhaps he intended to drive her to some remote track and initiate a more thorough seduction.
Such an overture would create the worst of complications, yet Geneviève’s stomach fluttered at the thought.
CHAPTER 10
As she descended the steps,Lord Wulverton was blowing on his hands and foot stamping. When he turned, looking at her with those piercing green eyes, and offering his hand to help her into the cart, she hesitated.
Several times, in the night, she’d woken. Her dreams were always vivid, and they were currently stoked with an alarming degree of fuel. She’d imagined every sort of scenario for the coming day and Geneviève blushed to think of it.
Lord Wulverton was clearly not quite a gentleman. Rather, he was just the sort of gentleman that appealed to Geneviève’s baser nature. Accompanying him today was madness, and she might have invented any sort of excuse to avoid the outing. But she had not.
Whatever transpires, I must keep my head, she reminded herself, allowing him to settle her on the sprung seat and place a woollen rug about her legs.
She’d wondered if he would make an apology for hissnappish behavior, and the near-violence he’d shown her. However, he made no reference to what had passed.
To begin with, neither spoke as the wheels of the cart creaked over the frost-hardened ground. Lord Wulverton merely nodded to indicate what he thought might be of interest within the undulating landscape: a fox stalking silently ahead, its eyes on some smaller creature unseen, and a rough circle of stones with a buzzard circling above. Cottages huddled beneath the hills, slated roofs yellowed with lichen, lowering over walls thick as castle keeps, others roughly thatched.
Geneviève’s nose was numb from the chill, though the sun’s strength prevented her from feeling too cold. Wearing her thickest clothing and keeping the rug firmly tucked about her, she was almost comfortable.
There was little enough room upon the seat of the cart. The length of the viscount’s legs compelled him to sit with them parted, holding the reins between, making it impossible for her to avoid her leg touching his. Each bump over the dry-rutted mud brought them together with a jolt.
Eventually, she set aside propriety, slightly leaning into him, allowing her hip to nestle his. In this way, they swayed as one. Twice, the cart lurched so violently that she was forced to steady herself by placing her hand on his thigh. However, not once did his hands stray from their job in directing the horses, nor did he touch her in any way that could be interpreted as intentional.
Nevertheless, she felt certain that he took pleasure in the rocking motion which drew them together.Despite the many layers of clothing between them, she was aware of his body—its warmth and hardness, while the soft curve of her breast pressed somewhere above the crook of his elbow.
As they reached the top of a small rise, chickens scattered, and Geneviève caught the rich smell of a peat fire. Its smoke carried on the crisp morning air, overlaying the scent of sheep’s dung and urine and rotting vegetation.
A black-faced sheepdog missing a rear leg ambled out to greet them, followed by the lady of the house, who dipped a curtsey.
Geneviève stayed in the cart as Lord Wulverton swung down, greeting the woman and tugging at the ears of the two children peeking from behind her skirts.
The woman drew off her apron, patting her hair. “It’s so cold—like as not to snow afore Christmas, and here ye are comin’ out to see us!”
She spoke with a great deal of familiarity, touching the viscount’s arm and speaking to him more as the boy she remembered from years past than as the lord of all that could be seen from one horizon to the next.
“Shame it be that old Jim b’aint here to see ye back from foreign parts. Him did say ye’d be back, an’ him were right.”
She dabbed at her eye with the corner of the apron as Lord Wulverton lifted down the basket intended for her family, and insisted on them taking a mug of warmed milk before they departed.
Geneviève would haverefused but for the viscount accepting. As it was, she surreptitiously wiped the edge of her cup before drinking.
It was the same at each place they visited. Often, ale or broth were fetched, and the best wishes given for the season.
On such short acquaintance, Geneviève would not have presumed to say she knew Lord Wulverton. In fact, with each passing hour, she felt as though he became more of an enigma. Today, she saw a different side to him—one without arrogance or condescension, or any sign of temper. He was another man entirely.
However, at their final stop, the jovial greetings were tempered by more sombre talk—of the convict, still loose. Geneviève heard only part of the exchange, and the Devon accent was hard for her to follow.
“God help ee!” said one. “They do escape more often at this time o’ year, yearnin’ fer theys’ loved uns and not bein’ able t’ bear the thought o’ spending Christmas in that place.”
