Page 38 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Despite the awkwardness of their situation, she was relaxing in his company. Sitting by the hearth, enjoying their plain yet satisfying meal, she was almost able to forget the thorny circumstances that had led them here.
Able to forget, almost, what her plans had been that morning.
How straightforward it might have been if she and the viscount had met in the proper way, or had never met until this moment—finding themselves both seated before the fire, drawing comfort from the inn’s simple welcome.
She dashed away that thought as too fanciful. Nevertheless, she heard herself telling him of the cassoulet she remembered the nuns making, richly flavored with garlic, the haricot beans soft and buttery, and the duck melting as it touched her tongue.
Her upkeep at the convent had come with a price, obliging her to help most days in the preparation of meals. If she hadn’tgone to the dowager Comtesse Rosseline as a companion she might, at a pinch, have found employment in the château kitchen.
“It sounds a darned sight more appetizing than the grub we were given at school,” said Mallon, consuming the last of his pie crust. “But, don’t tell Mrs. Fuddleby about your secret culinary skills, unless you want to be given an apron. She’s already taken a shine to you, I’d say.”
Geneviève returned his smile. “I expect Marguerite has taught her some French recipes, but it would be a pleasure. The kitchens are the heart of the house, are they not?”
He looked at her most curiously, almost as if seeing her for the first time. “I used to find that true, when I was a boy. It was only years later that I thought to wonder at the cook always having a cake to make when I appeared at the kitchen door. Whatever had been troubling me seemed less acute by the time I’d finished beating the mixture.”
“You had the sweet tooth, like all children.” Geneviève eyed him playfully. Noting he seemed interested in the steak pie yet remaining on her plate, she pushed it toward him. “And what was your favorite of the cakes? The famous British scones, perhaps, or your Victoria Sponge?”
Mallon inclined his head in thanks and applied his fork to a large chunk of beef. “Both excellent choices but not my favorites.” He chewed thoughtfully. “It’s a tough call, but I’d say Bread and Butter Pudding.”
“Is this what they serve at Buckingham Palace, when they wish to impress visitors from the other royalhouses of Europe?” Geneviève raised an eyebrow. “A pudding made of bread?”
He chuckled. “It’s much nicer than it sounds, although it works perfectly well with stale bread.”
Geneviève wrinkled her nose.
“Mrs. Fuddleby puts plenty of cream in the custard and a generous handful of sultanas. You can make a wish as you sprinkle them in. At least, that’s what she told me. I’ll ask her to make one for us, and you’ll see.”
Geneviève felt her heart beat a little faster. Did he wish her to stay? “I understand. Such recipes are made with love. When the woman who cares for you makes this dish, it cannot be anything other than delicious.”
Mallon dabbed his mouth with his napkin, looking suddenly a little embarrassed.
Although the meal had been generous, latticed apple tart followed, after which they both settled back, replete. The warmth of the room and her satisfied belly were making Geneviève feel unexpectedly content. More drinks were brought, and they sat in affable silence, listening to the crackle of the flames.
Yet, Geneviève couldn’t set aside all unease. Now they’d eaten, he meant, surely, to address the circumstances under which he’d sought her out. She needed a diversion—an alternative subject of conversation. The weather always provided safe ground.
With forced cheerfulness, she remarked, “Everyone keeps saying snow’s coming, but I’m not convinced. Will we see a white Christmas, do you think, or only more of this dreadfulfog?”
It was a clumsy attempt.
He surveyed her through half-closed lids but when he gave his reply, it was with disarming sincerity. “Each season has its own beauty. You should see the summer. When I was a boy, I'd wander, sunburnt as a nut, my sleeves and trousers dyed with blackberry stains and hands clammy with sweet juices.”
He held up his glass of spiced cider to the firelight, admiring its rich color before taking another draught. “There’s much that’s bewitching but the moor can also be a melancholy place. Even in the warmest months, you’ll find snow in its shaded hollows. For the swaling, they burn the heather and furze to clear the way for new growth, before digging in the ash. Then everything awakens, young and alive and made anew, and the gorse flames gold.”
‘You should see the summer’ he’d said.
Geneviève found her heart lifting, not just at the remark, uttered more in politeness than invitation, but because he was talking as he had before, as they’d sat beside one another on the cart, visiting each homestead. His Lordship, for all his maddening ways, conversed with her as an equal, rather than in flattery of her physical charms or in a condescending way, to show off his cleverness.
He asked softly, “Have you felt it? The sky gazing at you?”
The words were like an enchantment, pulling Geneviève closer.
“During my time in the desert, beneath the tent of that other sky, I drew some comfort, thinking of the sun looking down with subtler warmth upon the moor. Thesame sun, and the same stars, too—points of light in the heavens, and the moon’s illumination above. I’d go to sleep imagining myself beside the lake or under the great shadow of the Dewerstone, with the moorland air fresh on my cheek and the moss cool beneath my back.”
She felt a keen desire for him to continue addressing her in this way, crediting her with the same ability to respond to the landscape he loved.
Though aware of the hubbub of chatter from the bar across the hallway, Geneviève felt all else fading away, just as it had when they’d been riding together. There was only Lord Wulverton speaking softly, filling her ear with his confidences, appearing toneedto tell her as much as she desired to listen.
Although they were alone, she spoke in a whisper. “Does the moor have so many secrets?”
