Page 40 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
He’d been assailed by a fear worse than any he harbored over Hugo’s future. The mire had a habit of claiming lives. It had taken her hadn’t it—his mother, and Geneviève had almost ridden into that same danger.
Some angel had been watching over her, to make hertumble as she had, throwing her to safety. Seeing her on the ground, mud-splattered but alive, any anger he’d felt had ebbed away. He’d wanted to kneel and pull her to him, to kiss her until she gasped for breath, to hold her tightly and keep her there.
She might have died and been lost to him forever.
The thought sickened him; made his mind swirl black with despair.
He sensed that she understood more about him than he’d first realized. Different as their childhoods had been, they’d both been raised by ‘strangers’—she at the convent, and he at Eton. Of course, he’d had more of a family than she. He’d had Edward, at least, and the knowledge of a father still living, even if he’d bestowed little enough affection upon his sons.
They’d both sought out new places to belong—he with his regiment, and she at her beloved château.
She seemed to understand something of the moor, too, its beauty and its majesty. He thought of the things he might show her, sharing what he loved about this wild, untamed land. He’d never before wanted to reveal that part of himself to anyone. Never wanted to allow a woman to get that close—to see what truly mattered to him.
Ridiculous nonsense!
How could one prolong such feelings for a woman? Men were asses to allow their amorous emotions to rule them. Look at what it had done to his father. His broken heart had robbed him of the ability to show love to anyone or to take any joy in living at all. He’d become a bitter old man.
Permitting himself feelings for Geneviève could only lead to disaster. Deceit came too easily for her to be capable of fidelity, showing him one face and another to Hugo.
She feigned gentility when she was as brazen as any courtesan.
No matter that he partly admired her for that very audacity.
No matter that he understood the need for her to keep that side of her nature hidden.
He knew the world’s hypocrisy, men being judged in one way for their sexual exploits and women in another. It was simply the way of the world. A woman’s virtue hinged on her constancy.
He found her attractive, but more than that. Knowing she was the woman on the train did nothing to diminish his desire. Quite the reverse. Were it not for the complication of Hugo, he’d have acted upon that desire before now.
But, whatever he was feeling, whatever the hell this was, it was a passing whim. A temporary state of insanity.
How could it be more?
Mallon unfastened his cuffs, then pulled off his shirt. He’d try to forget she was just two doors away—forget what he wanted to do.
He’d requested a bath be filled in the room between their two chambers. He’d heard the water running and seen the maid going out. For now, he should get clean, climb under the covers, and seek blessed release in sleep. The rest he’d think abouttomorrow.
Opening the door,he saw Geneviève had gotten there before him. He felt a flush of irritation. Was he to have no peace?
Her head was only just visible above the lip of the tub, her hair half-tumbled, pinned haphazardly.
To do anything other than retreat was an invasion of her privacy. After the way he’d expounded on the state of her morals, it would be outrageous for him to abuse the situation, yet he found himself compelled to look upon her. A single curl clung wetly to the nape of her neck, dark against pale skin.
As he watched, she extended a leg—long and slender, hooking it over the bath’s rim, then did the same with the other, raising herself slightly. He caught a glimpse of full breasts and rosy nipples.
Her hand was sliding down, stroking beneath the water. He could be in no doubt as to what she was doing. She reached lower, lifting her hips. Almost above the surface of the water. Almost.
Even a saint would have had trouble turning away, and he was no saint.
Beneath the towel at his waist, he grew hard.
Her breath was coming in shivering gulps, until she threw back her head, gasping her release.
He stood, unmoving. Before long, she’d realize he was there.
Without question, he ought to retreat through the door, but part of him wanted her to see him;neededher to see him.
He could no longer fight.
