Page 57 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“My decision?” She looked genuinely puzzled. “Haven’t you and I already made that together?”
He hated to tell her that he’d spied upon them, although it hadn’t quite been like that. It had been sheer happenstance that he’d glanced them through the window.
“I saw you, Geneviève, with Hugo. I saw him offer you the ring. Did you accept?” The last word seemed to exit his mouth more sharply than therest, with its own keen edge.
“No! You’re quite wrong.” She gave a faltering laugh. “Hugo wasn’t giving the ring to me; it was I who presented it to him!” She shook her head. “I mean, the ring belonged to Hugo’s grandmother. I’ve given it to him.”
“Very generous of you.” Mallon was aware his voice had become a deadened monotone. His face felt rigid.
“Mallon?” Geneviève blinked and frowned. “I don’t understand. Has something changed?”
He sighed, and it felt like the last breath of a dying man. An ache had begun beneath his ribs, knowing what he intended to say.
They’d promised to have no secrets, in those long hours in which they’d laid in each other’s arms. After a lifetime of hurt and resentment, he’d wanted to let those feelings go. He’d wanted to believe in her, and in himself.
Perhaps she was telling him the truth. There was something in her expression that made him believe so, but he realized it didn’t matter if he’d been mistaken in what he’d seen.
Her promises of fidelity wouldn’t be enough. She could tell him a hundred times he was her only love and it would make no difference. For the seed of doubt had been sown, and it made him realize he’d never be free of his uncertainty. What sort of future would they have if he couldn’t bring himself to trust?
She might stand before the altar and pledge herself to him but, in his heart of hearts, he would be waiting for the day when all would come crashing down.
If she disappointed him, could he live with thatfailure and pain, as his father had done? Loving her, then losing it all?
“I can’t,” he said simply. “I thought I could, and I wanted to, and no other woman has made me feel that I might…”
Dear God, he sounded like Hugo.
For a moment, Mallon thought he might laugh, but he found the eruption in his throat wasn’t laughter but a choked-back sob, and his eyes were prickling.
Geneviève shouted after him as he strode away, but he didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 26
There had beentimes in his childhood when Mallon had wished he wasn’t a human boy at all. How much simpler to be a hare on the moor—running wild and answerable to no one, with a burrow to escape into. He wanted to be the hare now, to bury himself where none could see him.
But, he feared if he did so, he’d never come out, so he put on his evening attire and brushed his hair. He’d go down and behave as if everything were fine. No one needed to know his world had shrunk to nothingness. Pain was always worst at the beginning.
He descended the stairs as late as possible, receiving a flash of annoyance from Marguerite. Scanning the heads of those below, he saw Geneviève was absent. That was a relief. Had she been there, his resolution might have been dashed, and he’d have fallen back into the pit he so feared—that place in which he was powerless to stop someone he cared about from hurting him.
Mallon moved among his guests, shaking hands.Finding Reverend Wapshot, he thanked him for having offered to lead them in a Christmas service later, just before midnight. Mallon accepted a cinnamon biscuit, breaking off a small piece, but his mouth was dry, and it stuck in his throat. From a passing tray, he took a glass of mulled wine, when what he really wanted was an entire bottle of whisky.
He thought, momentarily, of escaping to the kitchen and hiding down there with Mrs. Fuddleby, but that was a ridiculous notion.
Alongside everyone else, he clapped at the lighting of the Yule Log. Scroggins had been tasked with finding a large chunk of oak—a piece sizeable enough to burn right through until midnight chimed, when they’d all greet one another with joyful Christmas tidings in the chapel. It had been many years since Mallon had participated in the custom, but he remembered how it had made him feel as a boy—wistful and expectant.
Once, dreams of the future had been hopeful, despite the pain of his mother’s absence. The Eve of Christmas had been magical, as those dark hours passed in awaiting the coming of the Savior. Of course, many of the Christian rituals were mere adaptations of their pagan predecessors. Nevertheless, he remembered the excitement he’d felt. Tonight, there was no room in his heart for joy.
Marguerite summoned their attention and announced the singing of their first carol, a French setting ofAway in a Manger. Beatrice, of course, had been asked to accompany them on the piano, which had been rolled into the hall.The melody was heartbreakingly familiar, and Mallon found himself listening to the voices around him, seeking out one that would be lovelier than the rest. Geneviève would have a beautiful singing voice, he felt sure, though he’d never heard her sing.
The next wasO Holy Night, and the words were so tender and hopeful he felt his throat again constricting, a piercing ache building in his heart.
Mallon’s thoughts drifted back to Constantinople, where he’d sought out the Holy Spirit Cathedral for midnight mass. Whatever darkness filled a man’s soul, there was comfort in the thought of a higher power. Comfort in the notion of the divine—of man being loved unconditionally by his maker. Comfort, too, in the thought of humanity linking arms in goodwill.
He wanted to believe in man’s ability for goodness, and his own, come to that. He wanted to put the cheerless days behind him and welcome the light of hope.
But what hope could there be without Geneviève?
He remembered the day he’d driven her onto the moor. It had been cold and damp, but she hadn’t uttered one word of complaint. He’d rambled on, telling anecdotes of his childhood upon the heathland, exploring its ancient sites of standing stones and its windswept tors. She’d asked eagerly about the countryside and its history, and it had been a pleasure to share with her his love for the land.
