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

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

It took but a few minutes for Lord Wulverton to bring them down from the chapel, driving directly to the servants’ entrance. Geneviève remembered little beyond waking beside the cart, her face wet from the drizzling mist.

Had she fainted?

She’d felt cold to the bone but how wonderful it had been to have his strong arms about her, lifting her gently into the back of the cart.

“She needs warming, Mrs. Fuddleby,” he announced, carrying Geneviève into the kitchen.

“Sit ‘er ladyship in my armchair an we’ll stoke up them flames.” The cook showed little surprise at her master’s abrupt entrance into her domain.

He was pulling off his gloves and then Geneviève’s. Taking her hands in his, he rubbed them vigorously.

Mrs. Fuddleby lifted down a saucepan. “Hot milk and nutmeg’s what’s needed—like when yer were a little ‘un, eh Master. ”

He seemed to know his way around, going out to the passageway beyond the kitchen and returning with a blanket, placing it over Geneviève’s knees.

“Like old times, bain’t it,” said the cook, taking up the grater for her nutmeg. “Nummer o’ times yer sat there as a boy, come to ‘ave yer knee bandaged or yer heart comforted.”

She beamed fondly, taking stock of the hulking man perched upon the stool. “Yer’ve grown a mite since, I do say.”

“A little, yes.” He smiled.

They sat companionably for some minutes, listening to the spit and hiss of the burning logs, and Mrs. Fuddleby’s efficient bustle. Geneviève felt very safe. Her earlier attack of fright hadn’t been like her at all.

Nevertheless, she felt compelled to ask. Had he heard the howling? Had he seen those eyes staring through the mist?

Wulverton looked thoughtful. “Nothing like that, though the mist does have a way of altering sound. A wild dog, maybe. There are some, scavenging on the moor.”

“It’s most likely my imagination. I’ve been hearing too many of your legends and have furnished my own spectral hounds.” She really was feeling far more herself, and sufficiently warmed to remove her cloak.

“There yer go, my lovelies,” said Mrs. Fuddleby, doing away with all formality. “And be sure to drink it down while it’s got a bit o’ steam.” She nodded approvingly as Geneviève sipped from her cup.

Wulverton swigged from his, then took leave of Mrs. Fuddleby with a kiss to her forehead. Nodding to Geneviève, in four great strides, he was out of the door through which they’d entered, returning to the horses waiting patiently.

Mrs. Fuddleby followed the sight of him until the door had shut, then gave a sigh. At the kitchen table, she began cracking eggs, separating the whites. Geneviève watched as the cook’s strong right arm commenced whisking.

“You’re very fond of him,” said Geneviève.

“That I am. I can scarce believe the master be back at Wulverton.” She sniffed. “There’s no better piece o’ joy.”

“I can see he holds affection for you, too.” Geneviève unpinned the shawl from her neck.

“I should say so!” Mrs. Fuddleby tossed her head, although she looked gratified at Geneviève’s comment. “I had the raisin’ of ‘im for long enough. Even when the mistress were with us, her never did spend much time with Master Mallon, nor little Edward. He were only a baby when she did leave the two mites.”

Geneviève noted the cook’s use of Lord Wulverton’s given name. She’d known him from his boyhood, of course.

“He mentioned her to me, just a little,” Geneviève replied.

Mrs. Fuddleby pursed her lips. “A terrible shock it were, what did ‘appen, although some might say it were a blessin’. Certain folks never do be satisfied in this mortal life.”

Geneviève rather fell into that camp herself. Acquiring a state of contentment was no easy task.

“She were a great beauty, yer know.” Mrs. Fuddlby paused from whipping, upturning the bowl to check on the firmness. “Toast of Lunnun, folks said. She weren’t never goin’ to be ‘appy down ‘ere on the moor.”

The cook took a forcing bag and began spooning in the meringue mixture. “Not that it were all ‘er ladyship’s fault. The late viscount, God rest his soul, were no easy man to please.”

“And there was some difference in their ages, I suppose.”

“True enough, though that’s not always a bad thing for marriage.” Mrs. Fuddleby gave Geneviève something between a wink and a nod.

“Still, no use cryin’ over spilt milk, is it! They were both guilty o’ badness and now they be inside the pearly gates. It be God they must face afore they find their everlastin’ peace.”

Mrs. Fuddleby bent earnestly to piping her meringues. There were several things Geneviève was eager to ask but it was beneath her to encourage gossip—and the cook seemed to have said all she wished to on the matter. Nevertheless, as Geneviève made her way upstairs, she couldn’t help but speculate.

Mallon poured himself a large whisky, gulping it down in three mouthfuls, relishing the burn in the back of his throat. He poured another, then took the decanter to the armchair closest to the fire.

Hunching low, he rested his booted foot against the fender’s edge. Stupid of him to have kept the countess out so long. She wasn’t accustomed to the moorland’s strain of winter damp.

He’d suggest she stay inside for a few days.

God forbid she came down with pneumonia.

His motives in having her accompany him had been selfish. He’d no intention of wooing her, or any woman, yet he’d chosen the cart, knowing its seat to be too small to accommodate the pair of them. It hadn’t taken long for her to lean into him—just as he’d hoped.

And hell only knew what had come over him the previous morning, while he’d been telling her the legend of old Cavell. He’d behaved abominably, and with the barest restraint, letting her inflame him with those violet eyes and the rise and fall of what lay so temptingly within her corset. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had produced such an effect on him.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true, but the occasion in question had been an aberration, and the woman on the train quite a different kettle of fish.

What had he been thinking? If he was honest, he knew damn well. The countess had been willing enough, that was for sure, but it was just as well he’d resisted. She wanted another husband, not a dalliance—and he had no intention of falling into the trap of marriage.

With his mother’s example before him, how could he ever pronounce the vows between man and wife?

Still, he’d had the devil’s own job not to take the countess in his arms and kiss those sensual, upturned lips. Not just yesterday, but today, in the cart. He found her physically attractive, of course, but she was also sensitive and thoughtful—and with a brain in her head when she’d a mind to use it.

What had it been like between his parents? Had his father chosen his mother for her looks alone? She’d brought only a modest dowry. Her beauty must have been her fortune, though little good it had done her. Not a single portrait remained of his mother in the hall. Generations of de Wolfes populated the long gallery, but she was not among them. Mallon remembered her from memory alone, with an expression of wistful sadness on her face, more often than not.

He’d no plans to repeat the travesty of his parents’ union. He’d had plenty of women, but he’d paid them to perform services. Nothing more.

It was the best way, unless a man wanted an heir.

Some simple local woman might make an adequate companion, he supposed, and would bear him sturdy little tykes. Such a woman might be content to remain here, on the moor. However, among the type of female he generally found attractive, he couldn’t imagine any being satisfied with the lack of sophistication or their remote location. Even the drive to Exeter and back required a full day.

Moreover, Mallon didn’t need a nursery of brats. It was enough for him to call the moor home again and to continue his ancestral traditions, then allow Hugo to take on the Wulverton title and estate.

Though Hugo had inherited the Rosseline vineyards, Mallon could hardly imagine his nephew taking up permanent residence abroad. The south of France might as well be Timbuktu, as far as Hugo was concerned—though Marguerite would doubtless welcome the change of scene. Her influence had a chance of luring him there, Mallon supposed, which would be unfortunate.

Hugo had a deal to learn, regarding the responsibilities of the Wulverton estate, but he was level-headed, at least, and his heart was in the right place. The viscountcy had been in less able hands, there was little doubt, through times past.

Mallon had been nonchalant when the telegram had first arrived at his barracks, letting him know that his brother had taken a wife. Better him than me, Mallon had thought. Later, he heard how his father had crossed the Channel to restock his cellar and had returned with the only daughter of Count Rosseline. Marguerite’s father had bestowed a dowry large enough to repair the roof of Wulverton Hall five times over, not to mention a thousand bottles of the finest burgundy—all in return for marrying into one of England’s oldest families.

Whatever fondness Mallon had felt for his father, it had died for want of nurture. From the day of his mother’s departure, the old man’s heart had turned against his sons. Perhaps he’d doubted their blood was his, or looking at them had reminded him too much of their mother. The outcome was the same, in either case.

Ironic, of course, that he and Edward had been born with the customary dark hair and green eyes of the de Wolfes, while his father had been sandy haired. Perhaps, that was where Hugo’s extreme blondness hailed from, if not from Marguerite.

It had been a relief for Mallon to escape. Leaving Edward had been a wrench, though, by that time, he’d been old enough to look out for himself.

Mallon had never intended to return. But, as the years went by, his yearning for the moor had only grown. So, here he was.

It was regrettable that his arrival coincided with the festive season, and an inevitable stream of guests, but he would do his best to endure. There would be time enough for solitude when the new year began.