Page 33 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Perhaps she’d been lucky with Maxim. He’d never hit her, at least.
However, there had been times when she’d thought herself little better than the women selling themselves at the docks in Marseille, despite the ring on her finger.
Lord Slagsby was loathsome but there was some truth in what he’d said. Her contract involved a marriage license, but it amounted to almost the same thing. Ownership of her body in return for security.
No wonder Maxim’s circle had gossiped about her—the little convent stray taken into the bosom of a noble family, climbing her way into the bed of the count himself, and extracting no less than a wedding ring.
If Slagsby had heard rumors about her, then who else?
Not Hugo—at least not yet.
She’d have to talk to him, as soon as possible, giving him her version of events. Better that than for him to hear Slagsby’s putrid gossip.
She’d felt such a rush of gratitude when the viscount had stepped in, saving her from Slagsby’s attack, but she had another problem to deal with now.
Lord Wulverton’s face had shown her everything.
It had never occurred to her that he’d remember such a thing as the mole on her breast. Didn’t other women have such marks? How could he know it was her?
That night on the train had been an imprudent whim, however satisfying—being caressed by a man truly of her choosing, taking whatshedesired.
Her attraction to the viscount had been threatening her resolve to marry Hugo, for she found Lord Wulverton more purposeful, more impassioned, and more stirring in every way. But, it was Hugo who’d inherited Château Rosseline, where she’d found a true home.
It was there she belonged, not upon the moors, regardless of how beautiful she thought them. If she could but return to the château, and with a respectable husband at her side, mightn’t she conquer those who’d once scorned her?
Her charm and intelligence would help her gain her heart’s desire. Marrying Hugo would be the first step in achieving that.
She raised the brandy to her lips, savoring its bitter sweetness. Whatever happened next, she had money. Society might ostracize her, but she’d never be destitute.
When Lord Wulverton turned, his face was without expression. He remained standing, examining her for severalmoments before speaking.
“There’s no need for us to discuss why you were in your nightgown on the stairs. I don’t need to hear whatever story you’ll spin for me.”
Her pique flared but Geneviève said nothing. If he wished to believe badly of her, it would be almost impossible to correct him.
“I’ll cut to the chase. You’re here at the invitation of my sister-in-law, who appears satisfied to allow you to court the attention of my nephew.” His eyes narrowed. “Hugo may be a man in years but he’s an innocent. Meanwhile, you, Madam, are an adventuress!”
Gazing into her glass, Geneviève willed herself to remain poised. She would have her say. That, at least, she was entitled to. “It’s true that I desire respectability and an elevated position in Society. I have wealth, but my modest beginnings are against me. There are circles in which I’m unwelcome and there are too many eager to malign my character.”
Looking up, she met Lord Wulverton’s glare, fixing him with her own. “That, dear sir, is something I intend to remedy.”
“You think respectability can be acquired by taking a husband of good breeding?” He stood tall above her. “No woman who behaves as you do will ever be truly respectable. Don’t deny your true nature, for I know you and I call you out! You’re a harlot, flaunting your carnality for the entrapment of men!”
For a moment, Geneviève thought she might laugh. Lord Wulverton had called Hugo naïve, but the way he spoke! As if ‘respectable’ women never employed theirwiles! Even the most well-bred ladies must occasionally make use of what God had given them.
She might have voiced that thought aloud, or any number of similar notions. Instead, she found herself saying, “You know nothing of me, my lord.”
His reply was immediate. “You will own, surely, that I know something, or are you forgetting what occurred on the train from Marseille?”
Geneviève felt her annoyance flare. “If you wish to take the moral high ground, I recall no proposal of marriage before you took what you wanted.”
“My recollection is that the lady was far from unwilling. I didn’t take anything that wasn’t freely offered.”
Geneviève gritted her teeth. “Our pleasure in one another was equal. If you insist otherwise, I must call you a hypocrite.”
The viscount waved his hand in dismissal. “A man’s actions are not scrutinized in the same way—are not judged as those of women. Our reputation is not so fragile.”
“Indeed! A man is applauded for his conquests, a woman reviled. Eve, the seductress sinner, and Adam, the guiltless lamb, led astray. Isn’t this your boorish opinion?”
