Page 30 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Whoever wrote this has clearly never indulged in an impatient coupling. I can vouch for them being far more pleasurable than the patient kind.
The rest of the chapter was similarly dry, asserting that bedroom sports were ‘more to be endured than enjoyed’, and suggesting an unwilling wife might ‘pleada headache or other ailment to avoid the matrimonial act’.
Geneviève pulled a face. Admittedly, there had been a few occasions upon which she’d used that ruse to avoid relations with Maxim.
Was that how it would be with Hugo? Once she’d spawned the obligatory heir, would she start looking for excuses to avoid his attentions? In truth, she hadn’t actually pictured them in bed together. She couldn’t imagine Hugo that way, in the throes of passion.
The thought made her feel faintly nauseous.
Not that it matters!she reminded herself fervently.I won’t be marrying him for his skills between the sheets.
Snapping the book closed, she put it aside and flopped back upon the pillows.
Again, she willed herself to sleep, but it was no use.
Nothing for it but to go downstairs and heat some milk. At the very least, I’ll be glad to get back to bed after navigating the draughty corridors.
Reaching for her dressing gown, she lit the lamp at her bedside and slipped out, padding down the passage, stepping close to the wall to avoid the squeak of floorboards. She descended the first flight of stairs and paused on the landing. The window there was deep, with a broad seat stretching its width. Outside, the moon shone bright, sending its illumination clear through the glass, lighting the oak-panelled walls.
The moorland was bathed silver. How long ago it seemed since she and Lord Wulverton had set out in the cart. To the west was thechapel. Strange to think of all those de Wolfe ancestors, who had once stood where she did now, buried beneath the frosted earth.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck a single, sonorous chime. One in the morning.
As she made to turn away, something caught her attention—a dark shape near the wall of the graveyard. A pony, perhaps, or a black-woolled sheep. The figure rose from its crouch, emerging from the shadows. No animal but a man, moving purposefully down the slope toward the house.
She rubbed at her eyes but there was no mistake. It was a man, his head bent forward and shoulders hunched.
Who was out at this time?
He’d almost reached the house when he looked up and Geneviève caught sight of his face.
Withers?
She gasped and pressed closer to the glass. Her eyes were deceiving her, surely. A man of his age ought to be in bed. The winter cold would be the death of him!
Geneviève strained to follow his path, but he disappeared out of sight, around the side of the house. Just then, there was a creak from the upper passageway, a door opening and a shuffling sound, a man’s voice, low and cursing.
There was no time to run down the stairs. Instead, she doused her lamp and shrunk back into the corner, concealing herself within the curtains as far as she could.
“Damn him and the whole filthy lot.” The voice was familiar, slurred and growing louder. She heard him slipon the stairs, bumping down until he fell upon the landing. More cursing ensued.
Geneviève held her breath, pressing to the wall. She had only to wait for him to pass by and she’d be safe. Thoughts of hot milk were forgotten. A retreat to her bed was all she wished.
“Hell!” Lord Slagsby staggered forward, grasping at the curtains.
To Geneviève’s horror, they were suddenly face to face.
“What’s this?” Slagsby scowled, drawing her into focus. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” He swayed forward, wincing slightly, mumbling to himself. “Hiding in the curtains. Bloody strange thing to do…house full of curs and imbeciles.”
Geneviève attempted to duck past, but his hand shot out, grasping her above the elbow.
“Not so fast.” He looked her over and gave a lazy smile. “I’m on my way to sample more of the viscount’s whisky, or his father’s I should say. He’s not been in this house long enough to call anything his own. Join me, why don’t you. You look like you need a drink to loosen you up.”
Geneviève reminded herself to stay calm. It shouldn’t be difficult to escape him. He was limping a little on his ankle.
“You forget yourself, Lord Slagsby. We’re both guests in this house. I, at least, know how to behave.” She twisted her head as he stepped closer, his mouth curled in a sneer.
“You weren’t always sofine, Countess. Little more than a servant, in fact, doing an old woman’s bidding.” He gave a derisive snort. “And that husband of yours! Known in every gambling den and brothel from Monte Carlo to Paris.”
