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

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

How could it be! How was it that he was here? Rather, what cruel joke of fate that she was a guest in his house?

They were but six for dinner and to hide was impossible.

While Hugo attempted to engage her in conversation, Geneviève concentrated on cutting her trout into ever smaller morsels. However, she couldn’t bring herself to swallow, nor to raise her face.

Encouraged by their kiss earlier that afternoon, Hugo was all attentiveness, venturing several times to brush his elbow with hers. Noting that she had little appetite, he suggested that Cook send up some broth if the fish was too off-putting. Geneviève did her best to smile and put his mind at ease, all the while aware it was the viscount, Lord Wulverton, she needed to convince of her composure.

I must pretend as I have so many times before. I am meek and obedient and without opinion. I will make him disbelieve his eyes. For how can I be the woman on the train? Such a thing is inconceivable.

The viscount seemed little inclined to speak but answered each question with a curt statement: under Major General Roberts, he’d crossed the Shutargardan Pass into Afghanistan, to defeat the Afghan Army at Charasiab, and had fought in the Siege of Sherpur Cantonment during the uprising. He made nothing of his injury sustained at the Battle of Kandahar. His shoulder only pained him now and then, and had regained almost all mobility.

Of the years following his active service, he spoke even less. He’d settled in Constantinople, beside the sparkling Bosphorus, though how he’d spent his time there he declined to say.

At last, Marguerite invited them to withdraw. They’d take their brandy and coffee together in the adjoining room.

“Allow me,” said Dr. Hissop, helping Geneviève rise from her chair. “How are you finding the moor, Countess? Not too quiet?”

“It’s all I’d hoped for.” She forced herself to smile—to respond as she must. “And you, doctor?” Wishing to keep her distance from the rest of the party, Geneviève guided him to stand near the window.

“My wife misses the liveliness of Exeter life while I find the moorland fascinating. I’m a lover of antiquities but lack the time or funds to travel to the ancient sites of Greece and Italy. Here, on our very doorstep, we have a wealth of history, cairns and barrows and stone circles. There are a great many on the moor—especially kistvaens, the stone-clad hollows where the ancients placed their dead. If you ever find yourself caught in a downpour, they make excellent hiding places to duck out of the rain.”

“How intriguing.” Geneviève’s gaze travelled across the room. Marguerite had drawn the newcomer into conversation. Geneviève might endure another ten minutes before making an excuse to retire.

Dr. Hissop seemed to be warming to his subject. “The dwellers of the moor have many tales and customs also worthy of attention. Their folk superstitions are not always original, of course, except in the way they relate to local landmarks. The corpse-lights, for instance, which are said to lure the unwary into the mire.”

“Ah, yes.” Geneviève took a sip from her coffee cup. “We have the same in France, little dancing lights on the marshes which lead you to step where you should not and lose your way.”

“Quite so,” replied Dr. Hissop. “People think they’re above such superstitions in our rational, modern century, with its motorized vehicles and moving cinematographs, but if you find yourself alone on the moor after dark, you may find your mind wandering down paths illuminated more by fear than reason.”

Geneviève turned her back a little more on the others across the room and urged the doctor to continue.

“Then, there’s the Lych Way.” Dr. Hissop’s eyes were alight. “The medieval funeral path used to carry corpses across Dartmoor to their internment. Several of my patients swear they’ve seen ghostly processions, and without having taken a drop of liquor!”

Geneviève forced herself to laugh while stealing a furtive glance toward Lord Wulverton. Hugo was chattering away, but the viscount did not seem to be listening. Instead, he was looking over his balloon of Cognac—positively staring, in fact, and at Geneviève alone.

It was so strange to be back.

How eager he’d been to leave. Twenty-three years, and here he was again.

Very little had changed. The same portraits hung upon the walls, and the same brocade curtains adorned the tall, mullioned windows. Even the furniture seemed to be in the same place it had been on the day he’d left. Only his bedroom seemed different. Smaller than he remembered. The bed—having accommodated generations of de Wolfes—still sagged and creaked.

His father appeared to have kept the hall in good enough repair, which was some relief. Mallon had wondered what he might find on his return—a leaking roof, perhaps, or boarded windows.

Many of the staff were new, of course, but Withers was still here, and Mrs. Fuddleby. Mallon had poked his head into the kitchen briefly and been rewarded with a warm embrace from their cook. She’d grown slightly rounder about the middle but her manner toward him was just the same. To her, he suspected, he’d always be Master Mallon .

Marguerite had greeted him cordially, though hadn’t quite been able to conceal her wariness at his arrival. It was only to be expected. She’d lived here more years than he had himself. It was her home as much as his, regardless of his title of ownership. He’d done his best to assure her that he intended no change in that regard. As Edward’s widow, she would always have a home at Wulverton Hall.

What most surprised him was the attractive guest in their midst. Marguerite had told him something of her sister-in-law, now re-entering Society—and with gusto, it seemed, since she’d put aside her black in favor of a red silk gown swept low across her shoulders.

She was most definitely his type, generous in the bosom and hips, and with a waist that beckoned a man’s hands. Her lips, sensuously full and deeply rouged, begged not just to be kissed but held the promise of other acts.

Had they met in London, he’d have certainly attempted to bed her. He indulged a fleeting image of the countess without her dress, without any clothes at all. He wondered if she’d be amenable to placing those fleshy handfuls at his disposal. It would certainly bring an element of spice to the weeks ahead. Much as he loved the moor, his expectations were low regarding the company to be had. A little diversion would be most welcome.

Marguerite had told him the countess was well-provided for, though Hugo had inherited the main assets of her late husband’s estate. She wouldn’t be seeking an extended stay, surely. Paris seemed more her style—a place for a young widow of means to find suitable entertainment.

However, as pleasurable as a fling would be, he set the thought aside. He’d only just gotten back and there was a great deal for him to assess on the estate. He could do without the inconvenience of an entanglement where she might misconstrue his intentions and attempt to secure a longer-term commitment.

Such a thing was furthest from Mallon’s thoughts.

Besides which, her pronounced sensuality put him in mind of his mother, whose excess of carnality had led to her ruin.

Nevertheless, he was drawn to observe her, and to admire. Since retiring to the drawing room, she’d been speaking with the doctor—or listening rather, for the man had a liking for his own voice.

The gems at her ears caught the candlelight—delicate drops of crimson against the white of her throat. Her dark hair was lustrous, upswept and decorated with a lavishly plumed aigrette. Her eyes, meanwhile, were an unusual shade. He’d thought them grey at first, but closer inspection showed them to be silver-threaded violet, like sunlight on stormy seas.

Mallon could not place the connection, but she was familiar to him. Her English was proficient, though her accent was pronounced. She had surely never visited Constantinople but where else would he have met her? In Paris, or during his time in London? A group of French had sat at the table adjacent to his at the Criterion. It had been too gaudy for his taste, but he’d heard it was a favorite with Conan Doyle .

He’d read a copy of his book, The Hound of the Baskervilles . The man had apparently spent some time on the moor and heard its tales. The rendering had been eloquent, making Mallon all the more eager to see Wulverton once more.

She glanced over to him, then swiftly away, with the look of a deer caught in the headlamps of a carriage and not knowing which way to run. He’d been staring too intensely and had discomforted her, it seemed, though her manner of dressing indicated that she was a woman who liked attention.

He was tired and would have excused himself to his bed, but he must approach and make right his ill manners.

Geneviève had turned her back utterly, but it was too late. He was beside her. She’d been thinking only of the necessity of concealment. Now, hearing his voice, so deep and rich, heat assailed her body. He wore the starched formality of evening dress, but she was aware of the muscle and blood beneath. She remembered the weight of him above her and the taste of his sweat. Grasping the window ledge, she willed herself into composure.

Viscount Wulverton introduced himself with a bow and made the usual courtesies of asking after her health, her journey and as to whether her comforts were being met. How she answered, she couldn’t have said but he seemed to accept all her replies.

His attention then turned to the doctor’s research of the moor, and Hissop lowered his eyes in a show of modesty. “An interest I shared with the late viscount. I offer my deepest sympathies.”

Mallon seemed to hesitate, as if finding difficulty in framing his words. “You attended him, I believe—at the end.”

“I did little more than make him comfortable in the final hours,” said the doctor.

Mallon grimaced. “He spoke of me, before passing?”

Dr. Hissop shook his head. “The stroke robbed him of speech.” The doctor made bold to touch Mallon’s arm. “No doubt, you were in his thoughts, though he was unable to express them.”

Mallon stepped back a little. “No doubt…”

It was an awkward moment. Despite the brevity of her sojourn at the hall, even Geneviève was aware of the late viscount’s estrangement from his son. Surely the doctor knew how things had stood between them. She was able to imagine some degree of Mallon’s grief, likely tinged with regret, for years lost and sentiments unspoken.

Marguerite called for them to sit, and it was with relief that Geneviève took the seat offered on Hugo’s far side. Resigning herself to Tootle placing his great paws across her feet was a fair exchange for being able to turn her face—at least partially—toward the hearth. Mallon lowered himself into an armchair, stretching his legs before him as he accepted more Cognac.

“I do hope Samuel hasn’t been boring you, talking of his hobby.” Mrs. Hissop gave a fluttery laugh. “Few share my husband’s enthusiasm for the contemplation of ancient granite.”

“My dear, I do not just admire the moor’s beauty, I wish to protect it against our exploitation of its metal, stones, and minerals.” The doctor protested with an exasperated expression.

Geneviève allowed Withers to replenish her cup and continued her contemplation of the flames.

“There’s never been mining on Wulverton land,” Mallon asserted.

Dr. Hissop was not to be deflected. “Nevertheless, the moor needs protection from man’s greed. Were there no laws to govern its use, who knows what state it would come to.”

“You might join the Preservation Association,” chimed in Hugo. “The doctor always wants me to get involved but you’ll do much better than me.”

Mallon’s voice seemed all the more resonant for following the light tones of his nephew. “I’m sure you’re too modest Hugo but, of course, I’ll support any noble-minded venture. We’re only guardians, after all.”

“My household visits to my patients have been a double blessing,” Dr. Hissop continued, “For I’ve had not only the opportunity to heal their ills but to compile a catalog of their superstitions and tales.”

“And very gruesome they are!” Mrs. Hissop gave a theatrical shudder. “Once dusk has come, I won’t step more than a few feet from our door, knowing what I do!”

“I love a good ghost story!” said Hugo. “Very traditional at this time of year. Dr. Hissop, you’ll oblige us?”

“If you wish it, of course.” The doctor adjusted the cushion in his chair and pondered a moment.

“Some women bring grief upon those closest to them, while others are the victims of others’ greed. Of Lady Mary Fitz, some say she was a murderess. Others, only that she was ill-used by those who might have given her protection.” He rested his chin upon his fingers. He had every ear, for the only other sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.

Nonetheless, Geneviève was aware of Lord Wulverton’s gaze upon her. Did he know or suspect where they had met before? Despite her caution, had she given herself away?