Page 27 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“Beatrice, you’ll play the piano for us? Perhaps a waltz? And Hugo should lead us in the merriment, with the comtesse, I think.”
The Wapshots’ daughter looked plaintively at Hugo as she took her seat at the instrument. Holding a torch for his nephew, most certainly.Regrettable that she wasn’t from a more notable family. Not that such things mattered particularly. Whatever a woman’s birth, romantic love was an illusion—a temporary madness soon replaced by tedium.
Mallon’s attention was brought back by Marguerite’s chiding. “Partners are needed, Lord Wulverton.”
Across the room, both Mrs. Hissop and Mrs. Wapshot looked hopeful. The thought of partnering them held no allure but he could hardly refuse. As he advanced, Mrs. Wapshot, resplendent in apricot taffeta, darted forward. “Such a pleasure, your Lordship.” She seized his arm, propelling him to join the other couples.
It had been many years since Mallon had danced formally, or attended a festive occasion come to that. Mrs. Wapshot was lacking lightness of foot and rather too inclined to lead, but Mallon was, at least, spared the necessity of looking at her. Over her head, he was able to direct his gaze to what most interested him.
Hugo and Geneviève made a handsome pair, moving gracefully to the majestic strains of Strauss, his hand lightly upon her waist, guiding her through the center of the room. Hardly surprising that Hugo was smitten. The countess was not only ravishing but seemed to have eyes only for her partner, laughing still, bestowing all her charm.
A tightness gripped Mallon’s chest followed by a surge of heat.
Anxiety?
He’d told himself that he wanted the best for Hugo. Despite the disparity in their ages, there was noreason why Countess Geneviève Rosseline shouldn’t prove a reasonable match. Why then, did he not feel happier?
Before arriving at the hall, his imagination had turned repeatedly to the passionate stranger on the train. Only since meeting the countess had his mind been diverted. It was she, now, who commanded his thoughts.
The final strains closing, each couple parted. Mallon bowed his thanks to Mrs. Wapshot, but his gaze was upon the young pair drifting to the holly-and-ivy-swathed window. Above, hanging from a hook placed for the purpose, was a large bunch of mistletoe. The countess raised her face to Hugo, whispering something.
Mallon was unable to look away as she folded, softly, into Hugo’s arms, parting her lips to receive his kiss.
The heat was not anxiety but jealousy, tinged with desire.
“Another if you would, Beatrice,” called Marguerite from the far side of the salon. “We cannot yet allow our gentlemen to rest.”
As their kiss ended, Hugo directed the countess back to the floor. Without thinking, Mallon stepped forward. The need to claim her was a fever beneath his skin—impossible to ignore.
“If I may?” He was already offering his hand, his eyes turning from Hugo to Geneviève.
“Of course, Uncle, of course. Splendid idea.”
Hugo was mumbling something else, but Mallon was no longer payingattention. Geneviève appeared expectant—surprised but not displeased. Bowing, he led her into the dance.
He saw only her as they glided through the salon—her face looking up at him with those startling eyes, her lips so full and inviting. He pulled her tighter, his hand inching toward the back of her waist until there was barely an inch between them. He needed to bring her closer, to pull her into an embrace which would end with his mouth on hers.
She smelt of orchids, her scent carried to him by the warmth of her body. Something about that fragrance, about the sight of her bare shoulders and the swell of her breasts, was perplexing.
Suddenly, the room swam out of focus, his blood rising to roar in his ears. The walls were closing in, making it difficult for him to breathe. Sweat was beading on his back.
Releasing her, he spoke some apology. He bumped into another couple but did not turn to see. He needed air.
It was cooler in the hall but still his collar felt too tight, and his heart was pounding. Wrenching the main door, he staggered out, pulling the night into his lungs, willing his pulse to steady.
The sky was clear, the moon throwing light upon the valley before the house and illuminating the looming hillsides beyond. It was too cold for him to stand in his evening attire, his breath pluming with each ragged exhalation. The freezing air burned his chest, making his ribs ache. He brought his hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. Was he unwell?
He couldn’t explain his behavior. He’d desired her, and that craving had overtaken all else, without consideration of Hugo.
Were they engaged already? Perhaps, even now, they were addressing the party, the guests raising their glasses to toast the couple.
No, it couldn’t be.
Neither Marguerite nor Hugo had mentioned such a thing. His mind was rambling, darting from one thought to the next.
Nor would Hugo make an announcement without him being present.
But, he needed to know. Did Hugo intend a proposal?
