Page 37 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“Keep going!” she urged, giving the hardest kicks she could muster. The pony whinnied in protest, but took to the gallop again, carrying them swiftly across the moor. Too late, she saw thesheep—perhaps ten of them, standing close together, their pale wool disguising them in the mist.
Jerking the reins, she pulled the pony’s head round. It seemed to twist in mid-air and the world began to spin. Even as Geneviève felt herself flying, she heard the voice commanding to go no further. Then, the mist rose up to consume her.
CHAPTER 17
A fine veilof drizzle was falling, so that tendrils of hair clung damply across Geneviève’s forehead. Mud slurped at her boots and caked the ankle of her stockings. Her mount had disappeared into the mist, but she’d rolled as she landed and, fortunately, onto moss. Assessing herself, Geneviève found no injury beyond some tenderness to her right elbow. There would doubtless be bruises but she’d only feel them properly the next day.
Her pride, however, had taken rather a beating. As Lord Wulverton stood over her, she realized all too well what a mooncalf she’d been.
A demon galloping after her indeed!
Hurrying to her side, his face was ashen. Anxious that she’d broken her neck, she supposed. He’d have had the devil’s own job explaining that to Hugo!
“I take it you plan to help me up,” she grumbled. “I’ve no wish to catch pneumonia.”
Seeing she appeared unhurt, his face grew still, hisexpression indecipherable. He made no apology for having frightened her, nor did he berate her for fleeing from him. Whatever he was feeling, he concealed it well. Geneviève waited for a tirade in the manner of the previous night, but he seemed disinclined to argue with her.
“We’re on the edge of the mire. In this mist, it’s too dangerous to venture back.” He looked about him, as if searching for some landmark. “I’d guess we’re no more than a mile from The Saracen’s Head, so it makes sense to go there.”
She might have been made of feathers and silk as he swung her up, lifting her effortlessly. It occurred to her that she ought to feel angry with him—for interfering, besides anything else—but she supposed she could hardly blame him.
It was indeed pleasant to be in his arms. Hers, she wrapped close about his neck, with a small thrill of gratification at seeing the mud she transferred to his collar. She leaned into him as he carried her, resting her head on his shoulder. His heartbeat seemed far steadier than hers.
Once mounted, with Lord Wulverton behind her in the saddle, she felt the weight of his coat placed about her shoulders, warm from his body and carrying a masculine scent.
Thankfully, the horse seemed to know where to step, its eyes attuned to the subtle shades of green indicating safety or danger. Only once did it stumble; then, she felt Wulverton tighten his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him.
It was as if the world had disappeared, and only they existed, plodding through the dense bank of mist. His chest was solid behind her but, even with his proximity, her damp clothing invited the chill, drawing cold into her bones. The sun was dipping from the sky and the temperature dropping.
At last, a familiar smell carried to her nose—peat smoke and the scent of cooking meat. The steeply-angled roof of the inn came into sight, dull illumination filtering from its mullioned windows through the crawling fog.
Geneviève’s hands were frozen white and her teeth chattering as they entered. She’d never felt more bedraggled. Her hem was six inches deep in mud, and her skirts sodden.
With a room secured for each of them, she made haste to hers. It was a sorry sight that met her in the mirror. The ringlets that had hung prettily over her shoulder now straggled wetly. Forlornly, she attempted to re-pin her hair. However, within a few minutes, there was a soft knock upon the door. Opening it, Geneviève found a young woman had been sent to her.
“Beg pardon, Miss, but the gentleman asked if we’d summat fer ye to change into.” She bobbed a curtsey and extended her arm to offer a garment of rough green wool. “’Twas one of the late mistress’s, wot she never wore, on account o’ fallin’ ill afore she’d the chance.”
Geneviève was in no position to refuse. Though the dress had clearly been hanging for some time and was not in the latest fashion,or any style she was aware of from the past decade, it was clean and would make her a sight more presentable.
It was with some trepidation that she returned downstairs.
The inn was busy. She glanced into the bar as she went past, and it was already nearly full. No women, she noted. Tucked away at home with the children and the laundry, and stew to make, while the menfolk shared a pipe and huddled together exchanging their gossip.
Lord Wulverton had commandeered the snug, sitting by a fire heaped high and blazing. He reclined in his usual manner, legs stretched toward the hearth, as relaxed as if The Saracen’s Head were his sitting room.
Geneviève feared what he might wish to say to her. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument, and he hadn’t ridden out to Fox Tor merely to wish her a good day. Somehow, he’d discovered her intended rendezvous.
Had he spoken with Hugo? Was the game up?
Suddenly, she felt tired of it all.
Bugger the lot of them! What she really wanted was something to eat. She’d taken only a light breakfast, and it was well into the afternoon. Kitchen smells had permeated even to her bedchamber, making her mouth water as she’d fastened the last of the buttons on her borrowed dress.
“At last!” Wulverton commented as she approached. “There’s steak pie on the way. If you’d been much longer, I’d have been tempted to eat both portions.”
She seated herself opposite, accepting the hot toddy he’d ordered for her. It smelt of cloves and cinnamon and warming ginger. Whatever game hewas playing, she appreciated the creature comforts that went with it. Trying to butter her up, she supposed; putting her at ease before ambushing her with an ultimatum. There were only a few days until Christmas. He wouldn’t ask her to leave, surely—not so close to the actual celebrations. It was a miserable thought. Despite having to endure the likes of Mrs. Wapshot, Geneviève had grown rather fond of Wulverton Hall.
When their plates arrived, piled high and steaming with gravy, Lord Wulverton tucked in with gusto, and Geneviève didn’t need any convincing to do the same.
