The Lady’s Guide to Marrying a Viscount (The Lady’s Guide to Love #8)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Geneviève was woken by Lisette placing a breakfast tray beside the bed. Walking over to the curtains, she gave them a good yank, creating a whirl of dust that made her cough.

Geneviève had gone to the trouble of teaching the girl some English, for who knew how long they’d be at Wulverton. It would be rather awful for Lisette if she had no mastery of the language at all. The effort seemed to be paying dividends already, for the tray was well-laden, including a pot of honey and several slices of ham.

Her trunk, meanwhile, had been hauled into the room, presumably while she slept, and the fire was well-established—though the room still felt chill.

Directing Lisette to bring her the warmest of her dressing gowns, Geneviève climbed out of bed. Slathering honey onto one of the slices of bread, she took it to the window. Great spatters of rain were obscuring the view, slapping steadily against the panes, which misted up as Geneviève attempted to peer through.

“Snow is coming,” said Lisette. “The cook, Madame Fuddleby, says.”

“I’m sure,” mused Geneviève. If it was anywhere near as cold outside as it was in her chamber, she was surprised the whole moor wasn’t iced over.

With a sigh, she surveyed the room. She’d a feeling Wulverton Hall was not a place that regularly accommodated overnight guests, for there was a mustiness that spoke of the chamber having been shut up for some time.

Nevertheless, running her hand along the dressing table, she found it clean, and the cushions Lisette was plumping upon the sofa seemed similarly without dust.

Returning to the bed, she opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet, curious as to whether some past occupant had left anything of interest.

It appeared empty but, reaching to the back, Geneviève’s fingers met with the hard cover of a leather-bound book.

Removing it, she read the title upon the cover: ‘The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful’.

Pah! One of those insipid little tomes, full of condescending advice, designed to keep women mild and courteous. No wonder it was abandoned here. An unwanted gift, no doubt.

She’d been hoping for a novel of some sort—preferably the kind best read by candlelight, brimming with illicit liaisons and ghostly encounters .

In disgust, Geneviève threw the book back into the drawer.

Lisette was bent over the trunk now, from which she drew out a skirt and jacket in fine-woven wool, emerald in color.

“This one, Comtesse? It will keep you warm, yes?”

Geneviève nodded. The outfit was among those she’d most recently purchased in Paris, elegant and understated, the jacket being nipped at the waist with pleats to the rear, and black beading through the bodice.

She assumed that her sister-in-law knew every detail of her background, but first impressions were important. Marguerite had been most solicitous in her invitation to Geneviève. In fact, of all Maxim’s relatives, his sister had been the only one to send a telegram of congratulation on their marriage. Now, it was time to face her and assess the kind of woman she dealt with—a hindrance or an ally?

As Geneviève sauntered from her room, negotiating once more the long and draughty corridor, she noted that the tapestry of ships looked no less shabby by daylight. Several sections were quite threadbare, although the name of de Wolfe had been repaired and made bolder, taking pride of place in the upper center of the border.

Wulverton Hall was neither a place of warmth nor of particular comfort. However, Marguerite’s letters promised a gracious welcome.

Geneviève found the door of the morning room open and was met by an impression of vibrant colors and an amount of clutter, as if no one had ever thrown anything away. The de Wolfes were keen on dogs and horses, judging by the paintings and figurines littered abundantly. Most of the family portraits featured one or the other, their faces often more charming than their owners.

“ Par tous les diables !” came a voice from beyond the sofa. A woman was on her knees, prodding the burning logs with a poker and uttering the most inventive curses. The reason was clear, for smoke was billowing into the room.

“ Essayez ceci ,”cried Geneviève, running forward with a newspaper. Falling to the floor, she wafted frantically, then had the idea of opening the window. The draught worked immediately, drawing the fumes up the chimney.

“ Maudite cheminée!” The woman sat back on her heels, passing the back of her hand across her forehead. “This fireplace will be the death of me!”

“I do hope not,” said Geneviève, helping her hostess to her feet. “I’m very much hoping to know you better.”

“Ah! Geneviève!” cried Marguerite, pulling her into a kiss for each cheek.

Geneviève saw the resemblance to Maxim at once. His sister had the same pale blue eyes, alight with intelligence. Her hair was fairer than Maxim’s had been and her skin paler, but the slender Rosseline nose was there, and the same haughty bearing.

“ Mon Dieu ! The soot! Forgive me, what a beginning! And I’d hoped to have the café au lait ready for you when you came down.” Marguerite pulled the rope beside the fireplace. “Or would you prefer un chocolat chaud ? I often take that myself at this time.”

“Either would be delightful,” said Geneviève, settling into a seat. “It’s so wonderful to be here, finally meeting you. I must thank you, before anything else, for your thoughtful letters. My marriage to your brother must have come as a… surprise.”

Geneviève had practiced her little speech many times but now faced with delivering it, she had the grace to blush. Her hostess was one of the few to have shown Geneviève consideration.

The fabrication of small lies had become second nature to Geneviève, but it did seem a shame to begin her relationship with Marguerite under a veil of artifice. Nevertheless, until she knew more of her sister-in-law, it was safest to keep to her intended script. “It was a surprise for me, as well. You know how I came to the chateau, of course, and I never expected…”

“Now, now.” Marguerite patted Geneviève’s hand. “We are women of the world and do not need to explain ourselves. You made Maxim happy, I believe, and for that, I thank you.”

A maid arrived at that moment, placing a tray between them. “We are widows together and shall keep our husbands in our hearts as we embrace whatever life has next in store for us.”

“Beautifully put,” said Geneviève, accepting her cup. “You’re all kindness.”

“Only in part.” The other woman smoothed her skirts. “Our meeting is long overdue, and I assure you that I have my reasons for bringing you from the sunshine of our dear Chateau Rosseline to this drear place.”

Geneviève replaced her cup upon its saucer. “I’m sure Maxim would have been pleased to see us become friends. I can think of nowhere else I’d rather be, especially as the festive season begins. I have no family of my own—at least none who care where I am or what happens to me.”

Though it was only what she’d rehearsed, Geneviève’s heart tightened, for there was truth in the sentimental little speech. However, she shook off her momentary self-pity. “It touches me greatly that you’ve welcomed me into your family.”

“Please, have modest expectations.” Marguerite sighed. “You and I probably have more brains and charm between us than the collective Society of the entire moor.”

“Then we shall make our own amusement,” conceded Geneviève. “And I look forward to meeting your son, of course.”

“Ah, yes! I have a feeling Hugo will be quite taken with you.” Marguerite gave a knowing smile. “And another will be joining us. With the late viscount’s passing, we await the arrival of his elder son, from far abroad.”

She leaned forward in a confiding manner. “An estrangement, you know, as can happen between headstrong men.”

Geneviève was about to inquire further when there was a flurry of sweeping tails and lolling tongues and hot breath snuffling. Two great, gray wolfhounds had rushed in eagerly, dipping their heads into her lap, in search of crumbs.

“Tootle! Muffin! Stop that!” A man entered the room, tall and slender and as blue-eyed and blond as a baby, with a smooth chin to match. It seemed that he’d taken all his mother’s looks, for this was surely Hugo, the nephew of Maxim. He bore no resemblance to any of the de Wolfe ancestors in the portraits.

Geneviève rose to accept his welcome kiss, placed shyly upon her hand.

“What a pleasure to meet you…aunt, Countess... Aunt Geneviève.” He appeared flustered.

“Just Geneviève, please, and certainly not Aunt, since I’m barely five years older than yourself.”

“Of course, Geneviève.” Hugo took a seat beside her, and the dogs came to lie at his feet. “I’m so glad you’re here. I never knew my uncle, but I hope you’ll tell me all about him.” He gave each wolfhound a scratch behind the ears. “My mother mentions he had a reputation for being degenerate but she’s far too proper to reveal the details.”

Geneviève noticed that Marguerite’s eyes slid away to gaze at something of imaginary interest beyond the window.

“Maxim lived life to the full.” Geneviève assumed a forlorn expression, as she hoped was appropriate for a grieving widow. “My only regret is that we lacked sufficient time for me to give him the son he wished for.” She extracted her handkerchief, pressing it to the corner of her eye. “However, meeting you, I see that we can rest easy. The estate will be in good hands.”

Hugo’s cheeks reddened. “I shall do my best.” He gratefully accepted a cup from Withers, burying his face below the rim.

“My brother’s solicitor forwarded the terms to us some months ago, soon after your letter arrived,” said Marguerite, betraying no reluctance to broach the subject. “Maxim was most generous in his provision for you.”

“He was.” Geneviève shook her head at an offered plate of tiny sandwiches. “Even if I marry again, I keep my share of the vineyard’s income. Maxim was so thoughtful.”

And rightly so, Geneviève couldn’t help thinking. Of course, she was grateful for his consideration, but the settlement was what she deserved, having paid for it with her body.

Marguerite seemed desirous of pursuing the topic, but Hugo interrupted her with a cough.

“And how do you find the moors?”

“Oh! So wild and beautiful!” Geneviève gave him the full benefit of her lashes, sweeping them in an alluring flutter. “Meanwhile, Wulverton Hall is so cozy and full of history. Quite astonishing!”

His lips tugged into a small smile. “How diplomatic you are, and I suppose you’ve noticed nothing of the draught coming in at your bedroom window and the unremitting gray landscape beyond it.”

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—the devil—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 to miss 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 you escaped 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 chateau on his arm.