Page 9 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Some weeks later…
Having feareda diet of tripe and boiled mutton, Geneviève was relieved to find the fare at Wulverton Hall quite palatable. Mrs. Fuddleby was adept in her baking, serving a particularly fine, spiced fruit tart, steaming hot from the oven.
There was some strain in being obliged to fit in with others’ habits, but Geneviève boasted years of experience on that count. She’d never slept well, nor enjoyed peaceful dreams. Too many memories crowded in. So it had always been, and her nights at Wulverton were no different.
Sometimes, it was Mother Superior who confounded her rest, commanding her to kneel upon the stone floor of the convent chapel and recite ten Hail Marys for her sins. In others, she saw her mother, kissing her goodnight before sweeping from the room, never to return.
Geneviève rarely thought of Maxim, except to recall the expression on his face when she’d told him she was carrying his child. Of all the deceits Geneviève had employed, that troubled her the most. He’d been so very pleased, which had made it all the worse when she’d had to pretend the baby was lost. Was it divine punishment that those following months of legally married bedding had yielded no true pregnancy?
She rose when rest eluded her, to fetch some small fancy or make a soothing drink. Lisette would have gone for her, of course, but it was the act of getting up that helped.
More than once, she’d encountered Withers on her twilight wanderings. Just the night before, she’d been stirring a pan of hot milk on Mrs. Fuddleby’s stove when someone had passed outside the window with a lamp.
“Checking the premises are secure, Madam,” he’d said, and made bold to scold her for being out of bed. “Ye’ll catch cold.”
“And you, Withers. Won’t you catch it, too?” She’d been unable to hide her irritation.
“No, Madam, for I wuz born to the climate of the moor and its damp does me no harm. My family’ve lived on these lands for as many generations as the de Wolfes. B’aint none other with as much mist in their blood.” He’d stood waiting for her to leave, and she’d heard him lock the door behind her.
Cheek!she’d thought, supposing him a secret tippler of the cooking sherry. However, it wasn’t her house, and these were not her staff.
By day, Dr. and Mrs. Hissop were frequent visitors, and the Reverend Wapshot and his wife. Their amiable daughter, Beatrice, had played with Hugo from childhood and was undoubtedly in love with him. They were so evidently suited that Geneviève almost felt a pang of conscience at her wooing of the fair, cherub-faced Hugo. She doubted that a match between him and Beatrice would meet with Marguerite’s approval but, were Hugo to assert himself, the courtship would surely blossom.
Sadly, Beatrice’s heart was a necessary casualty of Geneviève’s aspirations, to which she’d been applying herself assiduously.
Suggesting that they dress the Christmas tree together, she’d insisted on climbing daintily up the ladder, giving Hugo a glance of her slender ankles. Then, as fortune would have it, an unexpected lightness of head had obliged him to help her down and brought them tantalizingly eye-to-eye. Geneviève’s lips had been ready to take advantage of their proximity to his, but Hugo had merely reddened and called for tea.
Thanks to their efforts, the balustrade of the grand staircase was festooned with ivy, and garlands hung in every room. There was no mantle unadorned with berry-bright holly. She’d anticipated the possibility of a kiss with each cluster of mistletoe hung, but Hugo remained an utter gentleman, no matter how Geneviève attempted to entice him.
He’d seen her in white lace and printed silks, in jaunty riding garb, and in sumptuous evening velvet. If he had apreference, it was unapparent.
“Such fragrance!” she’d declared, bending to inhale the scent of the lemons growing in the conservatory and offering him a fine view of her rounded derrière. “How I long to show you those that grow on the Rosseline estate.”
She’d faced him, moving scandalously close, touching her tongue to the seam of her lips while assuming an expression more innocent than the Virgin Mary—an attitude which had worked with sublime effectiveness during her days with Maxim. “Everything connected with that place of beauty is yours, as you know.”
Hugo had remained oblivious.
He’d taken her on three drives about the nearby lanes, gathering greenery for their wreaths, each time without the least attempt at impropriety.
Today, Geneviève had decided that she’d initiate an overture. An accidental fall against his lap might do the trick, with her lips brushing his as she righted herself. Even Hugo—so naïve and bashful—could hardly fail to respond. The trip was to buy Christmas gifts, though Geneviève, naturally, had already purchased hers in Paris.
The weather was glorious, the craggy hillsides bathed in light beneath a crisp sky. As they made the return drive from Princetown, Hugo hinted at his purchase for Geneviève, and she began a coquettish game of guessing.
“Not lavender water or handkerchiefs, for those are gifts for dedicated spinsters, and I shall never be one ofthose.” She gave him the sort of smile that would have caused a man of greater experience to pull onto the verge without delay.
“Silk stockings?” Geneviève pressed a little closer as the Wolseley chugged slowly up the hill. “Or a nightgown of fine cambric edged with lace?” She ventured to touch his knee, as if to steady herself against the coming bend.
Good grief! Has it worked?
Hugo was suddenly directing the motor to the side of the road.
Sadly, it was nothing of the sort.
“Call of nature,” he mumbled, scurrying from the car and into the bushes.
Perhaps I should offer to go and hold it for him!fumed Geneviève.Really, it’s most tiresome and not at all flattering. A woman has her pride.
They were near the crest of the hill and looking down upon Dartmoor’s forbidding fortress. Despite the midday sun’s warmth, she felt the chill of those gray prison walls, the silence of hopeless suffering, sorrow and hardship.
