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

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

It had been a long time since Mallon had been obliged to endure the company of so many. He’d never been keen on formality, nor conversation with those he hardly knew, but it was ridiculous to let nerves get the better of him. He was preparing for a dinner at which twenty would be seated, followed by a little music and dancing. It was hardly the storming of the battlefield with cannons blazing.

All that was needed was the appearance of confidence. He was master of Wulverton Hall, Viscount Wulverton. He might recount any trifling anecdote, and the company would be amused.

It was an evening to be endured rather than holding any expectation of pleasure and yet there was one person he wished to seek out.

As his guests assembled for pre-dinner drinks, he located her on the far side of the room, or heard her rather—for her laughter was unmistakable, husky and sensual. His stomach knotted in response and a swell rose in his heart—a strange tugging sensation that urged him closer, drawing him toward her.

Even from behind, he knew her at once. No other woman in the room had so elegant a neck nor hair so luxuriant. She appeared to have recovered from her fright, and from being chilled, with no ill-effects.

Under the chandelier’s candlelight, her gown shimmered. Meanwhile, the diamonds at her ears and neck were obscenely large. If they were real, she was better provided for than he’d realized.

Making his way closer, he saw that she was engaged in speaking to Hugo and to someone Mallon didn’t recognize—a tall fellow with a supercilious air. He’d seen enough of that kind during his army days. Young men with little to recommend them in the way of talent or virtue; men whose egos were fed purely by the blueness of their blood.

This one seemed to be having trouble deciding which part of the countess to devour first—her décolleté or her jewels.

“Damned backwater if you ask me. Don’t know how you stand it.”

Mallon caught the drift of the conversation from several feet away. The impertinent cur had already taken a surfeit of liquor, for his words were slurred.

“Steady on, Slagsby. It’s not as bad as all that.” Hugo’s remonstrations were having not the slightest effect.

“I expect our lovely countess feels the same.” The toad was leaning indecently against her arm.

“Not at all!” Her voice was crystal. She was turning away, attempting to place some inches between them .

“No need to sugar coat it for young de Wolfe’s benefit!” The churl slapped Hugo on the back, then slung his arm about Hugo’s neck. “We used to share everything at school, didn’t we Wolfers. No secrets here. We like to deliver it straight up, eh!” He gave a lecherous wink and guffawed at his wit, causing several other guests to swivel their heads in disapproval.

“We’d best get some food inside you, old chum. ‘Bout time Withers rang the gong.” Hugo staggered under his friend’s arm.

“Or to bed, I’d say.” Mallon drew alongside.

“Ha! Not without my dinner, and I was planning on sitting next to this pretty piece. Two ripe fruits to finish with, eh!” Slagsby’s knees suddenly failed him, obliging Mallon and Hugo to take his full weight.

“Dash it, Slagsby. You’re a disgrace!” Hugo shot Geneviève a look of abject embarrassment.

The color had risen on her cheeks, but she held her poise. Mallon, meanwhile, felt decidedly less composed. The chatter in the room had disguised most of Slagsby’s uncouth comments, but the Reverend Wapshot and his wife had most certainly had an earful.

Under other circumstances, he’d take the oaf outside for a good thrashing. As it was, a subtler approach was required. With a nod to Hugo, Mallon hoisted up Lord Slagsby and, ignoring his protests, they dragged him away.

“Very decent of you. Don’t know what got into him, although he always was a trifle boisterous—at school, you know.” Hugo dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. Slagsby had passed out halfway up the stairs, turning into a deadweight. It had taken enormous effort to drag him to his bed.

“Not your fault, Hugo. Though you might want to reassess your friendship.” Mallon did his best to keep his temper.

His own opinion of Lord Slagsby remained unwavering. The man was an ill-mannered, lecherous drunk and a gambler; removing his jacket, a handful of betting slips had fluttered to the floor. Mallon feared Hugo was too impressionable. Men like Slagsby tainted everything they touched. Hugo appeared a decent young man, but he was green enough to be led astray. Mallon knew that path and was in no hurry to see his nephew make similar mistakes.

Another duty I’ve been remiss in fulfilling.

Mallon knew he owed it to his brother to have a care for his only son.

I might have no hope of happiness in a woman’s arms but I’ll do my best to see Hugo well-settled.

Returning downstairs, they were ushered immediately into the dining room, Marguerite directing Mallon to lead in both Reverend Wapshot’s elderly mother and aunt, while Hugo offered his arm to the countess.

The meal was interminable. Seated at the head of the table and flanked on either side, Mallon had little choice but to apply himself to the courtesies of dinner-talk, but it was no easy task. Both ladies were hard of hearing and had interest only in the food before them.

His gaze wandered to the opposite end, where Hugo held court, Geneviève to his right and his mother upon his left. There, the conversation appeared to be flowing in a lively manner. How had he not seen it before? There was an attraction between them. The countess had touched his arm five times in as many minutes while Hugo was hardly eating at all, his attention all upon his companion.

Marguerite looked well contented. The countess was Hugo’s senior by perhaps seven years. Not the norm by any stretch of the imagination.

Mallon chewed upon a forkful of trout. He’d initially thought the sauce not at all bad, but it appeared flavorless now. He made an effort to swallow and took a mouthful of wine. Even that—a fine vintage he’d chosen himself from the well-stocked cellar—had lost its zest.

It was a relief, at last, for Marguerite to call them through to the salon, which had been cleared for dancing.

“Cigars and port will be available in the anteroom, but no gentleman is to partake until he’s had a turnabout the room to the satisfaction of our ladies.” She rose from her seat, ushering her guests.

“Beatrice, you’ll play the piano for us? Perhaps a waltz? And Hugo should lead us in the merriment, with the comtesse, I think.”

The Wapshots’ daughter looked plaintively at Hugo as she took her seat at the instrument. Holding a torch for his nephew, most certainly. Regrettable that she wasn’t from a more notable family. Not that such things mattered particularly. Whatever a woman’s birth, romantic love was an illusion—a temporary madness soon replaced by tedium.

Mallon’s attention was brought back by Marguerite’s chiding. “Partners are needed, Lord Wulverton.”

Across the room, both Mrs. Hissop and Mrs. Wapshot looked hopeful. The thought of partnering them held no allure but he could hardly refuse. As he advanced, Mrs. Wapshot, resplendent in apricot taffeta, darted forward. “Such a pleasure, your Lordship.” She seized his arm, propelling him to join the other couples.

It had been many years since Mallon had danced formally, or attended a festive occasion come to that. Mrs. Wapshot was lacking lightness of foot and rather too inclined to lead, but Mallon was, at least, spared the necessity of looking at her. Over her head, he was able to direct his gaze to what most interested him.

Hugo and Geneviève made a handsome pair, moving gracefully to the majestic strains of Strauss, his hand lightly upon her waist, guiding her through the center of the room. Hardly surprising that Hugo was smitten. The countess was not only ravishing but seemed to have eyes only for her partner, laughing still, bestowing all her charm.

A tightness gripped Mallon’s chest followed by a surge of heat.

Anxiety?

He’d told himself that he wanted the best for Hugo. Despite the disparity in their ages, there was no reason why Countess Geneviève Rosseline shouldn’t prove a reasonable match. Why then, did he not feel happier?

Before arriving at the hall, his imagination had turned repeatedly to the passionate stranger on the train. Only since meeting the countess had his mind been diverted. It was she, now, who commanded his thoughts.

The final strains closing, each couple parted. Mallon bowed his thanks to Mrs. Wapshot, but his gaze was upon the young pair drifting to the holly-and-ivy-swathed window. Above, hanging from a hook placed for the purpose, was a large bunch of mistletoe. The countess raised her face to Hugo, whispering something.

Mallon was unable to look away as she folded, softly, into Hugo’s arms, parting her lips to receive his kiss.

The heat was not anxiety but jealousy, tinged with desire.

“Another if you would, Beatrice,” called Marguerite from the far side of the salon. “We cannot yet allow our gentlemen to rest.”

As their kiss ended, Hugo directed the countess back to the floor. Without thinking, Mallon stepped forward. The need to claim her was a fever beneath his skin—impossible to ignore.

“If I may?” He was already offering his hand, his eyes turning from Hugo to Geneviève.

“Of course, Uncle, of course. Splendid idea.”

Hugo was mumbling something else, but Mallon was no longer paying attention. Geneviève appeared expectant—surprised but not displeased. Bowing, he led her into the dance.

He saw only her as they glided through the salon—her face looking up at him with those startling eyes, her lips so full and inviting. He pulled her tighter, his hand inching toward the back of her waist until there was barely an inch between them. He needed to bring her closer, to pull her into an embrace which would end with his mouth on hers.

She smelt of orchids, her scent carried to him by the warmth of her body. Something about that fragrance, about the sight of her bare shoulders and the swell of her breasts, was perplexing.

Suddenly, the room swam out of focus, his blood rising to roar in his ears. The walls were closing in, making it difficult for him to breathe. Sweat was beading on his back.

Releasing her, he spoke some apology. He bumped into another couple but did not turn to see. He needed air.

It was cooler in the hall but still his collar felt too tight, and his heart was pounding. Wrenching the main door, he staggered out, pulling the night into his lungs, willing his pulse to steady.

The sky was clear, the moon throwing light upon the valley before the house and illuminating the looming hillsides beyond. It was too cold for him to stand in his evening attire, his breath pluming with each ragged exhalation. The freezing air burned his chest, making his ribs ache. He brought his hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. Was he unwell ?

He couldn’t explain his behavior. He’d desired her, and that craving had overtaken all else, without consideration of Hugo.

Were they engaged already? Perhaps, even now, they were addressing the party, the guests raising their glasses to toast the couple.

No, it couldn’t be.

Neither Marguerite nor Hugo had mentioned such a thing. His mind was rambling, darting from one thought to the next.

Nor would Hugo make an announcement without him being present.

But, he needed to know. Did Hugo intend a proposal?

That kiss!

His impulse was to return directly, to find Hugo and discover his intentions, but he couldn’t face those people again, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear Hugo’s answer. Better to stay outside, letting the night cool his blood.

By the time Mallon re-entered, the madness had leeched away. He felt only exhausted and chilled. The tree, festooned with ornaments and reaching almost the full height of the atrium, dominated the hall. After his mother’s death, his father had stopped bothering much with Christmas, but Mallon remembered how it had been when he was small.

Among the decorations had been a toy soldier. He’d wanted to keep it, clenching it in his fist. She’d laughed, prising apart his fingers and explaining that it was for the tree, lifting him to place it upon a branch. Opening a whole box of wooden soldiers on Christmas morning, he’d soon forgotten about it, but he supposed it was here still, hanging somewhere among the other toys and stars and baubles.

Impossible to avoid memories. Everywhere he looked, there was something to remind him of her and his father. It would get easier. He’d been back barely three days, after all.

From beyond closed doors, he could hear the party breaking up—Marguerite’s voice, strident, thanking their guests for attending.

Taking refuge in the library, Mallon poured himself a whisky. From the window, he saw the carriages brought around, horses stamping impatiently, tossing their heads in eagerness to get moving. Within minutes, there were footsteps in the hall and the chatter of merry voices.

Tomorrow, he’d talk to Hugo man to man, and find out the seriousness of his intentions. He was no expert on matters of the heart, but it was wrong, surely, for him to deny his nephew’s happiness. There had been little enough affection in Mallon’s life but there was still time for Hugo.

Mallon knocked back the dregs of his glass. No matter his own feelings, Hugo would come first. It had to be. Whatever attraction Mallon felt for the countess, it must be put aside.

In this, if nothing else, he could do the right thing.