Page 24 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Geneviève noted the cook’s use of Lord Wulverton’s given name. She’d known him from his boyhood, of course.
“He mentioned her to me, just a little,” Geneviève replied.
Mrs. Fuddleby pursed her lips. “A terrible shock it were, what did ‘appen, although some might say it were a blessin’. Certain folks never do be satisfied in this mortal life.”
Geneviève rather fell into that camp herself. Acquiring a state of contentment was no easy task.
“She were a great beauty, yerknow.” Mrs. Fuddlby paused from whipping, upturning the bowl to check on the firmness. “Toast of Lunnun, folks said. She weren’t never goin’ to be ‘appy down ‘ere on the moor.”
The cook took a forcing bag and began spooning in the meringue mixture. “Not that it were all ‘er ladyship’s fault. The late viscount, God rest his soul, were no easy man to please.”
“And there was some difference in their ages, I suppose.”
“True enough, though that’s not always a bad thing for marriage.” Mrs. Fuddleby gave Geneviève something between a wink and a nod.
“Still, no use cryin’ over spilt milk, is it! They were both guilty o’ badness and now they be inside the pearly gates. It be God they must face afore they find their everlastin’ peace.”
Mrs. Fuddleby bent earnestly to piping her meringues. There were several things Geneviève was eager to ask but it was beneath her to encourage gossip—and the cook seemed to have said all she wished to on the matter. Nevertheless, as Geneviève made her way upstairs, she couldn’t help but speculate.
Mallon poured himself a large whisky,gulping it down in three mouthfuls, relishing the burn in the back of his throat. He poured another, then took the decanter to the armchair closest to the fire.
Hunching low,he rested his booted foot against the fender’s edge. Stupid of him to have kept the countess out so long. She wasn’t accustomed to the moorland’s strain of winter damp.
He’d suggest she stay inside for a few days.
God forbid she came down with pneumonia.
His motives in having her accompany him had been selfish. He’d no intention of wooing her, or any woman, yet he’d chosen the cart, knowing its seat to be too small to accommodate the pair of them. It hadn’t taken long for her to lean into him—just as he’d hoped.
And hell only knew what had come over him the previous morning, while he’d been telling her the legend of old Cavell. He’d behaved abominably, and with the barest restraint, letting her inflame him with those violet eyes and the rise and fall of what lay so temptingly within her corset. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had produced such an effect on him.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true, but the occasion in question had been an aberration, and the woman on the train quite a different kettle of fish.
What had he been thinking? If he was honest, he knew damn well. The countess had been willing enough, that was for sure, but it was just as well he’d resisted. She wanted another husband, not a dalliance—and he had no intention of falling into the trap of marriage.
With his mother’s example before him, how could he ever pronounce the vows between man and wife?
Still, he’d had the devil’s own job not to take the countess in his arms and kiss those sensual, upturned lips. Not just yesterday, but today, in the cart. He foundher physically attractive, of course, but she was also sensitive and thoughtful—and with a brain in her head when she’d a mind to use it.
What had it been like between his parents? Had his father chosen his mother for her looks alone? She’d brought only a modest dowry. Her beauty must have been her fortune, though little good it had done her. Not a single portrait remained of his mother in the hall. Generations of de Wolfes populated the long gallery, but she was not among them. Mallon remembered her from memory alone, with an expression of wistful sadness on her face, more often than not.
He’d no plans to repeat the travesty of his parents’ union. He’d had plenty of women, but he’d paid them to perform services. Nothing more.
It was the best way, unless a man wanted an heir.
Some simple local woman might make an adequate companion, he supposed, and would bear him sturdy little tykes. Such a woman might be content to remain here, on the moor. However, among the type of female he generally found attractive, he couldn’t imagine any being satisfied with the lack of sophistication or their remote location. Even the drive to Exeter and back required a full day.
Moreover, Mallon didn’t need a nursery of brats. It was enough for him to call the moor home again and to continue his ancestral traditions, then allow Hugo to take on the Wulverton title and estate.
Though Hugo had inherited the Rosseline vineyards, Mallon could hardly imagine his nephew taking up permanent residence abroad. The south of Francemight as well be Timbuktu, as far as Hugo was concerned—though Marguerite would doubtless welcome the change of scene. Her influence had a chance of luring him there, Mallon supposed, which would be unfortunate.
Hugo had a deal to learn, regarding the responsibilities of the Wulverton estate, but he was level-headed, at least, and his heart was in the right place. The viscountcy had been in less able hands, there was little doubt, through times past.
Mallon had been nonchalant when the telegram had first arrived at his barracks, letting him know that his brother had taken a wife. Better him than me, Mallon had thought. Later, he heard how his father had crossed the Channel to restock his cellar and had returned with the only daughter of Count Rosseline. Marguerite’s father had bestowed a dowry large enough to repair the roof of Wulverton Hall five times over, not to mention a thousand bottles of the finest burgundy—all in return for marrying into one of England’s oldest families.
Whatever fondness Mallon had felt for his father, it had died for want of nurture. From the day of his mother’s departure, the old man’s heart had turned against his sons. Perhaps he’d doubted their blood was his, or looking at them had reminded him too much of their mother. The outcome was the same, in either case.
Ironic, of course, that he and Edward had been born with the customary dark hair and green eyes of the de Wolfes, while his father had been sandy haired. Perhaps, that was where Hugo’s extreme blondness hailedfrom, if not from Marguerite.
