Page 49 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
All in good time…
He rose from the bed, adjusting himself and straightening his jacket.
She looked at him in some alarm. “Shouldn’t those things be coming off?” Then, “Where are you going?”
“We’ll see about those terms later, my love. The last of them, I think, may be best put off until tomorrow.”
Reaching for the quilt, he pulled it over her. “I’ll be back before midnight.”
As he locked the door, he heard her sneeze, then curse him—in English and French, and in the most exquisite detail.
CHAPTER 22
The supper seemedto last an eternity, the chatter about him mere noise. Marguerite had arranged for some rollicking mummery, their farmworkers appearing in garish masks and costumes before partaking of the wassail punchbowl. It was the sort of folk custom he’d once enjoyed, cheering St. George’s slaying of the dragon, and the outrageous prancing of the hobbyhorse. He believed in upholding those traditions but, this evening, he was in no mood for the teasing jokes and boisterous cavorting.
Moreover, the actors enjoyed several glasses too many, resulting in considerable effort to remove them. The clock had long since chimed eleven.
There were few families Marguerite felt worthy of her invitation, but she’d cast her net wide to the grander houses on the outskirts of the moor, to Tavistock and Yelverton, Ashburton and Bovey Tracey, to ensure enough couples for a ball.
For Mallon, it was a trial to be endured. A room fullof noisy and self-satisfied guests congratulating themselves on their wealth and taste and breeding. How frivolous they were!
Though who am I to talk? What have I to show for all these years of life?
He’d informed Lisette her mistress had a migraine and wished not to be disturbed, then relayed the same message to Marguerite. She offered cursory sympathies, for she had far too much to organize to dwell on Geneviève’s absence.
Only Hugo had seemed genuinely downhearted at the countess keeping to her room. “Rotten to be missing all the fun. Might I go up do you think and take her a little something?”
“Best not,” Mallon had declared firmly. “Migraines are terrible things.” He’d steered Hugo firmly toward Beatrice. “Mustn’t neglect your other guests, Hugo. Not many people here of your age, so you’d do well to keep her company. There’s nothing to stop you from taking her onto the floor. Your mother’s a tyrant, making the poor girl play all the time, but we’ve the musicians tonight.”
To Mallon’s relief, Hugo adopted the idea in perfect contentment.
Throughout the evening, Mallon was aware of the key within his pocket, and the delicious Geneviève recumbent on her bed.
Going to her, at last, he lingered in the passageway, wishing to see if she might be calling out. Though the walls and doors were thick in this part of the house, a scream would likely be heard.
However, she was quiet. He’d made her as comfortable as possible, placing a second pillow behind her head on which to rest her elbows, and the ribbons were not too tightly wound. Nevertheless, after several hours, he feared her shoulders would be aching.
The anger which had consumed him earlier had ebbed. Hugo, it appeared, was most amenable to being distracted. Mallon needed no further proof that his nephew’s heart would recover from Geneviève’s rejection. Moreover, it had taken less than an hour for Mallon to realize that it was Geneviève’s absence that made the festivities so dull.
Resist as he might, he was disastrously besotted, and it was too sodding late to get a grip on himself. Far too late and bloody inconvenient.
Whatever he pretended, he didn’t just want an illicit liaison; he wanted to share a life. The thought of facing a future without Geneviève—at Wulverton, or anywhere else—was too desolate to contemplate.
When he returned,she was asleep, her chest rising and falling in slumber. She snuffled and sniffed and shifted slightly, her body restricted by his handiwork. He wondered what she was dreaming about.
Knowing Geneviève, something wicked!
Delivering her from her constraints, he lowered his lips to her wrists, turning each to seek out the delicate skin above her pulse, beforedrawing down her arms to rest by her sides.
She was so very beautiful.
The quilt had slithered down, revealing the curve of her breasts through the sheer fabric. She was peaches and cream waiting to be eaten.
He couldn’t help himself. If he was gentle, she wouldn’t wake. He pulled back the covers, placing his hand lightly on her hip. She was remarkably warm. She mumbled something but did not stir.
He lowered to her breast, breathing hot through the thin chiffon. So soft! He closed his mouth about that softness, kissing her nipple. He cupped the other, offering a tender caress.
She shifted, parting her legs, but he knew that this was where he should stop. He wanted to trace and touch every part of her, to kiss and taste and learn, but he knew he should leave. To act as he wished without her consent would be a violation. Moreover, if she were honest in her proposal that they wed, they’d have a lifetime to enjoy each other.
