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

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

As she descended the steps, Lord Wulverton was blowing on his hands and foot stamping. When he turned, looking at her with those piercing green eyes, and offering his hand to help her into the cart, she hesitated.

Several times, in the night, she’d woken. Her dreams were always vivid, and they were currently stoked with an alarming degree of fuel. She’d imagined every sort of scenario for the coming day and Geneviève blushed to think of it.

Lord Wulverton was clearly not quite a gentleman. Rather, he was just the sort of gentleman that appealed to Geneviève’s baser nature. Accompanying him today was madness, and she might have invented any sort of excuse to avoid the outing. But she had not.

Whatever transpires, I must keep my head , she reminded herself, allowing him to settle her on the sprung seat and place a woollen rug about her legs.

She’d wondered if he would make an apology for his snappish behavior, and the near-violence he’d shown her. However, he made no reference to what had passed.

To begin with, neither spoke as the wheels of the cart creaked over the frost-hardened ground. Lord Wulverton merely nodded to indicate what he thought might be of interest within the undulating landscape: a fox stalking silently ahead, its eyes on some smaller creature unseen, and a rough circle of stones with a buzzard circling above. Cottages huddled beneath the hills, slated roofs yellowed with lichen, lowering over walls thick as castle keeps, others roughly thatched.

Geneviève’s nose was numb from the chill, though the sun’s strength prevented her from feeling too cold. Wearing her thickest clothing and keeping the rug firmly tucked about her, she was almost comfortable.

There was little enough room upon the seat of the cart. The length of the viscount’s legs compelled him to sit with them parted, holding the reins between, making it impossible for her to avoid her leg touching his. Each bump over the dry-rutted mud brought them together with a jolt.

Eventually, she set aside propriety, slightly leaning into him, allowing her hip to nestle his. In this way, they swayed as one. Twice, the cart lurched so violently that she was forced to steady herself by placing her hand on his thigh. However, not once did his hands stray from their job in directing the horses, nor did he touch her in any way that could be interpreted as intentional.

Nevertheless, she felt certain that he took pleasure in the rocking motion which drew them together. Despite the many layers of clothing between them, she was aware of his body—its warmth and hardness, while the soft curve of her breast pressed somewhere above the crook of his elbow.

As they reached the top of a small rise, chickens scattered, and Geneviève caught the rich smell of a peat fire. Its smoke carried on the crisp morning air, overlaying the scent of sheep’s dung and urine and rotting vegetation.

A black-faced sheepdog missing a rear leg ambled out to greet them, followed by the lady of the house, who dipped a curtsey.

Geneviève stayed in the cart as Lord Wulverton swung down, greeting the woman and tugging at the ears of the two children peeking from behind her skirts.

The woman drew off her apron, patting her hair. “It’s so cold—like as not to snow afore Christmas, and here ye are comin’ out to see us!”

She spoke with a great deal of familiarity, touching the viscount’s arm and speaking to him more as the boy she remembered from years past than as the lord of all that could be seen from one horizon to the next.

“Shame it be that old Jim b’aint here to see ye back from foreign parts. Him did say ye’d be back, an’ him were right.”

She dabbed at her eye with the corner of the apron as Lord Wulverton lifted down the basket intended for her family, and insisted on them taking a mug of warmed milk before they departed.

Geneviève would have refused but for the viscount accepting. As it was, she surreptitiously wiped the edge of her cup before drinking.

It was the same at each place they visited. Often, ale or broth were fetched, and the best wishes given for the season.

On such short acquaintance, Geneviève would not have presumed to say she knew Lord Wulverton. In fact, with each passing hour, she felt as though he became more of an enigma. Today, she saw a different side to him—one without arrogance or condescension, or any sign of temper. He was another man entirely.

However, at their final stop, the jovial greetings were tempered by more sombre talk—of the convict, still loose. Geneviève heard only part of the exchange, and the Devon accent was hard for her to follow.

“God help ee!” said one. “They do escape more often at this time o’ year, yearnin’ fer theys’ loved uns and not bein’ able t’ bear the thought o’ spending Christmas in that place.”

“Corpse’ll turn up i’ the spring, I reckon,” said another. “When hikers from Exeter and the like come fer exploring.”

Geneviève shivered at the thought. Was the convict even now curled in some hollow beneath the crags, too weak to walk any further, or had he eluded capture purely by dint of having already died of exposure?

Lord Wulverton was grim-faced when he climbed back upon the cart.

“Have none seen him?” Geneviève asked. “Might any moor-dweller have given shelter? Though he’s a wanted man and a stranger, would they have helped? ”

“He’s no stranger,” said Wulverton. “His name’s Silas.”

“You know of him?” Geneviève saw how pale the viscount looked, taking up the reins again to lead them from the farmyard and back down the muddy track.

“More than that. He was our stableman, years ago; the first to put me on a horse, before I could walk.”

“But how did he come to be in prison? If he was of good character, wouldn’t your father have spoken for him?”

Lord Wulverton barked a hollow sound, a muscle working at the side of his jaw. “It was he who sent him there! I didn’t know, of course, until years later. My father held the magistrate in his pocket. None would have dared gone against him. It was one of the reasons I chose to join my regiment when I was old enough to make my own choices.”

“You became estranged over his treatment of your stableman?” Geneviève wasn’t sure she understood.

The viscount’s brow knitted. “Not quite, but there’s no point in talking of it now. I meant to visit him, to see what could be done. It was one of the tasks I’d set for myself—one of the burdens on my ledger.”

“Imprisoned all this time?” Geneviève caught the flash of pain in his eyes before his face closed again.

“As with many things, I’ve waited too long, and now the chance is past. God knows if he’s still alive.”

They rode in silence to the main road, Geneviève sensing that it would be better not to speak. If Wulverton had more to say, he’d confide in his own time. His family history was no business of hers, although she supposed it would be, once she and Hugo were wedded.

After some minutes, they came to a crossroads and she recognized what lay to the north-eastward path—a web of tangled oak, bent from exposure to the bleak winds, twisted and festooned with ivy and creeping plants. The last time she’d passed this way had been at night. Now, she saw that the trunks and low-spread branches were thick-covered in moss, emitting the moist, nutty aroma of ancient wood.

What light would penetrate? Only animals that sought dark places would abide there—those who snuffled for their meal without need for sight.

Wistman’s Wood, Hugo had called it—a place favored by Satan. With the afternoon light fading, Geneviève could see how such tales would take hold. Was the convict here, perhaps, deep inside this place that few dared enter?

A streak of cinnamon flashed before the cart, diving across the bracken. The surprise of it caused Geneviève to catch her breath, clutching at Lord Wulverton’s arm.

“Nothing to worry us,” he said, releasing one hand from the reins to place over her own—a hand reassuringly large and warm. “Just a red fox running for the woods.”

With relief, she saw it was true, that its brush was disappearing into the dusk and the trees. Despite his sudden changes of mood and the clouds that seemed to brood over him, having Wulverton next to her, so very much in control, made her feel safe.

Naturally, her cap remained set at Hugo; she’d exerted far too much effort on that score to abandon her plan. Yet, it was Wulverton she wished to know better and for him to see her pleasure in his company. Earlier in the day, she’d been concerned about the damp and cold, and the inadequacy of her cloak and boots. Now, she was sorry the journey would soon come to an end.

She searched for the right tone of conversation, wanting him to know that she was moved by his depth of feeling for the moor.

“You fit comfortably here,” she said at last. “Among the people, I mean.” She wasn’t sure quite how to phrase what she wished to say. “They have a love for you. It must be gratifying, after being away so long. They respect you, and you’re glad to be back, I think.”

He didn’t answer at once, his concentration seemingly upon turning the cart at the crossroads, from where he took the southern path. “I admire them—for their affinity with the hills and rocks and mires. They’re solitary and hard-working in a place largely inhospitable. I admire their resilience, and their allegiance to one another. There are none like them, at least not as I’ve found in my travels through the world.”

As he spoke, she thought again how ruggedly handsome he was, with his own resilience and sense of allegiance. Having watched him with the moorlanders, she saw that he’d be a good master, treating them as they deserved—equal in God’s eyes and his own.

Her impulse was to lean closer, breathing his masculine scent. To be so near that it would be impossible for him to avoid kissing her. There was no one to see them.

She would let him.

She wanted him to.

Her mouth grew dry thinking of it.

He made no overture toward her, however, and she chided herself for wishing it.

The boulders of the curving moor had turned granite-black against the darkening sky and the winter-gray expanse. The fading of the light and Lord Wulverton’s closeness within the cart seemed to encourage the sharing of confidences, for he continued.

“All the time I was in foreign lands, I kept thinking I’d die and be buried in the dust, far away. When my time comes, I want to be placed here, beneath the racing sky and the wind breathing through the grass, under the cold peat and moss, with the tors keeping watch over me.”

She nodded. Whatever his past, he belonged on the moor.

Geneviève realized that she hadn’t thought of her own home for many hours. Instead, she’d been consumed by the landscape through which they’d travelled. Consumed also by watching him.

“And what of you?” he asked. “I imagine something more than the desire to become better acquainted with your sister-in-law has brought you here.”

Suppressing a tremble of alarm, she kept her eyes upon his hands, guiding the horses. It was a rare occasion when Geneviève told an unadulterated truth. Complete honesty was generally unnecessary. Dangerous even. He didn’t need to hear the sordid details of her past .

However, she felt inclined to give him something that wasn’t wholly a lie.

“I don’t like to be reliant on others, but it would suit me to marry again, for the status it affords.”

She seldom mentioned her fears. Steely determination was more her style. Nevertheless, she permitted Wulverton a glimpse at what she preferred to keep hidden. “The modest circumstances of my past are a hindrance in finding a husband among my former acquaintances; at least, any husband I’d consider suitable.”

She saw no judgement in his expression, and it emboldened her to continue. “I came with the expectation of Marguerite introducing me to her own Society.”

His lips twitched. “And how is that proceeding?”

“I find I must congratulate Mrs. Wapshot and Mrs. Hissop on having claimed the most eligible bachelors!”

He laughed at that. “You were raised in a convent, I hear. An austere upbringing, I imagine.”

“The nuns were kind, though no more than you might expect.”

He betrayed no distaste, but Geneviève was reluctant to share too many particulars. “The hardest part was knowing my mother had given me up. I was too young to understand why she’d done so. Even now, I fail to fully comprehend how she could have left me…” Her throat grew constricted.

He made no move to comfort her—did not touch her or offer any platitude of sympathy. Instead, he merely nodded. “I was barely four years old when I lost my own mother, and only seven when my father sent me away to school.”

Such things were common among the British nobility—sending boy children away to grow into men. She’d vowed that, if she ever had a child of her own, she’d keep them with her for as long as possible. There were other ways to show children how to be strong and brave than to take them from loving arms and oblige them to fend for themselves.

It was a discussion for another time. For now, she sensed enough had been shared. Better to speak of something else.

A mist had been tumbling over the bare masses of stone standing jagged above them, easing down the side of the hill. It wouldn’t be long before it reached the road.

Geneviève made efforts to lighten the mood. “Dr. Hissop told me about the piskies sending the mists to confuse us. I hope your horses know their way back.”

“They’re only low clouds.” Lord Wulverton peered up to where she was looking. “We’re a thousand feet above the rest of the county here. Clouds need stoop very little to embrace the moor.”

“You’ve the soul of a poet!” Geneviève mused, inspiring another of his half smiles.

They’d almost reached the hall, though not by its grand gates and the avenue. He had taken them behind, approaching via the smaller track which led past the chapel, to the rear of the hall. The frost was creeping through the verge on either side.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He brought the horses to a standstill. “It’s bitter out here, but I should visit my father’s grave and that of my brother. My mother’s, too. I’ve a shameful habit of putting aside what discomfits me.”

He touched her shoulder. “Thank you for your company today.”

Swinging down, he headed through the lychgate, in search of the newest headstones among those of his ancestors, held within the walls of the small patch of sacred ground. Geneviève wrapped her cloak tighter and peered after him, watching for his return.

She’d been sure of her plan in coming to England, knowing what she must do. However, in these last hours, it had felt as if her path were shrouded and what she needed to see was just out of sight. As she sat, the air seemed to grow thicker and all about her gloomier, the uncertain moon straining through the mist.

She jumped as a woodcock burst from a patch of fern, fleeing startled. Someone was near—brushing through the grass, but not from the direction of the graveyard. From the other side, perhaps.

“Lord Wulverton?” The fog muffled her cry, so that she wondered if she’d uttered it aloud or only in her mind. “Who’s there?”

When she saw him, it was so fleetingly that she wondered if he were a man at all—so haunted was his face and hollow-eyed.

“Withers?”

He looked at her but a moment before disappearing into the gloom. Now, she saw only drifting mist and shifting shadows.

‘Piskie-led’ Dr. Hissop had called it—the trance which overtook the unwary until they knew not what was real and what of their imagination. He’d told her one should turn one’s coat or cape inside out to break their mischievous spell. Ridiculous! As if she would!

Except that she was not alone, for the horses were fidgeting in their harness, sensing something near.

She heard the panting first and the rush of bounding feet before she saw the glint of eyes—not one creature but two, or were there more? They were moving low and from her right, from the direction of the hall.

What had Hugo called them? Wisht Hounds? They were creatures born of ignorant superstition, she knew, but all such stories had some footprint in the truth. Conan Doyle believed so, too, didn’t he? She’d begun reading the book Lord Wulverton had lent her—of the curse of The Hound of the Baskervilles. That was just a story though, written to thrill and entertain. Besides which, she’d committed no sin worthy of attracting otherworldly retribution, had she?

Nonetheless, as the first howl rent the air, Geneviève let forth a scream of her own.