Page 8 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Geneviève laughed charmingly at Hugo’s joke. “We take for granted what we see every day. It can require the novelty of new experiences and new faces to awaken us to a passion for living.”
She’d learnt a particular way of making her eyes sparkle (thinking of the diamonds in her jewel case proved most efficacious) and employed it now.
“Not much to get excited about here,” replied Hugo. “Only good for mutton and wool, and I don’t see myself as a sheep farmer.”
“But it’s an ancient place, your moor? And the de Wolfes of Wulverton Hall are well-respected. I should like to learn everything.” Geneviève inched a little closer, ensuring that Hugo’s knee was in danger of touching hers.
He coughed again and shifted, which inspired Muffin (or perhaps it was Tootle) to lay his great, furry head on his master’s knee.
“I hear your coachman took the old turnpike road through Postbridge last night, past Wistman’s Wood.” Hugo popped a ham sandwich onto his plate. “A daring soul indeed, for few will cross the bridge after dark.”
“The driver kept a brisk pace, but I thought it only his desire to reach his destination,” Geneviève answered.
Hugo tore the sandwich into halves, each piece disappearing between salivating canine jaws. “You may be right. He was an Exeter man, after all. They don’t know all our superstitions.”
“Superstitions are just peasant fears, are they not? As a modern man, you don’t believe in them, I’m sure.” Geneviève assumed her most earnest expression.
“Well, I don’t give credence to such tales in general.” Hugo straightened his shoulders. “But Wistman's Wood is where old Dewer—thedevil—is said to kennel his hounds. Huge shaggy dogs, they say, like wolves, with blood-red eyes, huge yellow fangs, and an insatiable hunger for human flesh and souls! His Wisht Hounds sniff out those walking the moor for the chance of chasing them to their deaths off the top of the great crag of Dewerstone.”
“My goodness!” Geneviève wetted her lips, then parted them becomingly in astonishment.
“Really, Hugo!” His mother interjected. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“You may be right, Mama, but I tried taking Muffin and Tootle for a walk near there and they were utterly obstinate.” He reached down to give each dog a comforting pat. “I don’t much like taking the car that way either.”
Then, like the sun appearing from behind the clouds, his face brightened. “It’s a nifty little mover. Ten horse-power, you know. A Wolseley two-cylinder. Goes like a beauty!”
Geneviève applied herself to appropriate admiration. “How daring you are! Taking the wheel of one of those thrilling machines!” She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick. “I don’t believe anything could frighten you, Hugo—whatever people say about that bridge or the woods or those awful hounds.”
Hugo’s color quickly rose again. “One can’t be too careful. There have been vehicles forced off the road, and one feels something strange—as if hidden eyes were watching you. Most uncanny.” He shifted in his seat.
“I was driving back from Moretonhampstead just the other week, running late, you know. Not wanting tomiss the dinner gong, I took the most direct route, although it meant going through Postbridge. There was a frost coming on, so I had my thick gloves and heaviest coat. As I came close to the bridge, it got an awful lot cooler.”
Geneviève nodded and touched her hand to his. Hugo seemed intent on telling his story but had grown rather pale.
“The Wolseley’s lamps aren’t at all bad—acetylene you know, and far better in the sort of dismal weather we get here—but you need to keep alert. I turned the bend and saw a pair of fiery eyes gleaming in the middle of the road. Damn near frightened the life out of me…pardon my language.” He frowned, passing his fingers through his hair.
“I grabbed the brake and, next thing I knew, I was sliding on the ice. Took all of my wits not to lose control completely.”
“But it was just a deer, Hugo darling,” Marguerite broke in. “You told me so yourself. Bounded off through the grass in the direction of Archerton Bog.”
“It was, but there was something else.” Hugo appeared uncertain for a moment. “I hadn’t wanted to say before, but just as the car began heading for the parapet of the bridge, I could have sworn I saw hands on the wheel. Someone else’s hands, I mean.” Hugo suddenly looked rather sick. “I kept trying to turn it back, but it was no use. I can still see them, those hands. Ghastly things!”
“How horrible!” Geneviève clutched Hugo’s arm. “What a blessing youescaped unscathed!” She did her best to keep a straight face. Hugo was handsome enough, and pleasantly mannered, but so impressionable! A more perfect candidate for her husband-to-be could not have presented himself. “You’re most brave! And to think I travelled that road myself unaware of its dangers!”
Hugo shook himself and smiled. “Ignore my nonsense. Too much imagination and the dark makes one jumpy, doesn’t it?”
He glanced to the window. “The rain seems to be easing off, and I have a spare pair of goggles somewhere.”
The color had returned somewhat to his face. “If I can tempt you, we might take out the Wolseley for a spin before luncheon.”
“What a splendid idea,” beamed Marguerite. “But do wrap up warmly, my dears. We don’t want you catching a chill, especially with all the festivities before us.”
Geneviève wasted no time in rising.
Ha!Thank you, Marguerite. Your assistance is noted, alongside your interest in my share of the vineyard. Hugo will do very well, and the Baroness de Boulainville and the rest of her coven can whistle for my favor when I return to my beloved château on his arm.
CHAPTER 4
