Page 22 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
The boulders of the curving moor had turned granite-black against the darkening sky and the winter-gray expanse. The fading of the light and Lord Wulverton’s closeness within the cart seemed to encourage the sharing of confidences, for he continued.
“All the time I was in foreign lands, I kept thinking I’d die and be buried in the dust, far away. When my time comes, I want to be placed here, beneath the racing sky and the wind breathing through the grass, under the cold peat and moss, with the tors keeping watch over me.”
She nodded. Whatever his past, he belonged on the moor.
Geneviève realized that she hadn’t thought of her own home for many hours. Instead, she’d been consumed by the landscape through which they’d travelled. Consumed also by watching him.
“And what of you?” he asked. “I imagine something more than the desire to become better acquainted with your sister-in-law has brought you here.”
Suppressing a tremble of alarm, she kept her eyes upon his hands, guiding the horses. It was a rare occasion when Geneviève told an unadulterated truth. Complete honesty was generally unnecessary. Dangerous even. He didn’t need to hear the sordid details of her past.
However, she felt inclined to give him something that wasn’t wholly a lie.
“I don’t like to be reliant on others, but it would suit me to marry again, for the status it affords.”
She seldom mentioned her fears. Steely determination was more her style. Nevertheless, she permitted Wulverton a glimpse at what she preferred to keep hidden. “The modest circumstances of my past are a hindrance in finding a husband among my former acquaintances; at least, any husband I’d consider suitable.”
She saw no judgement in his expression, and it emboldened her to continue. “I came with the expectation of Marguerite introducing me to her own Society.”
His lips twitched. “And how is that proceeding?”
“I find I must congratulate Mrs. Wapshot and Mrs. Hissop on having claimed the most eligible bachelors!”
He laughed at that. “You were raised in a convent, I hear. An austere upbringing, I imagine.”
“The nuns were kind, though no more than you might expect.”
He betrayed no distaste, but Geneviève was reluctant to share too many particulars. “The hardest part was knowing my mother had given me up. I was too young to understand why she’d done so. Even now, I fail to fully comprehend how she could have left me…” Her throat grew constricted.
He made no move to comfort her—did not touch her or offer any platitude of sympathy. Instead, he merely nodded. “I was barelyfour years old when I lost my own mother, and only seven when my father sent me away to school.”
Such things were common among the British nobility—sending boy children away to grow into men. She’d vowed that, if she ever had a child of her own, she’d keep them with her for as long as possible. There were other ways to show children how to be strong and brave than to take them from loving arms and oblige them to fend for themselves.
It was a discussion for another time. For now, she sensed enough had been shared. Better to speak of something else.
A mist had been tumbling over the bare masses of stone standing jagged above them, easing down the side of the hill. It wouldn’t be long before it reached the road.
Geneviève made efforts to lighten the mood. “Dr. Hissop told me about the piskies sending the mists to confuse us. I hope your horses know their way back.”
“They’re only low clouds.” Lord Wulverton peered up to where she was looking. “We’re a thousand feet above the rest of the county here. Clouds need stoop very little to embrace the moor.”
“You’ve the soul of a poet!” Geneviève mused, inspiring another of his half smiles.
They’d almost reached the hall, though not by its grand gates and the avenue. He had taken them behind, approaching via the smaller track which led past the chapel, to the rear of the hall. The frost was creeping through the verge on either side.
“I’ll be back before you know it.” He brought thehorses to a standstill. “It’s bitter out here, but I should visit my father’s grave and that of my brother. My mother’s, too. I’ve a shameful habit of putting aside what discomfits me.”
He touched her shoulder. “Thank you for your company today.”
Swinging down, he headed through the lychgate, in search of the newest headstones among those of his ancestors, held within the walls of the small patch of sacred ground. Geneviève wrapped her cloak tighter and peered after him, watching for his return.
She’d been sure of her plan in coming to England, knowing what she must do. However, in these last hours, it had felt as if her path were shrouded and what she needed to see was just out of sight. As she sat, the air seemed to grow thicker and all about her gloomier, the uncertain moon straining through the mist.
She jumped as a woodcock burst from a patch of fern, fleeing startled. Someone was near—brushing through the grass, but not from the direction of the graveyard. From the other side, perhaps.
“Lord Wulverton?” The fog muffled her cry, so that she wondered if she’d uttered it aloud or only in her mind. “Who’s there?”
When she saw him, it was so fleetingly that she wondered if he were a man at all—so haunted was his face and hollow-eyed.
